Page 5 of What's Left of Us

Rolling my shoulder, I internally wince at the pain radiating from the torn flesh and muscle between my heart and left clavicle. The reconstruction surgeries fixed the majority of the damage but not all of it. Five months after the incident and I can still feel the bullet ripping through me.

My eyes lift to the antique clock hanging beside the door for what must be the fifth time in the past twenty-five minutes. When I look away, I’m caught with calm, curious eyes behind a pair of brown glasses.

Theresa Castro reminds me a lot of Georgia.

Dark hair. Fair skin. Piercing eyes. From here, I can’t tell what color they are. Lighter, like some shade of blue or gray or green. The gleam in her glasses lenses makes it hard to tell. My guess would be green. Not quite emerald or mint, but something in between.

Like the grass I really need to mow.

Sighing, I lean back on the emerald suede couch and study the woman whose job it is to analyze me. I’ve always had a thing for brunettes. Even in high school, the two girlfriends I thought I’d loved had brown hair.

Crossing my arms, I keep the same stoic expression on my face that’s been painted there since I walked into the brickbuilding with Psychotherapy written in gold lettering on the door. It felt like a diagnosis the second I opened the door like the world could see there was something wrong with me.

I hate the free advertisement that might as well tell people I’m fucked up, just like I hate the laundry list of reasons that led me here.

Don’t go,Georgia had pleaded.I have a bad feeling.

Jaw grinding at the warning I chose to disregard, I sink into my seat and feel the crushing weight of my consequences.

Tell Matt you changed your mind.

Grinding down until my teeth hurt, I force myself out of my head and train my focus on the doctor.

Women like the one in front of me have always captured my attention. I used to enjoy their lingering gazes as they scoped out my body. It was an ego stroke to have their attention.

But not hers. If she were anyone else, a random stranger on the street, maybe the circumstances would be different. I’d flirt with her. Maybe ask her to get coffee sometime. That’s another what-if I choose not to fixate on for long.

“What’s on your mind?” she asks.

It’s only the second question she’s asked me since I sat down, preceded by “How are you?” and “let her know if I need to turn the air conditioner down.” The rest of the time has been filled with awkward silence, save the ticking clock that taunts me as each slow second passes.

Just like the last three times I’ve been here.

“What’s onyours?” I counter.

Her expression isn’t nearly as stoic as mine, but I’ll give her credit where it’s due. She’s got a good poker face. But I see the tiny little twitch in the corner of her mouth. She’s amused by my reluctance to talk to her. I doubt it’s the first time it’s happened to her in this profession, but I find that smile oddly…fascinating.

She may be good at reading people, but I’d like to think I’m better. I spent years training to figure out what isn’t being said. Body language gives a lot of people away. I’m good at my job because I pay attention to details. I’d like to think that’s therealreason I got promoted to the investigative unit in my station. The BCI, Bureau of Criminal Investigations, is a competitive unit. There are hundreds of applications a year that spread across New York State. I worked my ass off to be one of the people accepted without any special treatment.

I refuse to believe the alternative reason thrown in my face for the better part of five years. I don’t kiss ass or shake hands with the right people like some believe. I get results by quietly observing.

Like how the doctor doesn’t have any personal touches in her office—no photographs or degrees or anything that could give away her identity or personal life. I bet she doesn’t even have a social media presence for the sake of her privacy.

There are plants everywhere, though. On the desk, hanging from the ceilings, and a few spread out on the hanging shelves. Probably all real, based on the small watering can on the windowsill across the room.

She keeps a lint roller on her desk, which most likely has to do with the few short pieces of coarse hair on her outfit, so I know she has an animal—maybe more than one. I’d guess a cat, but she could be a dog person.

She doesn’t wear jewelry or anything flashy. I don’t see any tan lines on her fingers either. She’s either single, divorced, or chooses not to wear her ring when meeting clients.

It’s smart. You never know who you’re going to meet, especially in her career.

I respect her dealing with people like me—closed off and unpredictable. Maybe if I actually spoke during these sixty-minute sessions, I’d realize she and I aren’t that different.

But I have no intention of doing that.

I’ve gotten used to the weight sitting on my chest, suffocating me with every bad decision I’ve made as a reminder that it’s my fault.

“What are you observing, Mr. Danforth?” she questions, the notepad on her lap untouched since she sat down with it.

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