Page 92 of Let the Game Begin

The woman squinted at the screen to read the information that had come up about me. Then she cleared her throat awkwardly and looked back at me.

“Yes, there’s a…note here,” she murmured under her breath sounding a bit daunted. I gave her a cheeky grin and women stiffened up.

“Dr. Lively is with a patient right now. Can you wait? Otherwise, you could see Dr. Keller.” I frowned as Chloe clung to me, all tensed up. I had never heard of that person.

“And who is Dr. Keller?” I asked with zero tact. The woman raised an eyebrow, like my question was ridiculous, and took a business card off the countertop and handed it to me. It read:

DR. JOHN KELLER, PSY. D, LP.

“Dr. Lively’s working with another psychiatrist now?” I tossed the card back to her with a frown.

“For quite some time now.” She tucked the card back in among the others and looked haughtily back at me.

“Holy shit, so much has changed around here,” I blurted out, amused as the woman continued to stare at me like I was a maniac on the loose.

“You’re not inspiring a lot of confidence in this lady,” Chloe whispered into my ear, drawing the woman’s attention to her. No, I didn’t inspire any confidence in her at all, but I didn’t give a shit.

“Take a seat in the waiting room.” She finally excused us with false, calculated kindness. I sat down with Chloe on one of the leather couches while irritating classical Muzak echoed around the white walls. The glass table infront of us was covered in newspapers and magazines. My gaze snagged on the cover of one, which was taken up by a close-up shot of…

“Dad!” Chloe said, eagerly grabbing the magazine.

Yes, it was our father, William Miller, CEO of Miller Enterprise Holdings. The same intrinsically awful bastard who loved to “educate” me via cruel and savage methods of which my sister fortunately knew nothing, thanks only to her youth. Just seeing his icy eyes and soulless smile was enough to get the anger pumping inside me.

Chloe opened up the magazine and leafed through it to find the interview with our father, and all I wanted to do was rip the paper out of her hands and tear it into pieces. I began jiggling my leg and breathing heavily; my throat felt tight and my blood pressure was surely rising.

“Look, doesn’t he look younger in this picture?” Chloe held the magazine out to show me. I had broken out into a cold sweat, my heart was pounding in my temples, and my hands were shaking. I was just about to have a complete meltdown when Dr. Lively finally came out of his office.

“All right, Mrs. McChoo, I’ll see you for our next session in a month.” He guided a woman to the exit and stuck a pen into the pocket of his suit jacket. He hadn’t changed a bit; he was still the same gentlemanly guy I remembered. His gray hair fell straight to the nape of his neck, and he had a square face with even features: a nose that drooped slightly and small, bright eyes surrounded by faint crow’s-feet, the same sort of wrinkles that bracketed his thin lips.

“Neil.” His smile faded, giving way to a look of incredulity when he spotted me. He approached us, and I stood up, sticking out my hand to him.

“Hello, Dr. Lively,” I said in a placid voice.

“I haven’t seen you in a long time,” he reminded me, giving me a pat on the shoulder. I froze for a second with my arm suspended in mid-air before retracting it irritably. I hated to be touched, and he knew that better than anyone.

I took an instinctive step back, and he clearly noticed it because his face darkened.

“And how are you?” he asked tentatively, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his slacks. I didn’t want to talk about me or my problems, so Igestured for Chloe to join us. Only then did Dr. Lively register her presence, and he wrinkled his forehead questioningly.

“I’m here for my sister, not for me. You need to talk with her,” I explained, putting my arm around her slim shoulders. Chloe was tense and anxious, so I rubbed her arm to calm her down. My former psychiatrist was an excellent doctor, skilled with both the professional and the personal, and I knew he could put Chloe at ease.

“That’s no problem. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Chloe. I’m Krug Lively. Please don’t call me doctor, just Krug.” He gave her a benevolent smile, and my sister returned the gesture. I could feel her slowly relaxing, and I was pleased with her positive reaction.

“My pleasure,” she murmured.

“Would you care to wait for me in my office?” he suggested, clearly intending to take a moment alone with me. Chloe glanced at me for approval, and I nodded.

“I’ll be right here waiting for you. It’s all going to be okay. You just need to talk a little,” I said softly, planting a kiss on her forehead. She sighed, seeming unconvinced about what she was about to do, but she screwed up her courage and walked toward the doctor’s office.

“I thought you were going to come see me every now and then. Instead, you completely vanished. You changed your phone number, and when I tried to meet with you at your home, you never showed. Do you know what a serious thing it is, stopping treatment without your doctor’s authorization?” he lectured me, sounding even-tempered yet stern.

“It’s fine, Dr. Lively. The meds your psychiatrist gave me made me numb and apathetic,” I argued, trying not raise my voice.

“They also allowed you to sleep, manage your impulses, and control your mood swings. You didn’t show up for a single one of the follow-up sessions I recommended. I should have been able to evaluate your course of therapy to determine whether you’d achieved your objectives. Instead, you refused care and prevented me from helping you.” I could tell that he was angry and disappointed in me. He’d always had my back and had been, in many ways, like the father I never had. And this was how I repaid him?

Dr. Lively was the only man—other than Logan—with whom I had everdiscussed my history. His presence had been a huge source of support for me during my adolescence, even when I hated the drugs his team prescribed and the often-rigid course of therapy he forced me to follow.

“Like I said, I’m fine. I’ve got a handle on it,” I lied. I couldn’t confess to him how things really were. I didn’t have a handle on my trauma. The nightmares were still there, as was the obsession with washing myself, the angry outbursts, and vague thoughts of ending it all.