Page 37 of Fire
How the fuck am I supposed to say no to that? “Sure.”
It’s thankfully a short trip to her clinic. I do not want anyone to see me like this. She may have lured me out of my corner—god, was I really just huddled in a fucking corner—but I’m still a mess. My palms are sweaty, and my knees feel weak. I hear someone call the ninety-minute mark in the distance. My heart leaps to my throat.
Yeah, I’m a mess.
We walk into the room she’s taken over. It’s on the small side and directly across from the hospitality suite. It’s set up with a portable exam table, locked rolling carts I’m assuming are filled with supplies, and a whole bunch of other shit I recognize but can’t name.
But one thing I don’t see is a single fucking box.
“What the hell, Zara?”
“Sit,” she commands, shutting the door behind her. My eyes immediately go to the exam table. “Not there. Over here.” She points to two folding chairs that I must have overlooked.
I glance back at her, but she has thatdon’t mess with melook about her that she used to give me when I tried to convince her to cancel tutoring and go party with me instead.
Never happened. Not even once.
I huff out a resigned sigh. I don’t have time for this, but I take the seat anyway, pushing it back to create some distance between us. I don’t feel like my laid-back self right now, and I need my space.
She must understand that because she mimics my behavior, moving her chair the same distance before plopping down to face me.
“Are you my therapist now?” My right hand started plucking out a rhythm on my thigh, something we played during sound check. It’s something I do whenever I’m bored or nervous.
Or stressed.
“No,” she answers, letting out a sound of disbelief. “God, no. I’m barely stable. What would make me remotely qualified to be in charge of someone else’s mental health?”
“So then, why am I here? Why waste my time? Why lie about nonexistent boxes to get me in here?” I get to the end of the chorus, and my hand cramps. I knew I played too long last night. I shake it out, and Zara’s eyes narrow, and I fold it in my lap before she can say anything.
She lets out a frustrated sigh, looking away briefly. “Okay, how about this? Story Time.”
I stare at her and blink, because that’s a phrase I haven’t heard in a while. “Story Time?” A shy smile tugs at the corners of her lips, seemingly pleased that I remember what she’s referring to. “All right. But do you remember the rules of Story Time?”
“There are no rules of Story Time.”
“Yes, there are. This isn’t Fight Club.”
“Those were your rules, and they’re stupid. How am I supposed to know if a story is”—she makes air quotes—“boring? And what if I need more than two minutes to make my point?”
I simply shrug. “Those are the rules. Can’t be changed.”
“Yes, they can! You’re the one who—” She huffs out a breath. “You’re just as insufferable as you were in college.”
I shift in my seat as if I’m about to get up. “I can leave.”
“No! Ugh. Fine.” I grin, feeling myself begin to relax a little, just from the sound of her voice. “Stay.”
“Your two minutes start…” I make a show of glancing down at my smart watch and pausing before I finally say, “Now.”
She takes a breath and begins. “Okay, so at the end of your second year of med school, you take basically the hardest exam of your life. I won’tboreyou with the specifics, but it’s the kind of exam that either breaks you or makes you. For eight weeks, I lived in the library.” At the mention of the library, one of those fantasies I’ve had of her over the years hits me square in the gut. Her body splayed out on a table. Her hair fans the open pages of the forgotten book she abandoned as I spread her wide and thrust—Get it together, man.I swallow and focus back on the here and now.
At least I’m not hyperventilating anymore. Well, not much, anyway.
“And that’s any different from undergrad? You were there so often, they should have just put a cot in the corner for you to sleep on.”
“New rule.” She folds her arms across her chest. It presses her tits together, and I have to force myself not to look. “No talking when it’s not your story.”
“You can’t just make—” Her brow arches, and I relent. “Fine.”
