I'll Be Here (3 page)

“Ah, yeah.”  I say and raise my glass in an air toast. 

“Is that legal?”  He asks. 

Mom and I both giggle and Aaron looks from her to me and back again insanely pleased with himself for making a joke that he doesn’t even understand.

Mom tips forward, bracketing her arm against the table so that she won’t fall out of her chair.  “We won’t tell if you won’t tell.”  Kids love a good secret and my little brother is no exception.

“My lips,” Aaron says dramatically wiping his fingers across his lips the way that he’s seen mom do it, “are sealed.”

Clothes make the man.  Naked people have little or no influence on society.

~Mark Twain

CHAPTER THREE

No one wants to enter a shrink’s office.

I learned that on day one of this job.

On day two I learned to let them wrestle their demons in the hallway by themselves.  It’s better that way. 

On day three I learned how to make a pot of coffee.

That was more than a year ago and it never gets old.  Well, the coffee-making does, but not the people. 

Today Mr. Blomberg has come in and out of the door five times at least.  He is wearing a loose-fitted polo shirt that’s been through the wash too many times and still has the remnants of some old stain down the front.  His pants are too short and when he sits down in the upholstered chair over by the east window jiggling his leg and mumbling things under his breath, the pant legs rise up to almost mid-calf exposing one blue sock and one grey sock.  After about a minute of this he abruptly storms out of the office to the outer hallway where he paces back and forth for a minute or two.  Then the cycle begins all over again. 

Poor Mr. Blomberg.  Rough divorce.  The wife cheated on him.

I think about my own appearance and I’m starting to have a lot more sympathy for Mr. Blomberg and his weirdness. 

This morning I didn’t even bother trying.  I’m wearing my glasses, which are a startlingly bright shade of purple.  The outer corners tilt up in thick points like those old fashioned cat sunglasses you see on Rockabilly posters.  They seemed like a good idea three years ago. 

Make-up: zero. 

Fashionable clothes: definitely not. 

Hair: I won’t even talk about it. 

With a heavy sigh I turn back to the referrals on my desk and tap the blue pen in my hand lightly against the pile. 

Office worker. 

Administrative Assistant. 

Those are my titles within these walls on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons from three o’clock to six o’clock.  And—like today—one Saturday morning a month for the people that can’t make a priority of their mental health during the week.

The embossed black and gold plaque by the main door says “Dr. Patricia Snyder, Licensed Psychiatrist” in a thank-you-very-much cursive font.  There are two robust desks near the entry and a small seating area kept well-stocked with generic magazines and crossword puzzles.  And, to keep with the doctor’s office cliché, there’s a freshwater fish tank containing a variety of oversized goldfish against the far wall. 

Dr. Snyder (Patty) is a friend of Jake’s and she hired me last year to cover some of the overflow paperwork at her psychiatric practice.  Business is booming.   

Smirna’s hair tickles my shoulder as she leans over me and rests her finger on the file splayed on my desk. 

“We’ll need to make a copy of this one and can you call over to that Pharmacy over by Brickel’s?  I called in Mrs. Vaughn’s prescription an hour ago but she says that they are giving her the run around and I need to make sure she gets it before she leaves town to visit her daughter.  You know how she is.” 

She rolls her eyes and chuckles.  Ellen Vaughn is one of Patty’s more “delicate” patients.

After two more walk-ins and walk-outs, Mr. Blomberg has made it into Patty’s interior office.  Smirna rustles around on her desk and comes up with an oversized zippered pouch.  She positively hates when patients pay in cash and informs me that Susan Ferris paid for her earlier session with two crisp one hundred dollar bills. 

Smirna grimaces and repeats what she always says about it making her feel nervous to have that much money sitting around the office.  She asks me if I want her to get me anything while she runs across the street to the bank to make the deposit before they close at noon.  She reiterates the fact that she also doesn’t like ATM machines.  And she says this like she’s actually been offended by an ATM machine in the past. 

I laugh but I shake my head and wave her away.  Smirna frowns and gives me a long and overly sympathetic look which sort of confirms what I’d already guessed.   Either Jake or mom must have called the office early this morning to inform Smirna and Patty of my break-up with Dustin.  Just perfect.

