Page 43 of Game Misconduct

seventeen

. . .

Bex

A knock sounds on my open office door, and I look up to find Nick standing in the threshold, fidgeting and shifting on his feet. My face slips into an automatic scowl. He rubs the back of his neck, his tanned cheeks red above his beard.

“Uh, can I come in?”

Annaliese isn’t here yet, so I can’t pawn him off to her. I guess I have to be the grown-up and actually work with my patient. Damn it.

I fight back my instinctive snarl. “Fine. Close the door.”

He inches forward, like he’s afraid I’m going to lunge at him and claw his eyes out. He’s not wrong to be skittish around me.

Carefully, he sets a to-go coffee cup on the desk in front of me. The nutty, buttery scent of hazelnut coffee creamer wafts over me.

“What’s this?”

“A peace offering,” he mutters, not looking at me.

I open my mouth, but he cuts me off.

“This is me, not talking about the thing we’re not talking about. Just… drink it.”

“It’s not poisoned?”

He scoffs. “It’s not like I carry cyanide around in my pocket.”

“Or iocane powder?” I lift the paper cup to my lips and take a sip. It’s lukewarm, the perfect temperature. I hate scalding my tongue on hot coffee, so I always wait an hour or two to drink it. Cold brew is my favorite. But I don’t like it with ice. That’s just wrong. Ice changes the texture of the drink.

“Nah, I leave that at home.” A half smile tips his lips up, and I find myself smiling back for a beat before I force myself to tamp it down.

He settles in the chair across from my desk, chewing on his cheek.

“Why are you here?” It comes out blunter than I anticipated, but I’m not about to beat around the bush. The sooner we unravel whatever’s bothering him, the sooner he’ll get out of my hair.

“Elsy’s worried about you,” he blurts.

I blink.

“She’s worried about you, and she’s asked me to look out for you.” He shrugs, not meeting my eyes. “I told her I would, but I know you don’t want me hanging around all the time. So this is me checking in, doing my due diligence, and then I’ll leave you alone.”

“I’m fine.”

So what if I had a panic attack last night and another two days ago? I survived. So what if the skin picking is getting worse and almost all of my natural eyelashes are missing? I look better wearing falsies anyway.

I crack my knuckles, first the top joint of each finger and then the second. The snap, crackle, pop is soothing as I run through each finger on my left hand, then my right, and finish by lacing my fingers together and turning them out. Then I crack my left elbow and my right wrist, relieving the pressure of built-up synovial fluid. My left knee clicks, and I pop that, and all that’s left is my right ankle, and as I twist my foot to get the proper angle, the satisfying snap that echoes in the quiet room is like a shotgun shattering the silence.

Through it all, Nick watches me with trepidation. He doesn’t say anything, though. I can’t decide if I want him to address it or ignore it.

Elsy and Vanessa are used to this. In times of stress, I fall back on my familiar repetitive behaviors, and they’re as comforting as they are debilitating.

“I’m fine,” I repeat. “Tell Elsy whatever you want, but she doesn’t need to worry about me.”

“You guys have been friends for a long time,” he comments without inflection.

“Since grad school.”