6. rabbit hole

6

RABBIT HOLE

DAY 8

Dr. Chastain consults the notepad resting on his lap. Not for the first time, I wonder what's written there. Has he reached a diagnosis? Does he have a plan?

I think about the end goal—my mental health—and what that looks like to Chastain. Amelia Sloan, Bleeding Heart Philanthropist? Or is his endgame to have me walk out of here an emotional mess?

This isn't my first trip down Psychiatry Lane, obviously. And really, all therapists want the same thing: to rip open my scars and make me confront my deepest fears. What none of them have understood is I don't have any fears.

"I'd like to talk about Donovan Vicks, your first love."

Memory provides me with the physique of a young man, tan and muscled from his chosen sport of water polo. Chlorine-faded blond hair, almost white, that shines like a halo in the sun. Dimples to either side of his smile. Blue eyes, dark like the ocean he loved.

"He kissed like a Mack truck," I say, watching dust motes dance near the window. "Put flowers in my locker almost every day."

"Did you lose your virginity to him?"

My mind races, still thinking about endgames. Can I fake a transformation to Amelia the Tenderhearted? Or will Dr. Chastain keep me here until I finally go insane?

Closing my eyes, I replace the picture of Donovan with the face of my brother. Worried and hopeful. I wonder if he's sleeping any easier, knowing I'm safe.

Am I safe?

I face Dr. Chastain. "Let's make a deal."

Dark brows twitch over calculating, focused eyes. "What kind of deal?"

"You answer my questions honestly, and I'll do the same."

He regards me silently for several moments. "Fine, but I can't promise I'll answer all your questions. If I deem them inappropriate, I'll pass."

"Duly noted."

Clouds pass outside, blotting the sunlight. A chill rises over my bare arms and circles down my chest, tightening my nipples beneath my blue tank top. I don't bother crossing my arms, as it will only draw attention to my chest. And right now, that's the last thing I want.

"My first question is how long am I in for?"

"Thirty days."

Relief melts through my tense shoulders, dropping them. "That's it?"

He frowns. "They didn't tell you during intake?"

"They did, but I didn't believe them. "

He pauses, the tiniest of smiles on his face. "But you believe me?"

I roll my eyes. "Don't let it swell your head, Doc."

Chuckling, he adjusts his glasses. "Okay, it's my turn. What did you love about Donovan?"

"His smile," I answer honestly. "At least in the beginning. After a while, I started resenting it."

"Why?"

"Because he smiled at everyone. My turn. Where did you go to school?"

"Yale for undergrad, then UCLA." He glances over my shoulder. "My qualifications are on the wall, Amelia."

I've seen the plaques, of course. "They could be fake."

"Are they?"

I study him for tells, but he's either a better liar than I am or he's being honest. The first option is as interesting as it is disturbing.

"They're probably real," I finally answer.

He glances down. "How did your relationship with Donovan end?"

"I paid a girl to get him drunk at a party and seduce him. He took the bait and cheated on me."

Chastain doesn't look surprised by this information, even though there's no way Jameson told him. I've never told anyone.

"How did that feel?"

I shrug. "It sucked. How old are you?"

"Thirty-six. How old were you when you lost your virginity?"

My enjoyment of this game is rapidly dwindling .

"Fourteen," I say rigidly.

"Does that bother you?"

"Why should it?" I snap. "It was my choice. I was curious, so I went to the beach in a tiny bikini and found a surfer to take me home. He lasted five minutes, then yelled at me about the blood on his sheets."

The thing about secrets—receiving them is sheer pleasure, but offering them holds none. Not even when the desired result of eliciting a response from the unflappable doctor is achieved. But what I see in Dr. Chastain's eyes isn't disgust. It's pity, and it's maddening.

"Have you ever fucked a patient, Doc?"

His nostrils flare. "Absolutely not."

His anger sways the balance of power back in my direction. A warm cloak of satisfaction surrounds me.

"How did you end up in this shithole?" I ask mildly.

"My turn," he says, the dark tone fracturing my superiority. "Did you think not wearing a bra would affect me?"

Against all efforts of will, I blush. "I don't know, maybe," I say, then flinch at the vulnerability I've exposed.

He pulls off his glasses, tossing them atop the notepad in his lap. In a now familiar gesture, he rubs his forehead with his fingers.

"You asked me how I ended up here, and I'll answer to the best of my ability." His dazzling eyes find mine. "The short of it is that someone helped me once, and I come here once a year to pay back the debt."

"Once a year?" I ask, confused.

