Check, Please (Book #2)

Thirteen.

I could always tell what Dr. Fersan was thinking by the way her eyebrows moved. They were constantly moving, too. Up, down, up, down. It had only taken a few sessions with her to realize that the faster they went, the faster the gears inside her head were churning. Occasionally only one brow went up and often they both went down, leaving her with a look of concern or maybe slight disapproval. When I watched the slight changes in her expression, it felt like I was peering directly into her brain. Sometimes I caught myself mimicking her brows' movements, though I really didn't mean to. It was a reflex, completely involuntary--or maybe she'd found a way to use mind control on her patients. Maybe I was an experiment.

Or, maybe I was just a weirdo.

"Have you and your brother had a chance to talk since your outing the other week?" Dr. Fersan asked, flipping through my chart while I shook my head. She smiled pleasantly, though her eyes betrayed a hint of sadness. "Why do you think that is?"

"I've told you before." I picked at a hangnail that had appeared on my index finger, wincing as I tore off the sliver of skin. "We don't really get along."

"You mentioned that," Dr. Fersan said, jotting something down. "When you say you don't get along, do you mean--"

"I mean, we can't spend more than fifteen minutes together before I want to kill him." I paused, remembering the warning I'd been given at the start of our therapy sessions. "That doesn't count as something that you have to report to the cops, right?"

Dr. Fersan chuckled as she crossed something out. "Don't worry, if I reported everyone who said they wanted to kill a family member in passing, I wouldn't have many patients left." She fiddled with her headband, though her bushy curls refused to be tamed. "I only have to disclose serious threats. Otherwise, everything you say here is confidential."

"Gotcha." A bubble of blood had formed where I tore off the hangnail and I wiped it away on my jeans.

"Why do you think your brother makes you feel that way?" Dr. Fersan pressed on. I shrugged.

"No clue."

"Really?"

I glanced up and was unsurprised to see her eyebrows at full attention. This was the sort of information she loved to pry out of me, though I did my best to resist sharing the extent of my family's dysfunction. My mom probably would've fainted if she knew half the things I'd told Dr. Fersan and I always felt a little guilty for airing our dirty laundry. Although Fersan insisted that talking about the feelings I had for my family didn't mean I loved them any less, it sure felt like I was throwing them under a very fast moving bus.

"He reminds me of my dad, that's all," I finally said, and Dr. Fersan nodded.

"And why do you think that makes you uncomfortable?"

I looked at the clock that hung above the bookcase in the corner of the room and frowned when I realized I still had twenty minutes left. "It doesn't," I lied, cursing myself for allowing the topic to come up.

"It's alright if it does."

Drumming my fingers against my leg, I chewed resolutely on my tongue, willing the minutes to pass. When I didn't respond, Dr. Fersan said, "We can talk about something else--"

"My dad turns everything into a competition," I blurted, years of resentment bubbling to the surface in a single sentence. "Everything. Always. It doesn't matter what it is, it's like he expects us to fight to the death to be the best."

"Do you have any examples?"

I snorted. "I got a concussion playing football in middle school. It was minor but the doctor said I'd be out for at least two games--safety precaution, I guess." I grimaced as I continued, "My dad sent me to practice the next day."