The Devil Inside

16: Where's A Therapist When You Need One?

"But why is he ignoring me, specifically?"

Calla sighed. She was running on fumes after another restless night of sleep, filled with dreams about the boy with golden curls. He'd been crying, screaming something incoherent about a monster under his bed. 

"Cooper," she said impatiently. "I am not your therapist. If you want to sign up for couple's counseling with Vincent, then do it."

He scowled at the road ahead. The day had turned out to be rather dreary—a perfect reflection of her own mental state. Black thunderheads had coalesced on the eastern horizon, and they were moving quickly, dashing the hopes of every highschooler who'd envisioned pristine weather for the annual winter gala being held later that evening.

Neither Calla, Cooper, nor Vincent would be making an appearance at the dance. Their experience sophomore year had sworn them off the event for life. That, and they had other things to worry about beyond what clothes to wear and how many mini bottles they could cram in the hidden compartment of a clutch.

Vincent had been texting her on and off all day—clipped one-word answers that told her he was distracted, no doubt consumed by thoughts that were best left untouched.  

At least he was still talking to her. Whatever beef he had with Cooper, he hadn't brought it up. Not even in passing.

Boys and their nonexistent communication skills, she thought irritably.

"Friends are supposed to help friends through hard times," Cooper mumbled under his breath, shooting her a venomous look.

"I'm going to kill the person responsible for your girlfriend's murder." She folded her arms, wrestling with the migraine that had been plaguing her since the early hours of the morning. Had the dream triggered it? Or was it some sort of cosmic punishment? "If that's not helping a friend through a hard time, I don't know what is."

He frowned. "I hate when you kind of make sense."

"So. All the time?"

"Ah, there it is." He nodded to himself. "Your infallible sense of modesty."

"As entertaining as this banter is," she drawled. "How, exactly, do you know where Ryan works?"

He leaned his head back against the seat, his fingers dangling off the edge of the steering wheel with alarming nonchalance. Calla herself had never bothered to get her driver's license—she had such a reliable chauffeur, after all—but she was almost positive you were supposed to stay at least somewhat attentive when driving a two thousand pound hunk of metal.

"I told you. We keep up online. Y'know, gaming stuff." Cooper perked up immediately. "He's got this sick new system—"

"No." She held up a hand. The headache had just gotten worse. A lot worse. "I don't care."

"But—"

"God," she groaned. "You need to make up with Vincent. Immediately. I can't do this gamer bullshit."

"Don't be sexist," Cooper said, indignant. His good cheer had worn off at the sound of Vincent's name. "Plenty of girls like video games, too. You could always give it a shot."

"Cooper." She turned to face him. "My hobbies are not like your hobbies. This isn't a battle of the sexes."

"Fine, fine." He relented with a roll of his eyes. Her own narrowed in response. "I'm just saying. There's something really satisfying about shooting someone in the head." He paused. "Virtually. Don't go getting any ideas."