Smirna is Indian—as in from India, not Native American—and even though she moved here when she was very young, she still retains a slight accent.  I love it.  I love the way that it shapes her rrrr’s and softens her vowels.  I love her straight dark hair and her burnt caramel skin and her black eyes that slant in towards her nose.  I love the way she smells—warm and nutty. 

The bell at the door jingles. 

“Be right with you!”  I call out and straighten from my crouched position. 

I am in the back where the copy machine is kept.  It’s a closet really, lined with wire racks for holding file boxes and office supplies.  As I move to the front office, I bring the warm copies to my face and breathe them in.  This is a weird habit of mine—sniffing copies.  I do the same thing when I get a new book.  What can I say?  I have a paper sniffing problem.  Things could be worse.  

“Is there something I can do…”  The question dies on my tongue.  It falls to the floor and rolls under the desk which is exactly where I’d like to crawl and hide.  The air around me wobbles like the entire office has taken a deep breath.

Clear blue eyes pin me to where I am. 

They take me in from head to toe lingering on my stupid purple glasses and red-rimmed eyes.  My whole body is tense verging on frozen.  All but my heart.  It’s enlarged and beats out a dire warning against my ribs. 
Danger!  Danger!

His mouth is parted but I’m not sure if that’s surprise to see me standing here at the heart of crazy or what.  There’s a softness to his eyes almost like happiness, but my brain is on overdrive and I’m just not sure what to make of anything.  I’m guessing that my own expression is simply put: priceless.

I look down at my trembling hands and then back up at his face—at the square line of his jaw and the way his lip curves up on one side.  His hair is shorter and scruffier looking than I’ve seen before and he’s gotten his eyebrow pierced with a small silver hoop sometime recently. 
Damn.
 

When he chuckles I realize that my mouth has flopped open and I snap it shut and sink into my chair knowing that if I
don’t
sit down I will most assuredly fall over.  I blink and breathe deeply in an attempt to assume an air of composure.  Yeah right. 

He shifts his weight casually on one foot and slips his hand into the front pocket of his jeans. 

“Happy to see me?”  He raises his eyebrows suggestively and I almost choke on my tongue.

When I stammer something completely incoherent Alex smiles broadly and saves me from having to answer his question. 

“So…  Willow, what are you doing here?”

“Huh?”  I shake my head trying to clear the fuzziness that seems to have enveloped my brain.  “I—I work here.  Um… what are
you
doing here
Alex
?” 

I glance quickly to my computer where the appointment calendar fills the screen.  How could I have missed his name?  “Are you here to see Dr. Snyder?”

“Yes,” he says and then thinks better of it, closing his eyes—those eyes—and shaking his head emphatically.  “I mean NO.  I’m not a
patient
.” 

Another pause. 

Deep breath. 

Blink. 

“I’ve got some papers for her to sign.”  He must read my confusion because he clarifies.  “She’s buying a house from my mom.”

Ahhh.  That explains it. 

Alex’s mother Brooke is a realtor and Patty mentioned awhile back that she was looking for an investment property.  Duh.  They probably know each other through Jake and my mom. 

As I take the clipped-together papers from him I sternly tell myself not to stare at the way his biceps pull gently against the fabric of his dark grey t-shirt.  And I’m definitely not going to stare at those clear blue eyes or that thin silver ring glinting in his eyebrow.  I. Will. Not. Stare.  IwillnotstareIwillnotstareIwillnotstare. 

Crap.

I’m staring. 

I mean, I am
staring
and it’s like I can’t even help it. 

Alex looks right back at me and his smile—the one that starts out shy and widens until it dominates his whole face—causes my heart to malfunction.     

His blue eyes crinkle in the corners like he knows what he does to me and he leans slightly forward, his upper body angled over my desk to point out three places where he says that Patty needs to sign.  I catch his scent.  It’s a mixture of soap and mint and something very male.

