Held A New Adult Romance

Chapter One




Amber



Once upon a time, I was a little girl.

I read books of fairytales and brushed my hair a hundred times. I told myself I'd learned to tell a prince from a frog, and that I knew which beasts were really cursed lovers in disguise. I read about princesses shut up in towers, where they grew from stolen babies into girls whose beauty could stop the sun itself in its tracks.

I read a lot of bullshit.

Dr. Stahl has never read fairy tales - I feel sure of it. On one of the rare occasions I was in her office, I saw her diploma on the wall - Madeleine. It suits her, with her burnished skin and the nose she was born with. The first time I met her the word 'insouciance' flitted across the surface of my mind - suitably French, I thought.

"She gives no fucks," Everglade might have said, a long time ago in a kingdom far away, but that's not right. It can't be right. For smiling Sunshine State girls the business of not giving a fuck is a high-effort pose, especially since there's so much competition. No, it's different - Dr. Stahl's give-no-fuckness - and only a French word fits. She has none of those usual West Coast badges of female non-conformity - the peasant skirt, the pentacles and the Tarot cards tied up with ribbon. She was probably born with pearls in her ears and that perfect, patient way of suffering fools gladly whenever a man enters the conversation.

She thinks I'm a fool. She has to. She knows why she's here.

"And have you been near the door since we last spoke?" she asks, like it was a thing, like I'm really crazy.

"I don't need to go out for anything," I say. Like I could if I wanted to. What is she thinking?

She tilts her head to one side. Her hair is tabby striped and swept carelessly back to curl just behind the small lobes of her ears. Her eyes are wonderfully green. She kissed me once, before she realized it wasn't a greeting I liked. She smelled of Gucci Envy and something chalky, like talc. I pictured her puffing it on her armpits after anti-perspirant, as if it were that easy; maybe it is - she never sweats in the heat.

"Books," she says, trying to lure me from my cage. "You love to read. Aren't there any new ones you want?"

I shake my head. "I can download them. Nobody goes to bookstores any more."

She sighs and smiles. "You're right. Showing my age."

"It's not like anyone's going to let me out," I say, and my voice sounds whiny, a teenager's. I could be fourteen and complaining about being grounded, but it's bigger than that, worse than that. It's real. Tears sting the backs of my eyes and fight them back. There's no point in crying.

"I don't think you're ready for that," says Dr. Stahl. "I was just talking about socializing - online, maybe? There are book clubs and forums for that, right?"

"I'll think about it," I say, but it's so hard to hide these days. Even Google keeps asking for your real name. I deleted my Facebook because my Dad threatened to change the WiFi password if I didn't. What was the point, he said, of leaving all your business out there in the open so that dickheads can come and point and laugh? Learn some social filters - that's the whole trouble with your generation.

He's never going to let me out of here, I think, and the stinging starts up again. Worse, I'm never going to want to get out. I can't go within two feet of the patio door without losing my breath and feeling like a lead-balloon of solid dread is weighting down my stomach.

The silence in the room swells between us. In her dark, straight skirt and white silk blouse she looks like she could have come from another planet. My room is peppermint and pink, full of glitter and star-spackled voile and all the things she probably thinks are ridiculous. I left a pair of shoes next to the end table because my heart was beating too hard for me to open the closet and put them away - they're silver satin, with four-inch platform heels and studded with tiny Swarovski stars. Dr. Stahl wears two-inch kitten heel pumps - plain. Dark blue leather. She would never get herself into the mess I did. She would know who to call when things got bad, if she even let it get that far. Would she have even let it go beyond a second date? I wonder how long she's been practicing; I never saw the date on her diploma. She knows crazy like the unlined back of her hand.

"What are you thinking, Amber?" Her voice is soft, sweet. I wish I could make her magic work in here. For me.

"I don't know," I say, after a long pause. I can't tell her the truth. She has to think I'm stupid enough as it is.

I hold my breath again. I run the tip of my tongue over the edge of my upper front teeth. Once there used to be a gap there and I made it wider and worse by pushing my tongue against it. Then I got fitted with braces, so that I could be perfect, like all the other girls. "I haven't had a good week," I say, because I have to say something. And it's the truth.