Page 3 of Under Your Care

“Mr. Bennett, Dr. Cohen will be out in just a minute to get you! He’s just finishing up with the previous appointment.”

Just then, the door next to the receptionist’s desk creaked open, voices leaking out into the waiting room. An older woman stepped out into thewaiting room, still clutching a handful of tissues.

“Alright, Mrs. Brady, I’ll see you back next month. Make sure to schedule your next visit with Amelia before heading out. I’ll be waiting to hear how everything goes.”

A man a lot taller than myself, dressed impeccably, smiled politely as he followed the woman through the door. I curiously noticed that his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Interesting. His client didn’t seem to notice though, so maybe I was just seeing things. As the woman turned away, he slid his gaze across the room to me.

He was gorgeous.

He was big, like his size had been earned through tough manual labor and a love of good food. He had on a taupe suit that looked like it cost more than my college tuition. His dirty blonde hair was cut just below his ears, giving it more than enough length to tug on. But what drew me in the most were his eyes. They were light hazel, or maybe brown - almost the color of honey. The corners of his lips tugged up - just barely - as he noticed my appraisal. I guess I hadn’t been as subtle as I thought I was being.

“Mr. Bennett, thank you for waiting. You can follow me and we’ll get started,” he smiled.

As I stood up from my chair, I watched as his eyes scanned up and down my own body. I was considerably shorter than him, without any muscles, and wearing pink heart earrings. He probably thought that I was in high school. My freckles were splattered across my cheeks and most of my body. At least I wasn’t wearing any of my makeup today - I could only imagine the judgement I’d have received from him for that. I wasn’t normally this self-critical of my appearance, but when you’re looking at perfection, you start to feel inadequate.

He held the door open for me, waiting for me to enter. After a left at the end of a short hallway, we were met with another door. This one had a small, silver plaque readingDr. Greyson Cohen. I felt like I’d already ruined ourtherapist-patient relationship by practically eye-fucking him in the waiting area.

Dr. Cohen opened his office door and nodded his head for me to go in. His office was dimly-lit, the light coming solely from a floor lamp, rather than overhead lights. The forest green walls were covered with full bookshelves, framed degrees, and a few classical art pieces. The room itself was about the same size as my studio apartment. In the center was a comfy-looking suede couch and a matching high-backed chair.

“Please, sit,” he offered, waving his hand to the couch as he took his place in the chair.

“So, Mr. Bennett, I am Dr. Cohen. While I have a doctorate, it’s not in medicine, so I can’t prescribe any medications to you. However, the office next door houses a great psychiatrist, Dr. Carraway. We often refer patients to one another. As this is the first time we’ve met, I’d like to start by getting to know you and we can go from there.”

His voice, deep and smooth like honey - just like the color of his eyes - soothed my frayed nerves a little.

“I don’t mind if you call me Lane rather than Mr. Bennett. But, if you’re uncomfortable with that then it’s okay - you don’t have to.” I waited to continue until he gave me a smile and nod. “Well, this is my first time back in therapy for a few years. I practically grew up in therapists’ offices, but I decided to stop going once I was eighteen. I guess I just felt like I wasn’t making any progress.”

I thought back to my childhood of revolving doors, white walls with cheesy motivational posters, and concerned looks. My parents had first put me into therapy at age eight because they were worried about why I was so quiet all the time. I don’t remember feeling like anything was wrong then; I was simply more comfortable listening to others than joining into their conversations. I was a daydreamer.

I would spend my days making up elaborate stories in my head, feelinglike I was the puppeteer of my characters’ lives. When I would have to interact with others, or pay attention to a lesson, I’d simply “pause” the play and resume whenever I was able to be alone in my head again. It wasn’t until the summer after I turned ten that I actually began to need help.

But it took until I was fourteen to admit to anyone what was happening. Then, it was therapy twice a week, a new therapist every month, my parents begging me to talk to them, and the psychiatrist with her endless supply of tiny white pills to dull the pain inside my head. It all felt so far away now, almost like I was watching myself go to appointment after appointment through a television screen. When people would talk to me, it sounded like fuzzy TV static.

“Lane?” Dr. Cohen furrowed his brow.

“Hm?” Realizing he was waiting for me to continue, I said, “Oh, sorry! I was just thinking about what to tell you.”

I offered him a hesitant smile. He tilted his head slightly as he stared at me with a little spark of interest in his eyes. I couldn’t manage to hold his eye contact, so I shifted my gaze to one of the bookshelves behind him. Was I supposed to hold eye contact for the whole conversation? That felt like too much. What if he thought I was on drugs? What if he thought I was being rude if I didn’t make enough eye contact? God - this was why I only talked to my cat.

“Lane, you don’t need to think about what to tell me. All you have to do is listen to my questions and answer honestly. If you’re too uncomfortable with any of my questions, just let me know and we’ll table it until a future session. I can imagine how difficult it must be after being out of practice for a few years. You’re twenty-one, correct?” He waited for my nod. “Yes, and you mentioned on our intake form that you were eighteen when you stopped going to your previous therapist, so it’s understandable for this to feel a bit unnerving.”

“Can you just start asking your questions, please?”

Dr. Cohen shook his head in amusement and flipped open a small notebook.

“Sure, Lane, I can start asking my questions now. Impatient little thing,” he heartily laughed. “Well, how about we go ahead and get started with a few easy ones to ease you into it? Are you in school?”

“Yes, I’m in my third year. Lately most of my classes have been online. Right now, I just have to be on campus one night a week.”

“That sounds great, Lane. What are you studying?” He beamed.

“I’m an English major. I haven’t quite figured out what I want to do after college though. Which is a bit stressful since I only have a year left before graduation.” I grimaced, trying not to let the anxiety creep in.

“A lot of your classmates are probably feeling the exact same way. I’m sure you’ll figure it out. If you ever want to talk it over, I’m here for you. How’s your social life currently?”

“Dead?” I laughed, which in turn got a chuckle from him. “Well, I talk to some people online. Like through social media and games. I have a friend that lives near me, so we do things together sometimes, but he’s usually pretty busy with his work. I’m sure my parents would hang out with me if I didn’t move two states away for school,” I grinned.

“I’m glad to hear you have a relationship with your parents. Are they pretty supportive of you?”

---