"There are generally six of us who rotate throughout the year. There's some overlap with patients, obviously, because inpatient schedules are on an as-need basis."

"How long have you been here this go-around?"

To my surprise, he answers without hesitance. "Four weeks. When Kinsey leaves two weeks from now, my rotation will end."

I mull this over. "So you'll be leaving eight days before I do."

He nods. "Dr. Reynolds will be taking my place, but we'll have extensive meetings prior to the transition."

"Meetings about me and the others."

"Yes."

My face feels weird. Cold or numb. What is this feeling? I know only that I don't want to talk to anyone else. Bemused by my own reaction, I tell him the truth.

"I don't want another doctor."

"There's nothing to worry about, Amelia. Dr. Reynolds is very skilled."

"I don't care. I don't want another doctor. I want you. "

He looks down at the notepad. Though he doesn't move, tension radiates from his frame. Another man might run his hands through his hair. Sigh or fidget.

I hit a nerve. Only I have no idea which one or why.

"We should end here today," he says finally.

"What?" I blurt. "It's been twenty minutes."

He nods, still not looking up. "I apologize, but today's session is over."

I will myself to move, to pull together the pieces of my dignity, but I can't. How can such simple words have a physical impact ?

Jameson's face floats through my mind, his features flinching as I swore on our mother and Phillip that the car wreck had been an accident.

Was this how he'd felt?

"Amelia," says Chastain, a warning note in his voice.

"No," I say through gritted teeth. "Fuck no. What kind of therapist are you?"

His head whips up, the fire in his eyes so unexpected— astounding, beautiful, magnetic —that I gasp.

"A good one," he says rigidly, "who knows his own limitations, can process complex emotion, and make healthy choices."

"I'll talk about my mother," I say without thinking. "I'll tell you why I jumped off the roof the night she died."

He springs to his feet, notepad clenched in one hand. His glasses slip to the floor, landing on the carpet. That he doesn't seem to notice or care is proof of how much I've unsettled him.

"Either you leave, or I call security to escort you."

Who is this new version of Dr. Chastain? For certain, he isn't a robot anymore, his chest heaving, eyes glittering with anger and frustration.

What have I done?

I stand on shaky legs. There isn't much space between our chairs; less than a foot separates our bodies. I lift my chin to stare at him. Blazing blue eyes. Ticking jaw.

I feel small. Weak. But I don't have enough fight left to remedy it. He's too overwhelming, the smell of him dizzying .

Unable to help myself, I gaze at his lips, which soften and open. "Leave, please," he whispers.

My eyes burn. Am I going to cry? Why?

What the hell is wrong with me?

"I'm sorry," I say, ducking my head as I step unsteadily past him.

I make it to the door and am reaching for the knob when he speaks.

"You have nothing to apologize for, Amelia. The fault is mine."

Why does that make me feel so much worse?

I leave his office, walk blindly into the Fish Tank, and sit down on one of the couches. My skin crawls. My heart pounds. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes and swallow the knot in my throat.

"What's the matter with you?"

I look up at Kinsey, who sits with a magazine on the couch opposite mine. Her breasts and ass are barely contained in a pink halter top and white shorts. Platinum hair is piled high on her head, and the smell of peach body spray is overpowering.

As hard as she is to miss, I hadn't noticed her in the room.

"I'm losing my mind," I answer.

She frowns—or at least, I think she does. It's hard to tell with all the Botox.

"Shouldn't you still be in therapy? Or did you run away?"

"He kicked me out."

Her eyes widen. "Holy shit, really? "

I nod, and she smirks.

"I'm actually kind of impressed. No one's ever seen Leo anything but, you know, all ‘I'm a superhuman shrink unaffected by everything.' Bravo, chiquita ."

I don't know what to focus on. Perhaps the fact she's never spoken so many words to me before, or that she sounds almost nice? But only one word sticks between my ears.

"Leo?" I echo.

Kinsey nods, her attention back on her magazine. "Leonardo. Hot name for a hot man, right? I'd do him for sure."

My chest squeezes and I eventually recognized the urge to laugh. So I do, chuckling as I drop my head back to stare at the nearest glassy black bowl on the ceiling.

I tell the cameras, "If I wasn't crazy before, I definitely am now. Good work, Doc."

Kinsey giggles. "You're funny, Mia."

I eye her skeptically. "Why are you being nice to me?"

She glances up from her magazine. "Nix said you're actually pretty cool. Do you want me to do your makeup for his going-away party tonight?"

Nope, definitely not.

"Sure," I force out.