Page 32 of Mistaken Identity
I lived in a moderate three-bedroom, two-bath townhome in Irving.
I’d purchased it late last year after I decided that I needed to stay close to my dad in case he needed me.
He didn’t.
I was just using him as an excuse to stay in the area because I didn’t want to leave.
In reality, I would’ve never been able to, even though I’d wanted to blow the Dallas popsicle stand since I was seventeen and realized my world would never be the same.
I’d thought the answer was getting the hell out of the city.
In reality, the answer was facing my demons.
Which Audric had forced me to do two weeks ago when we’d been sitting on the shores of Maui.
Ever since, I’d been thinking that I needed to start utilizing my healthcare benefits and seeing a psychiatrist about my issues.
That was my plan for today, actually.
I was going to see someone and finally take control of my life.
It was my first step to healing, and maybe, just maybe, being happy.
And if that happiness brought me closer to a certain someone…
My alarm went off, reminding me that I needed to go get cleaned up and leave if I was going to make it in time.
I quickly headed for the back of the house and slipped into the shower after haphazardly putting up my hair.
Fifteen minutes later, I was out the door and heading to the bank of office buildings in the heart of Irving, going to the psychiatrist that my insurance had recommended.
I arrived at the office and took a seat, noting that there was no receptionist to check in with.
The door on the other side of the entrance was closed, but there was a sign there that read ‘With a patient. Be done at twelve thirty.’
Taking that to mean I should sit and wait, I did, absently playing Phase 10 on my phone while I did.
I was through three rounds when the door to the office opened, and a crying woman left with her head down.
The man at the mouth of the door smiled at me gently and gestured with his hand. “Come on in. You must be Creole?”
I nodded and stood, suddenly incredibly nervous. “That’s me. Creole Williams.”
He gestured toward a chair across from one that had a coffee cup sitting at its base and said, “Have a seat.”
I did, noting the box of tissues on the table separating the two chairs.
“What brings you in today?” he asked.
Besides being fucked up and scared of anyone and everyone?
“Where do I start?” I asked, laughing humorlessly.
His eyes sharpened, and he tapped his bottom lip with one blunt finger. “Where do you think you need to start?”
That was a loaded question if I ever heard one.
But how did I start to tell a man I barely knew, who I had no loyalties to, my deepest, darkest secrets?
