The Other Girl - Trisha Wolfe Page 0,9

can know what that is. Trust your instincts.”

As I wrap up the session, I feel Mia isn’t in need of a follow up appointment, but let her know my door is always open if she needs to talk. Afterword, I start on the rest of my employee paperwork I’ve been slow to hand in to the office.

I write my name on the top line. The scratching of the pen against the page is too loud in the stillness of the small room. I fill in another line with my social security number—the number I recently memorized. Then I look up and stare at the closed door. Agitation is a pulsing tension headache at the base of my skull.

I rub the back of my neck and flip the page. I can’t concentrate on the words when I’m trying so deliberately not to think about Carter. With a resigned sigh, I glance at my phone, and of course the time displays nine-eleven.

Unease pricks my spine.

The throbbing headache demands that one peek—just one—won’t hurt. Just look long enough to sate the relenting need so I can finish the paperwork without making a mistake.

I tap the app and go to his page. Immediate relief rushes my starved veins.

I know the warning signs. I know the danger.

Neurotic behavior.

Obsessive thoughts.

Delusional beliefs.

How quickly it can escalate…

Once diagnosed, I studied everything about Obsessive Love Disorder—the label slapped on me in high school. OLD is not recognized as a disorder in its own right. Rather, it’s associated with other mental disorders, like borderline personality. Which I am not borderline.

Simply put, I get too involved with love interests. Infatuated is the word my mentor used often during our private discussions. Though technically, there was only ever one person that brought on these intense feelings, and so recently, I started to believe I was misdiagnosed. That it was only a case of being an infatuated teenage girl.

Because after Jeremy, I never fell that hard again.

I stopped taking my meds a month ago.

Scrolling through Carter’s latest updates, I try to rationalize the feelings storming inside me. Carter’s resemblance to Jeremy piqued my interest, but it was Carter’s thoughts, his words, the inflection in his voice, that roused every other part of me.

I fear I’m falling harder and faster for Carter…and I’m terrified I won’t be able to stop. Even the realization of what his dark energy can do to my world isn’t strong enough to change the course.

Euphoria demands more.

No matter the price.

The war continues to rage internally as I swipe down the page, and I notice the same person liking Carter’s posts and comments.

Addison Young.

She’s beautiful.

Curious and with trepidation crawling up my spine, I click her name and read her profile. She attends Carter’s old school. There are a lot of pictures of them together. According to her most recent post, her and her best friend Carter recently took their bikes on a mountain trail run.

An inferno ignites in the pit of my stomach. My hands shake, making it difficult to scroll her page. Carter has a young, beautiful best friend.

I curse and close the app.

There’s always a beautiful girl. And she’s always a good girl. Smart, and witty, and stylish without trying too hard. She’s seen as perfect by everyone around her. A saint.

This particular girl will be the one Carter turns to when he needs advice, his sounding board.

That’s how it always starts, before feelings progress…

A memory of silky cinnamon hair and green eyes flicker through my mind like a strobe effect. Just as quickly, I douse the images. There’s no place for that bitch in my world now. She doesn’t get to invade my new life.

The urge to move hits, and I stand to pace the small area of my office, needing to walk off the jumpy energy. I’m too on edge. I run my hands through my hair, grip my hands into fists. The top drawer of my desk holds office supplies. I tug it open and dig out a rubber band.

The band goes around my wrist and I snap it repeatedly until the jitteriness subsides.

A knock sounds at my door, and panic flares. I roll the band up and pull my sleeve down, then fix my hair. “Yes?”

Ms. Jansen peeks her head through the cracked door. “Hi, Ellis. I have a student walk-in wanting to speak with you. Do you have time?”

Calm breath. Smile. “Yes, I have time. Can you give me five minutes?”

She nods, but I can see the curious glaze in her weathered eyes.