Leaning across the arm of my chair, I reached for the paperweight on Dr. Fersan's desk and lifted it from where it rested. Careful not to disturb anything else as I drew it towards me, I turned it over in my hands, eyeing the monogram of her initials that had been carved into its center.

K.A.F.

Kelly-A-Fersan.

I wondered what her middle name was for a moment, knowing that I'd probably never find out unless I asked—and even then she might not tell me. She'd probably question why I wanted to know and that would undoubtedly end with her psychoanalyzing my curiosity. For some reason, Anne sprang to my mind as my first guess, but I doubted her parents would've intentionally made her names rhyme. Most parents thought about that sort of thing, even if mine hadn't when they decided to give me Tucker as a middle name.

Scott Tucker Donahue.

Frankly, it was nothing short of a miracle that I hadn't spent all of high school being called S.T.D., but maybe that had something to do with the fact I'd lied to everyone who asked and said my middle name was Charles.

The weight's metal felt cool beneath my fingertips and I rubbed my thumb against its contours until the steel slowly warmed. The paperweight was shaped like a starfish, and as I peered around my shrink's office, I realized that it fit in perfectly with the space's nautical theme. Small anchors served as bookends for her massive medical tomes and paintings of ropes tied into knots hung from the wall. Judging by the pictures on her desk, it looked like she and her husband had been married on the beach, so I guess it made sense that she apparently liked the water enough to surround herself with images of it. I avoided her gaze while I continued to play with the weight, though I occasionally glanced down at the bright orange loafers that she wore, staring as her feet moved up and down.

Even without meeting Dr. Fersan's eye, I could sense that she was studying me. Watching, waiting for me to respond to the question that I hadn't wanted her to ask. My psychologist's patience annoyed me, and I decided that I didn't want to talk to her today. In fact, I didn't want to come to these sessions anymore at all. I didn't need to--not really, anyway. I was happy, life was great, things were fine.

Well, even if I wasn't happy, at the very least, I could manage. I had no problem with the fact that Melanie asked to cancel our tutoring session this week. She'd said that she wasn't feeling well, and I'd told her that I understood and to get better soon. The fact that she couldn't meet didn't bother me; people got sick. No big deal, whatever.

And, on that note, what did it matter that I hadn't been able to face Gemma in over a week? I had fourteen missed calls from her, which was both surprising and strange, but it wasn't a bad thing either. In fact, I should've appreciated the fact she seemed to miss me; I was used to chasing her, not the other way around, but I still couldn't bring myself to listen to her voicemails or call her back.

There was no point in calling her, I decided, because there was honestly nothing to say. Gemma could always tell when I was lying, and if she asked me if something had happened at the date dash, I knew that I wouldn't be able to hide it. I'd spill the beans--all of them, every sordid detail. I'd tell myself to stop rambling, but once the flow of word vomit started, I wouldn't be able to stop. I knew I needed to tell her the truth, but I was selfish. I knew I was. I always had been.

Much more than I hated being jerked around, I hated being alone, which is exactly what I would be if and when Gemma learned that I'd tried to kiss Melanie. I found myself torn between racing towards that moment and staying rooted to the spot, afraid of committing to either outcome. Maybe keeping things the way they were was the right way to go. Even if we weren't officially together, there was something comforting in the fact that Gemma was there. Would it really be so terrible for me to stick with what I knew--what was safe? My parents had, and things had turned out... They weren't happy but they hadn't killed each other either. What more could you really ask for? 

Still, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself otherwise, I knew that my denial could only last so long. Melanie's rejection had left me feeling like my insides were in a tangled web, and each day that passed made those knots grow tighter. The expression on her face as she shut me down was etched into my brain, and all I wanted was for it to go away. Melanie's eyes had been filled with such an earnest longing... Longing, and a rush of anger that had faded into hurt.

I didn't blame her for shutting me out, and honestly, I deserved it for stringing her and Gemma along for as long as I had. At the end of the day, I felt like a total ass, and I didn't need an overpaid head doctor to help me work through why.

Shifting in my seat, I steeled myself under Fersan's unwavering gaze, telling myself that all I needed to do was run out the clock. If I could make it through the next thirty minutes, then I'd be able to walk out of her office and never schedule a follow-up appointment again. Fersan would worry about me, I was certain about that, but that wasn't my problem. Besides, she had other patients; she'd forget about me soon enough.

As if reading my mind, Dr. Fersan cleared her throat. "Scott?" she urged gently, and I glanced at her in spite of myself. "Did you hear my question?"

I nodded--just once, though I hoped that my response would nevertheless satisfy her. No such luck.

"Do you have plans for Thanksgiving?" she asked, repeating the question that had prompted my sullen retreat into silence.

I glared at the floor, then at her, wondering why she was getting paid so much to stick her nose into my business. I wanted to get up and walk out of the room, and I bent down to grab my backpack. I hoisted it onto my lap, but as I prepared to get to my feet, I felt a sudden wave of guilt wash over me. Fersan was frowning at me while she tilted her head to the side, but instead of seeing my psychologist in front of me, I was reminded of a sad looking pug. There was something in her bug-eyed stare that killed the hostility I'd felt seconds before, like a light switch turning off. Sighing, I tossed my bag back onto the floor and rubbed my eyes.

