Page 2 of Psychotic Obsession

As I stand here with a box already causing my knees to shake from its weight, I scowl at thenot in servicesigns. The yellow and red-striped stickers are stuck to all the elevators. I need to take the stairs. God dammit.

I could cry.

Do you know how many floors I have to climb until I reach my temporary office here in the States?

Eight.

My poor legs.

I struggle to open the door to the stairway. Thankfully, my colleague and best friend, Gabriella, catches up to me. "I’ll get it," she offers, waving her hand out for me to go in first. "You could have waited for me." She flips her long, bouncy blonde hair over her shoulder.

"You were taking forever in the queue."

"I needed my morning coffee," she responds with a shrug, walking ahead while I still struggle with the box. "I go every morning, Aria."

"You have a coffee machine in your office."

She shrugs again. "The barista is hot."

I roll my eyes. She has given that excuse every morning since we arrived four days ago.

By the time we reach the eighth floor, I’m wheezing, in desperate need of an inhaler as my hands press the base of my spine to relieve some of the painful pressure. I don’t know how many times I stopped to drop the box and catch my breath, but Gabs seems like she could go another eight floors. I guess she does work out everyday, unlike me.

Despite being from Scotland, I grew up here in America, having moved away when I was a young teen and returned to study. Gabs has been my roommate since college, and we’ve never really been able to separate since. I’ve spent years putting up with her wild ways, and I’m still going.

I follow her into her office, practically gasping for breath as I settle the box on her desk and drop into her chair.

"How many are coming to the meeting?" Gabriella asks.

"Seven, maybe," I reply. "I managed to convince a specialist from London to come speak about the case. Oh, and two from Delaware showed interest and wanted to attend."

She whistles. "You did good. No one would take the case for over a year until you joined the team. It’s been a blessing to have you with us instead of down in the labs. You thrive more up here."

The transfer had been a big step for me, but I was honestly one genetic test away from blowing up the entire lab. Day after day, it was the same. I wanted more. I wanted to make a difference on the frontline. Gabriella told me there was a position opening up for a clinical scientist with experience in genetics, and I’d been in the labs for too long. I applied, and somehow, I managed to impress them enough to land the job.

It has been hard, don’t get me wrong–the change of scenery and the workload caught me off guard. But I’m here, and just like Gabriella said, I’m thriving.

When I took over the Ivy Dermot case, we had travelled across the world to discuss possible trials for her unknown illness, or to at least find a diagnosis, but after dozens of failures, a doctor here in the States invited us to see if Ivy would be a match for them.

"Okay, we have three minutes," she says, staring at her watch. She claps once. "You ready?"

I shake myself, taking a long, deep breath. No, I'm definitely not ready.

"I’m ready," I lie.

My best friend can see right through me.

She grasps my wrists, holding them up to her chest. "You’ve got this. You’re smart. You’re professional. You care. Don’t think about them all being older, or that they have more experience. You fight for what you believe in and don’t allow anyone to talk down to you because of your age. You understand? Your research is spot on, you’ve done everything properly, and I’ll be surprised if it gets refused."

I nod once.

But the lump in my throat is growing. I swallow it down, reminding myself of that beautiful smile from the most precious girl in the world.

I need to do this for her.

All the specialists are way older than me, and it can be daunting and nerve-wracking, especially when they try to dominate the room and talk down to me.

The conference room is blindingly bright, so much so, I struggle not to screw my eyes shut. Floor-to-ceiling windows span two walls of the corner room.