anybody but himself. He wanted to look good and one-up his brother, and fuck all the closed bakeries and my horrible selfish mother for depriving him of his needs. Poor Mom was walking on eggshells for months afterward. That man is impossible to please.
When I opened my “PATIENT” envelope last week and saw the disorder I’d been assigned, I’d almost laughed out loud. Hardly any research required, as I’m wholly familiar with the symptoms and how it manifests. I’ve lived with it my entire life.
“Why was it so important for you to look good in front of your family?” Dr. Demi asks.
“What do you mean?”
She rephrases. “What was supposed to be a happy family gathering turned into a competition between you and your brother. I’m simply wondering why you engaged in it?”
“I don’t turn shit into a competition, he does. He’s jealous of me because I’m older and more successful. And, what, I’m supposed to let myself be humiliated when he tries to put me down? No way. I’m going to fight back.”
“I see.” A pause. “Do you feel like you have unreasonably high expectations of the people in your life, or an average level of expectation?”
I wonder what conclusions she’s reaching. It’s evident that Demi is highly intelligent. That’s just one of the many reasons I enjoy hanging out with her. The main reason is that she’s easy to talk to, and there’s no pressure whatsoever to be anything but platonic. She has a boyfriend who she clearly loves, so there’s no temptation on my end. Sure, her body is hot as fuck, and she has a habit of wearing tight tops that hug her perky tits and bare her midriff, but I’m able to admire her without fantasizing about tearing her clothes off.
Demi jots down more notes, then says, “’Kay, let’s finish up. I’ve got dinner plans with Nico. But I think I’m starting to form an idea about your diagnosis.”
“This really is fun,” I admit. The irony is not lost on me that I’m having a good time describing—in detail—the way my father’s brain works.
Dad isn’t my favorite person, but I don’t typically complain about him to anyone. My whole life, I just went along with the cookie-cutter perfect family thing we’ve got going on. Anything else would’ve felt self-indulgent. I mean, I’m a rich dude who grew up in Greenwich and attended elite private schools. Other people have it worse. Some of them suffer from actual physical abuse, which is far worse than simply being unable to meet the unrealistic standards of an egomaniac.
Nevertheless, it is fascinating to describe these events of my childhood from Dad’s point of view. I don’t know if I’m hitting the right notes, but more research on the subject will probably help me zero in on specific thought patterns.
“I’ll see you next week,” I tell Demi. “But I don’t think I’m available on Monday, though.”
“How about mid-week?”
“I should be around on Wednesday night. But not the weekend—we’re playing three games.”
“Okay, possibly Wednesday night,” she says, “but that’s usually my gym day.”
“You go to the gym?”
“Of course. Why do you think I look this good?”
Naturally, my gaze is pulled right back to her tight, petite body. She can’t be taller than five-three, but, man, her legs seem endless. Long and tanned and bare in her tiny denim shorts. I bet her ass is taut and perfect, a perfect little handful.
Oh shit.
It’s happening.
I’m fantasizing about her.
Abort, dude, abort!
“Anyway.” I wrench my gaze away, but not before she catches me.
“Oh my God, stop it. You’re not allowed to look at me like that,” Demi orders. “You’re a monk, remember?”
“I wasn’t looking at you like anything,” I lie.
“Bullshit. You were giving me the Penis Eyes.”
“I was not. Trust me, smoldering looks aren’t my go-to move.” I smirk. “If I was making a real move on you, you wouldn’t be telling me to stop.”
“You have an actual move?” A delighted smile lights up Demi’s pretty face. Her skin is incredible. Glowing and flawless, and I don’t think she’s even wearing makeup. “Show me!”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No,” I growl. “You’re not allowed to see my move.”
“Why not?” she whines.
“Two reasons—you have a boyfriend, and I’m a monk.”
“Fine. But for the record, I’m betting your move is lamer than lame.” Grinning, she opens the top drawer of her desk. After some fumbling, her hand emerges with another lollipop. Cherry, this time. Or maybe strawberry.
“I think you’re a sugar addict,” I inform her.
“Nah, I just like having things in my mouth.”
“Nope, not