The Other Girl - Trisha Wolfe Page 0,10

I’m still just standing here, in the middle of my office. Like a lunatic. She closes the door.

I whisper a curse. Slowly and with deliberate movements, I seat myself behind the desk. I take a few moments to process my thoughts and compose myself.

I’m fixating.

It’s one of the beginning stages of OLD. I can see the signs so clearly, and yet every fiber of my being denies what’s happening. I want to feel this way about Carter. Isn’t that another type of sign? That we were meant to find each other?

Override emotions with logic.

If something is meant to be, it will happen without my influence.

The only danger in that is what it will cost me.

I can’t draw suspicion—and rumors about the school psychologist being intimately involved with a student would definitely draw the wrong type of attention.

The wise thing to do would be to pass Carter’s case on to another counselor. I can’t be around him. I need to end all contact.

I pick up the phone handset to make the call, to do just that—then set the phone in the cradle.

Carter already displays marks of abandonment issues. I can’t let him believe I’m doing the same. I need to tell him in person that I can no longer counsel him.

That’s exactly what you want.

I slap my hands on the desk to quiet the voice. I’m the one in control. I will end this before it goes too far.

Devotion

Ellis

Some people can be isolated and remain mentally healthy, stable. Others…completely lose touch with reality.

There’s a study into the effects of social isolation that touts the health risks are comparable to smoking cigarettes and obesity. Individuals that suffer long periods of isolation and perceived loneliness are at higher risk for illness and death.

I find it fascinating that simply being alone can drive a person mad. How much do you have to despise yourself to hate your own company? For it to manifest in morbidity or death to end your suffering?

I fall on the other end of the spectrum. Saying crowds make me nervous is an understatement. All the voices and watching eyes and awareness to maintain social etiquette… It’s exhausting.

Today is pride day at the academy, and students and faculty members alike gather in the auditorium to partake in the assembly led by Mr. D. The whole school. In one room.

After Mr. D’s announcement that the football team is to defeat our enemies over the mountain, cheerleaders sporting red-and-black uniforms rush the stage, followed by our fearless cougar mascot.

Applause and shouts rise up, and the echoey acoustics of the large room start to aggravate my head. It’s the same effect as standing under a florescent light. I feel discombobulated, disconnected. And that sets off a burst of panic that I might say the wrong thing, do something strange.

I excuse myself from the row of office staff I’m seated with to make my way toward the back of the auditorium, where I can slip into the hallway and escape the noise if necessary.

I find a private nook between the back of the stands. The room dims for the show on stage, and I begin to relax. I just need to know there’s an escape nearby. In all situations. It’s the fear of being trapped that makes my head spin and my heart pound too loudly.

I’m actually enjoying the presentation the cheerleaders and dance team are putting on, lamely clapping along with the others, when I sense that wary touch against the back of my neck like I’m being watched.

Then: “I had a dream about you last night.”

The voice whispered so near my ear should startle me—but I recognize the distinctive cadence. A fiery current floods my body.

My hands halt mid-clap. “You should probably save that for your session, Mr. Hensley.” I peek over at him. “In private.” The warning is clear in my voice.

He doesn’t back away, however. He inches closer, shaded by the stands. “You were wearing this little black dress suit…and nothing else. Just a blazer and a serious skirt. Sexy as hell.”

I don’t look at him this time; I stare ahead, watch a girl in uniform get tossed into the air. I feel the brush of his hot breath against my neck, and my nipples harden against the cool, silky material of my thin bra.

“You sat right on your desk,” he continues. “Right in front of me, then you spread your legs…”

A shiver races across my skin, the chill in direct contrast to the heat blooming between my thighs.

Everything I’ve worked