Page 26 of Hold Me Down
She’s sitting on the other side of the desk, typing away on her laptop like she wasn’t the one that called me in here. Her arrogance is infuriating at best, and I’m not sure I can take much more of it. When I walked in a few minutes ago, she didn’t even look up. From the hitch in her brow when I sat down, though, I know she realized I walked in.
This is bullshit. I should be downstairs watching Damien spar with Zeke. There’s still a mountain of records to go over with the guys, and our new cars are being delivered today. Grease took Damien’s bike to his garage, and he’s supposed to call me at some point this afternoon with an update on it. I haven’t told Damien that he has it, but he also hasn’t asked about his motorcycle. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s afraid to ask about the damage, or because he’s scared of the feelings that will surface with the thought.
“I see you’re still refusing to speak in session?” An annoyed tone hides behind her question.
“I’m not here for a session. You said you had an update on Damien that you wanted to share.” I cross my arms and lean back on the couch, hoping that the new angle will relieve some of the pressure on my joints.
“Well, you weren’t going to come see me otherwise.”
“So it’s all bullshit, then? Great.” I start to stand up, but then she finally closes her laptop. While I stay on the edge of the couch, a part of me wants to lean back once again, but then she’ll believe that I’m comfortable here, and that’s extremely far from the truth.
“It’s not bullshit, Ashia. I do have an update to share with you, but I am also curious about your well-being.”
“I’m fine.”
“I’ve heard that quote is a staple of yours.” Her lips curl in amusement, and it plucks my nerves. I roll my eyes and shift on the leather, unable to help it.
“Well, then I guess you already know whatever it is you need to about me.”
“How are you feeling?” she asks randomly and tilts her head, almost like her question is genuine.
“Excuse me?” I raise a brow.
“Physically, I mean. Pregnancy can be rough, especially with the troubles you’ve been experiencing.”
I narrow my eyes at her, not necessarily liking her statement. My condition isn’t any of her fucking business, and better yet, neither is my daughter.
“I’m—”
“Don’t say you’re fine,” she cuts in rudely. “I challenge you to say something else. Describe how you’re feeling in a way that doesn’t belittle your emotions.” I can’t help but smirk and say the first thing that comes to mind.
“I’mfuckingfine.”
Dr. Von leans forward onto her desk to rest on her elbows. Her fingers weave with each other before she lays her chin on top of them, seemingly intrigued.
“It’s astonishing. For you and Zeke to have grown up separately, you two are awfully alike.” My humor drains instantly at her statement, and I almost have the urge to tell her to fuck off, but she continues quickly, like she knows she’s getting under my skin. “I heard once that F.I.N.E. is just an acronym.”
“Oh, what? Are you going to quote Deadpool now? I thought you were supposed to be some award-winning psychologist.”
“And I thought you would be much nicer,” she retorts.
“Are you going to tell me about my husband, or are we just going to play twenty questions?” I shake my head.
“Why don’tyoutell me about Damien?”
“What about him?”
“Anything. I feel like I’ve heard so much about you from his point of view, but I want to hear whatyouthink ofhim.”
“Think? Iknowhim.”
“Well, tell me what youknow, then.” She briefly holds her hands out, gesturing for me to continue towards her trap. I’ve been to therapy—I went for years. Her fucked-up mind gamesaren’t going to tie me to her depressing web; and she won’t get any answers out of me.
A part of me wants to respond to her question, mostly just to spite her, but also so our baby girl can hear about her father. I could tell her all of the things she probably has in her file, just to prove that she doesn’t know more than me. Without a second thought, I could tell her about his birthday, favorite food, favorite hobby, and even the toothpaste he likes to use.
Those aren’t the things that matter, though.
I could tell her about his manners, and why he’s so beautifully confident. She should know why his genetic eye color means more than a cherry on top of his already-devilish good looks. I could spend hours talking about his good heart and why he always blames himself for other people’s pain. But I won’t do that. I don’t know what he has shared with her, and until she tells me whatever the hell it is she called me in here for, she’ll just have to stay in the dark.
