Page 35 of Good Half Gone

I sigh. “I got a lot of problems, Bouncer, but you’re not one of them.” I’m not going to let some power-tripping nurse ruin my plan. I don’t confront her about the pill. The last thing I want is to make enemies on day one.

We’re in a stare-off. She breaks first, her expression suddenly morphing into something else. She has the alertness of a dog watching a squirrel. I follow the direction of her gaze, and three things become obvious at once: Leo Grayson is standing in the annex, Leo Grayson looks great, Leo Grayson is looking at me. It’s hard to break eye contact with him—I know logically that I can, but I won’t. I’m being cataloged, which is fantastic—it’s according to plan, I remind myself. I try to blockade the emotion, doubling down on my facial uniform of: amicable…eager…attentive. I’m not here to be impressed by Leo Grayson, but I know from experience that a man of his educational stature will require some fawning.

I’m free to study his profile. Dark hair—too thick to be fair—nice nose, a neatly trimmed beard. He’s tall but not too tall. Shrinks bore me. Their sensible, free-spirited clothes bore me; he’s wearing a gray zip-up hoodie over his scrubs and white Air Force 1’s—same thing as the rest of us except with cool shoes. He notices me checking out his feet and grins. I tear the remaining crescent of fingernail off my thumb. He’s cute for an old guy…smirky.

Growing up, I could tell people liked Piper more than they liked me. She provided the nutrients people needed to survive: warmth, light, and energy, whereas I was a rain cloud. At HOTI, I am Piper, not Iris—the good half. With the doctor’s attention still secured, I shrug and smile shyly.

The security door to D hall opens, and Crede steps out. Red-faced and sweaty, he walks over to the small crowd and stands in front of Dr. Grayson. They exchange words. I only see the back of Grayson’s head, but Crede’s expression is pinched. They both turn to look at me at the same time. Crede breaks away from Grayson and walks in my direction.Grayson walks back to D hall, disappearing behind the door. I feel delusional, obsessed, desperate. I just watched a man die, and I might have been drugged by a coworker. My legs still feel shaky, and my temples are starting to throb. My need to see and touch Cal—to make sure he’s okay—is choking me.

My smile feels rigid as Crede approaches. “Since your hospice training is canceled, Dr. Grayson has asked to meet with you,” Crede says.

I fill my lungs with the astringent-rich air and nod. I should be elated, but instead I feel like a walking cactus.

“Great,” I say. “Lead the way…”

By the time we reach the security door to D, I am sweating, using every affirmation in my therapy tool belt to keep it together.

He chose me for this position, but I chose him first—not because of his knowledge of the human mind, or because being his intern could open doors for my career. I chose Dr. Grayson because he is the only one who has access to my sister’s killer. Her killer is behind the secure doors of unit D.You can do this, of course you can.

Crede swipes his card, and there is a loud click as the lock swings left.

D is unremarkable. Six white doors—three to a side—and stock gray carpet. The doors are equipped with small windows for doctors to check on their patients. There is a curtain over each one to offer privacy of course, but I don’t know how I would feel being under the constant surveillance of one person, like a lab rat. I fall back to study each door—to feel if Ifeelanything. Would I recognize his face? I remember him vaguely: button-down shirts, pressed pants, and a weak chin.

Crede looks over his shoulder, impatient, and I run to catch up. At the end of the hallway, we reach a more formal wooden door that looks like it belongs in a house, not a psychiatric unit.

He stops to face me. “I’ll be back to collect you in thirty…” His voice is chipper. “Make it count.”

His words, meant to be encouraging, ring ominous.

I watch him go, fear pounding in my ears. This is it, just me and the boss now. Ready or not…

I raise my knuckles and rap twice, holding my breath until I hear him call for me to come in. My stomach lurching, I turn the knob and step inside.

He’s sitting at his desk when I walk in. He stands when he sees me, holding out his hand, and I grasp it, taking in the moment. I am shaking hands with what Gran calls a fancy man: handsome, intelligent, and—according to the internet—wealthy, thanks to his family. He has the relaxed air of a man who is used to being around people.

He greets me warmly, grasping my hand in two of his and looking me in the eyes. His hair is thick and brown, and it curls up at the ends. There are threads of gray near his temples and smile lines around his eyes, but he is alarmingly youthful. The expression in his heavyset eyes is playful.

“Miss Walsh, it’s so good to meet you. You’re having one hell of a first day.”

I’ve read all the articles about him, combed through all the professional papers he published. He’s brilliant. I have to remind myself that I am not his patient, nor his work-study, nor his fan. I am not even really here to learn from him; it was a mere plus, the cherry on top of an experience. I have nothing to be intimidated by.

“Dr. Grayson, it is such an honor. At the risk of sounding unprofessional, I am a huge fan of your work. You have to hear that all the time—sorry, I am fangirling.”

He absorbs all of this with an amused grin. We blush at the same time, and I look away as Dr. Grayson clears his throat. “Please sit…” He motions to one of two armchairs facing his desk.

The smell of a recently extinguished cigarette lingers in the air.I look for the evidence, and there it is, curling near the ceiling in a nicotine stratus cloud. A smoking psychotherapist? Very noir. As I lower myself into the armchair, I realize I must be grinning, because he looks at me pointedly and says, “Do you want one?”

I shake my head. “I’m fond of the smell but not of cancer.”

He laughs, caught but uncaring. He sighs, leaning back in his chair, studying me. Like most of the male therapists I’ve worked with, he has relaxed body language.

“My peers see smoking as an unresolved addiction.”

“And how do you see it?” I ask.

He looks at me in surprise. “Like an unresolved addiction.”

We both laugh.

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