Page 95 of Property of Chaos

I recognize the nurse who shows me through to the exam room. She comes into the cafe most Fridays and gets a double-shot macchiato with whipped cream on top.

Her blunt blonde bob swings with the pivot of her hips as she reaches the door. She says nothing—simply extends her hand and smiles.

I slip inside the room and find a middle-aged guy with wild auburn curls seated at a cheap laminate desk. He hunches over the manilla folder spread before him, pen poised in his left hand, square-rim glasses balanced on the end of his nose as he scours the form I completed upon arrival.

“Take a seat.”

He doesn’t look up as he makes the offer.Off to a great start already.

I ease onto a roughly woven stackable chair, fingernail picking at the edge of my thumb.

“We haven’t seen you here before.” He makes the grand statement as he sweeps the folder aside and spins to give me his full attention.

I do a double-take. He seems sofamiliar.“No. I usually have a teleconsult with my therapist, but she’s on leave until the end of the month.” Not that it should come as a surprise; she had to have the baby sometime.

“What brings you in today, then?”

The muscles in my face relax, and I switch onto autopilot, reciting the script I need and why. How long I’ve been on it. What other methods I’ve tried for a solid night’s sleep and reduced anxiety. The holistic practices I have in place already.

He crosses one slack-covered leg over the other, linking his fingers around his kneecap to hear me out.

I reach the end of my spiel and draw a deep breath to reset.

“You’ve had to justify yourself before, haven’t you?”

I blink.Huh?“Pardon?”

“All you needed to say was that you haven’t slept lately due to trauma and stress. I’m sure you’re doing your best in all other areas to assist; the over-explanation was unnecessary.” He pulls his script pad toward himself. “Have you attended therapy lately? Or has it been a while?”

“I’ve reached the limit of their ability to help.” There are only so many times you can attempt to rewire your brain with well-practiced mantras before the process seems ridiculous.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” The doctor scribbles the script and pulls a regular jotter over, scrawling something else on the pale cream page. “Perhaps a slightly different take on counseling might help.” He hands me the two pages, the notepaper on top. “Sometimes peer support can be what we need. People who’vebeen through a similar situation and have found salvation through less scientific means.”

My gaze drops to the page, and I choke.Fuck no.Not here.

His curly hair. The droop to the outer corner of his eyes. The dimple in his chin.

It hits. Ihaveseen him before.

When he was fucking twenty and cutting a graduation cake.

“Thank you.” I shove from the chair so abruptly that it smacks against the wall. “I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice.”

“It was my pleasure, VanessaFaith.”

I damn near fucking vomit when my surname curls off his tongue as an erotic caress. The seconds following pass in a blur, my body firmly in flight mode as I wave the nurse off and find my way onto the sidewalk.

They’re here.He’s had someone here all along. Waiting. Watching.Shit.

My chest convulses with each failed attempt to draw air. Home is toward my right, but I don’t have the strength to get that far.God damn it.The more I struggle to fill my lungs, the higher my anxiety spikes, and the worse the panic gets, the tighter my chest becomes.

It’s a vicious fucking cycle.

One I’ve been convinced would kill me multiple times before.

The cafe is left.Theresa will close out the day soon, which means the place should be empty.You can get through it. Just find somewhere safe to wait it out.I glance behind me, half-convinced the doctor will follow me into the street, and see nothing but the plain text on the window that I’d walked past so many fucking times, never once paying it any mind.

Why should I? Surnames aren’t unique among the masses. Only ones like mine stand out.You should have changed your name.I should have done a lot of things.

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