Brooke has clearly highlighted and tagged the spots that Patty needs to sign but Alex looks so serious that I nod and try to look like I’m paying attention.  Pulling away, the tip of his index finger grazes mine and I yank my hand back like I’ve been zinged by an electrical outlet.  Alex’s eyes go round and his face changes—the smile he is wearing replaced by a half-frown. 

What.  The.  Hell. 

Why is he looking at me like that?

And
why
exactly is Alex Faber standing here in front of me instead of being safely stowed away at college where he belongs?

Is this some kind of cosmic joke?

I have not seen Alex in over a year and now the very day after my heart gets flattened he pops back into my life?  It’s so insane that I’m afraid I’m about to launch into hysterical laughter

I squeeze my eyes closed and when I open them he’s still standing in front of me looking back at me with that face.  He looks different than the last time I saw him.  Older and… Oh my God—I won’t think it.  Stopstopstopstop!  Oh God.  I can’t help it!

I suck in a gulp of air.

The fact of the matter is that Alex looks even better than the last time I saw him.   The guy standing in front of me is familiar and different all at once.  The only thing I’m sure of is that he is hot.  Scalding.  Smoking.  As in: incredibly sexy.  As in: makes a girl’s pulse speed up.  As in: makes things turn over in places you don’t generally discuss in mixed company.

He has these amazing blue eyes that have been known to send shivers down my spine and hair that is so dark it’s almost black.  It grows in all directions like it can’t quite make up its mind and just now he’s wearing it cropped close to his scalp.  Even short, it somehow manages to retain that sexy and mussed-up look that people ask for at high-end salons, though I doubt Alex bothers to pay big bucks for a haircut.  He’s just naturally blessed. 

His skin is pale and under the overhead fluorescents of Patty’s office it takes on a transparent quality—a stark contrast to the few days of dark scruff growing over his jaw line.

Made of shadows and moonlight.
  That’s how I used to think of Alex back when I let myself think of him. 

Ugh.  

 Alex is great.

Amazing actually.

Brilliant.

Wonderful.

Outside
and
inside.  The facial piercing doesn’t fool me.  I know that he’s the type of person that takes his shopping cart back into the store before getting in his car.  Alex helps old ladies cross the street and donates blood several times a year.  He cares about things.  He cares about the environment and about making the world a better place.  He cares about people.  He cares about doing the right thing.

I used to have a mad crush on him.  Or maybe it really was love or at least a twisted, juvenile version of the sentiment.  It began when I was eleven and he was thirteen and he and his dad taught me how to bowl.  Actually—roll that back—the truth is that my heart lurched the very first moment that I saw him leaning against the counter in the school office. 

Then, when he was in the eighth grade he ran for student body president of our middle school and tried to get the Styrofoam cups and plates used in the cafeteria replaced with biodegradable ones and my crush transformed into love. 

Just the sight of him makes my arm hair stand on end.  Still.

And here he is in front of me, telling me where Patty should fax the papers to after she signs them.  I notice the muscles stretching under the skin of his taut forearms and the way his square jaw moves when he swallows.  Now his smile changes.  It’s almost wary.  Hesitant.  It makes my breathing falter.  His eyes meet mine. 

“I’m here for my dad’s birthday,” he offers in answer to my unasked question.

“Oh, sure.”  This is an opening for normalcy.  This is when I’m supposed to ask him a question or say something pleasant.  “Tell Pete I said happy birthday.”

His eyes blink under a dark fringe of lashes and he smiles softly.  “I will.”

“Um, how’s school going?”

“It’s going.  Just a few more classes and then finals and then summer.  I’m not doing an internship this year or taking any summer classes so I’ll be home most of the time.” 

Am I imagining the pointed look he’s giving me? 

“How about you Willow?”

I straighten my back and try not to dwell on the sound of my name coming off of his tongue.  Absently, I pick up a pen from my desk and roll it between the fingers of my left hand. 

“I’m almost done too.  I guess now it’s all about getting  through the home stretch.” 

God. 
Did I just use a baseball euphemism?

Alex steps closer to my desk and the fabric of his jeans brushes against the wood veneer.  Using his fingertips, he traces the edge of my computer monitor and gently bites his bottom lip.  “Ready for the next big adventure?”