"I hate Thanksgiving," I mumbled, lowering my hand so that I could keep my gaze trained on the ground. I watched her shoes slide across the rug as she crossed her ankles beneath her seat.

"Why?"

"Because I hate spending time with my family."

I heard Dr. Fersan's pen scratch against the paper in my chart while she noted my response. "Would you mind sharing a little bit more?"

I shook my head. "It doesn't matter, I'm not going home this year." I sank lower in my chair. "My parents are going on a cruise, so they told me not to fly out."

"Do they usually go on vacation over holidays?" Fersan asked.

"No," I replied, the word thick with bitterness. "But Michael couldn't get time off work, and they'd rather not see either of us than see me without him."

"Do you really believe that?"

A twinge of irritation returned, and this time I couldn't stop myself from getting to my feet. I walked over to the window, resting my palms on the sill as I stared down at the students passing by below. My stomach turned when a girl with red hair came into my line of sight, though I instinctively knew it wasn't Melanie. I watched her for a few seconds, noting the way this redhead walked with her shoulders slumped forward, and the general timidity with which she darted around people on the street. It was almost like she was apologizing for the way her bright red curls stood out by retreating into herself, a feeling that I could at least partially empathize with.

"My dad hates me," I said, turning to hold Dr. Fersan's gaze. Folding my arms across my chest, I sighed while she continued to look at me, silently encouraging me to continue. "Or--I don't know, never mind."

"Everything you say in here is confidential," Dr. Fersan reminded me for what must have been the hundredth time.

"Yeah, I know." I dug at the carpet with the toe of my shoe before closing my eyes. I regretted saying anything about my dad, I really did, and as his face drifted into my mind, I felt a tiny jolt of terror. Whenever I thought of my dad, I pictured him with his eyes narrowed and face bright red as he yelled at me for something that no normal person would be offended by--that was my father, or the only way that I remembered him, anyway. Everyone in the family referred to him as being high-strung, and Mom would always make the same excuses for him when he came home in a bad mood.

"He's stressed."

"He's tired."

"You know how important it is to him that you keep on top of your chores."

The problem was that Dad wasn't always stressed, and he wasn't always tired either. No, if my relatives weren't scared of him, they'd admit what I'd come to realize years ago: Dad wasn't high-strung or overworked--he was just an asshole who acted like one every single day of his life, regardless of how clean the house was.

Dad may have retired from the Navy after Michael was born, but he'd never left the military mindset behind, that was for sure. Everything had to be done exactly right--no exceptions, and definitely no shortcuts. He required precision in everything that Michael and I did, whether it was cleaning our rooms or sitting up straight at the table. When we were kids, he required us to respond to questions that he and my mom asked with, "Yes, sir," and "No, ma'am." If we didn't, we'd find ourselves slung over his knee, staring down at the carpet with tears in our eyes while he brought a hand or his belt down over our backsides.

Discipline, according to my dad, was freedom. He said it all the time, though I didn't ask him what that meant until shortly after I turned ten. His response had been simple: "People who are disciplined can be trusted to perform; they don't need someone looking over their shoulders to get things done."

That would have made sense, I suppose, if he'd been training a combat unit, but he wasn't. Because of Dad's obsession with discipline, however, everything always had to be perfect. Always, and God forbid it wasn't.

"Half an effort is no effort at all," he'd say, usually after berating my attempts to trim the hedges or iron his shirts. He'd shake his head for good measure, just to drive home how disappointed he was.

Honestly, I hated it.

I hated all of it. I hated that I could never live up to my dad's standards, and I hated the fact that I desperately wanted to.

Even now.

Even though I was twenty-three and I could vote, and drink, and do whatever I wanted... All I wanted was my dad's approval, but no matter how hard I tried, I never got it. What made that even more painful was the fact that, unlike me, my saintly brother never let Dad down, and I resented him for that. Whereas I put in hours of effort only to fail, Michael glided through life like he'd been given a cheat guide. Advanced classes in high school? All A's, of course. Sports? Take your pick, Michael probably had a trophy for it. Girls, jobs, friends--Michael never had any problems.

He was, in everyone's eyes, the perfect child. The favorite. How was I supposed to ever compete with that?

Blinking twice, I realized that I was tired of holding back. "My dad didn't really want kids," I began slowly, and then paused. My tongue felt like lead as I tried to find the right words to explain the pressure I felt day in and day out. Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I looked up at the ceiling and tried to recall a happy memory of my dad and I. Unable to think of a single one, I mumbled, more to myself than to her, "He wanted robots."

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A/N: Happy Easter! I apologize for any typos. I realized that I hadn't updated in nearly two weeks, so I figured I should post and I'll edit the chapter more extensively later. The next chapter is ready and will go up either tomorrow or Tuesday. Thank you to everyone who's been reading and voting. You guys are the best. <3