Page 180 of Shadowman
Huh?
Confusion and worry have my lashes fluttering.
Where’s Trevel? Is he alright?? Why didn’t he show up for his session?
“That’s strange.” I shift on my feet.
I could notpossiblyfeel more out of place than I do right now. Standing here, an unchained prisoner, while this intimidating doctor grills me, fumbling over fact that I know solittleabout Trevel Fenwick, I don’t even know where heis.
Dr. Love’s expression darkens with some sort of realization, and he shoots another glance at the camera. “I think I know where to find him.”
He’s already striding past me, in the direction I just came, before I can process or question anything.
“Wait up…” I scamper after him.
His amber eyes slide to mine while we walk. “So, you and Trevel have become close…” He asks—a question that’s not a question, because he obviously already knows the answer.
“We’re friends…” I reply, slipping on my best mask of indifference.
I’m not a therapy guy. I’ve never been involved in any variation of it, becauseclearly,I’m doingextremely wellbottling everything up inside.In case you couldn’t tell, that was emphatic sarcasm.
But even if I’d wanted to—which I think I definitely did as a young adult, on more than a few occasions—my parents wouldn’t allow it. Therapy, counseling, or anything of the sort is not tolerated by my father. It’s seen as showing weakness; accepting defeat. Proving that you’re notstrong enoughto handle your issues on your own.
Everyone should be made of steel inside.
Swallow your pain and never think about it again.
Dealing with any shrink, let alone one who’s apparently the best of the best, and knows every inch of myhookup buddy’semotional terrain, feels like welcoming disaster.
As expected, Dr. Love sees through my mask like it’s made of Saran Wrap, and presses on. “Just friends… Nothing more?”
“Why does it matter??” I know I sound defensive as hell, but I can’t help it.
This interrogation of what I’mdoingwith Trevel is shining an even brighter light on the anxiety I’ve been feeling since the moment I fucking met him.
Dr. Love’s lips twitch in smug satisfaction, further vexing me. “Do you care about him?”
“Doyou??” I bark, immediately regretting it.
Fuck… That wasn’t supposed to come out.
He isn’t affected, though. If anything, it seems like he’s loving this.
“Trevel is a very important patient of mine,” he offers, impassively. “He’s a very special person.”
My animosity softens, an annoying flutter attacking my gut.
“He is…” I bite my lip.
“He’s also very troubled,” Dr. Love adds, and I frown. “But I’m sure you’ve figured that out by now.”
“Not necessarily,” I mutter like a reflex, kicking myself once more.
Why am I letting this guy get in my head??
Jesus, either I’m in desperate need of some therapy, or Dr. Lemuel Love is just that good. Probably both.
Without asking me to elaborate—again, because he doesn’t need me to—he says, “Regardless of the label, you’ve certainly made an impact on him. And I think it’s clear that he’s made you comfortable in his presence.”
