Page 39 of Heart Sick

“Why are you so angry?”

“I’m angry because you’re accusing me of being crazy!”

“No, I’m not. And I hate that word,” Dr. Norton calmly says. “I think it’ll help you immensely to see another doctor. Someone who specializes in this area. I can recommend someone. A friend—”

“A shrink, you mean?” I can’t control my anger because I suddenly feel like she tricked me. She welcomed me into this warm, safe bubble, only to burst it with claims of me needing psychiatric help.

“Yes.”

I give her credit for not sugarcoating anything. But I refuse to accept her diagnosis.

“No.”

Her lips pull into a thin line.

I know she’s only trying to help, but I don’t want it because her “help” is not helping me—at all.

“What’s obstructing me then, Doc?” I ask, coming to a slow stand.

Dr. Norton leans back in her seat and her cheeks turn a lovely pink. And when she nervously licks her lips, I realize therapy has just turned into something else.

“I think there are a number of things, which is why I want to help.”

“Why have you shown such an interest in me, Dr. Norton?”

“I take an interest in all my patients,” she replies, but she’s lying.

“But why me? I know there would have been other candidates, but you chose me?”

She straightens her back and I really look at her for the first time. She’s slender, but her body is shapely, like she works out. Her blonde hair is immaculately styled. Her eyes are green. Her lips plump. She certainly doesn’t look like the stereotypical doctor.

“You and the donor were a m-match.” She’s nervous, clutching at the key around her neck like it’s her lifeline.

“Yeah, you already said that.” I stroll toward her, and I suddenly feel like a predator stalking its prey.

I know I’m being incredibly arrogant, but she has pissed me off. And I also can’t help it. I want to say I would never react this way before the transplant, but now, I’m not so sure.

At Juilliard, everyone thought I was arrogant, while I just thought I was uninterested in most things. But were they right? I begin to doubt everything, and all because Dr. Norton thinks I’m using my transplant as an excuse to hide the truth.

Which is…? I don’t know.

“But why was I worth saving?”

“Every life is worth saving,” she corrects, but the closer I get to her, the more nervous she becomes. “It’s my job.”

“I can’t help but think you’re taking your job very seriously when it comes to me.”

Her chest begins to rise and fall quickly, drawing attention to her ample breasts.

“So, if you were to give me your professional opinion, what do you think is wrong with me?”

She holds her ground, and I like that.

“I think you used your heart as an excuse as to why you were different. To why you never connected with anyone. To why you saw, felt, and experienced the world unlike anyone else.

“But now that you’ve got a functioning heart, you’re blaming it for being unable to write, when in reality, you’re afraid to try and live a normal, long life. And this is very common for people who are given a second chance at life.

“The notion was perceived in your mind since you were little that you were different and now that you’re not, your mind is playing tricks on you. It has you believing that you’re no longer special or different, so how can you write something which is just that?

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