Page 15 of The Fall Before Flight

“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.

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