Page 926 of One More Kiss
He sighed, looking over the chart again. “Not enough according to your weight here.” He scooted his chair closer to me. Then he took off his glasses. I guess this was him getting personal. “Mr. Soronen, I know things have gotten worse for you in the past year or so. But this is not a Band-Aid. If there is something going on internally, you need to see a psychiatrist.”
“Will a shrink give me my meds?” My tone was no less acidic than before, more hopeful.
“If that’s what they deem appropriate, yes. But what you need is to declutter that mind of yours. Get the junk out. Maybe then, you won’t need drugs.”
“So, you’re not giving them to me.” It wasn’t really a question. I could feel the anger rising inside me.
His smile was sad, but it wasn’t real. He didn’t give a shit. “I don’t think it's wise. You flat out admitted you’re not taking them as directed.”
“Cool. Well. See ya.” I got up and headed for the door.
“Hey, Daniel.” His words stopped me as I gripped the doorknob. “Please get some help.”
I clenched my jaw. “Hey, Doc? Get bent.”
The nerve of that asshole. It was literally his job to give me that shit. And he wouldn’t. All because I needed a higher dosage every once in a while. I wasn’t usually this much of a dick, but the storm I could feel brewing was a bad one. And I was without any emotional shelter.
I got back into Luca’s truck.
He was scrolling through his phone. “That was fast. How did it…” He looked over at me. “....go?”
“Fucking drive.” I put on my seatbelt and deadpanned out the window.
That night proved to be a bad one. I locked myself in my room as usual while the guys fucked around in the kitchen. It was a Friday, so when I heard them call an Uber and head out, I knew they’d be gone until at least four in the morning. Only then did I emerge.
I opened the fridge but realized I wasn’t hungry, so I settled for a beer. One turned to two. Two turned to four. Didn’t matter. I couldn’t drive, and there was nowhere I wanted to go. No one I wanted to see.
That was a lie.
There was one person. But I’d fucked that up bad. There was no way Tate would forgive me for what I’d done. What I’d said. Who I was.
I sat on the couch, stewing and peeling off the wrapper from my now-empty beer bottle. It wasn’t just that I wanted to see her. I needed her. As if the universe were eavesdropping on my internal thoughts, my phone dinged.
The notification read: Tate has added the song “I Don’t Believe You” by P!nk to the Damaged Kids playlist. Listen now?
I clenched my jaw, swallowing back the bile in my throat, and pressed play.
I leaned back on the couch and closed my eyes, allowing the tears to fall. She knew I would get the notification. And that meant she wanted me to hear this song. The words poured over me like painful eclectic currents against my raw nerves.
I had to see her.
I had to know, for once in my life, if I could fix something I’d broken.
