Page 1 of The Carnage We Keep

1

BELLA

“Do you think I’m a bad person?”

Dr. Fallon’s arched, manicured brows pinch slightly.

“You’ve asked me this before,” she says with a slight amused lift to the corners of her lips. “And questions like that rarely have a straight answer.”

I groan.

Such a standard therapist response. God knows I’ve seen enough of them to feel qualified to make that assessment.

“Could you maybe not be a shrink for a second?”

Dr. Fallon smiles. “But I am a shrink, Britney. And as much as I enjoy our time together, I think it’s fair to say that's why you come to see me.”

An impish grin tugs at my dark red verging on black painted lips. “Maybe I just want to be friends.”

She smiles quietly. “Do you consider us friends?”

“Actually, I don’t do too well with friends. I know, shocker.”

Dr. Fallon smiles warmly. “You’re being self-deprecating again. And you’ve mentioned that before.”

“Well, shit,” I exhale. “I didn’t realize I was supposed to arrive at every session with fresh material.”

Dr. Fallon chuckles. “When a patient brings things up repeatedly, there’s usually a reason.”

I groan as I pluck one of the Cheetos out of the bag I snagged from Dr. Fallon’s kitchen counter earlier, jam it in my mouth, and crunch down on it loudly before looking up and holding the bag out toward her.

Dr. Fallon politely shakes her head. “No thanks.”

“Sorry, I’ll replace them⁠—”

“No need,” she smiles. “They were for you.”

My brow knits. “What's that supposed to mean?”

She lifts a shoulder. “It means I know you like Cheetos, so I got them for you.”

“You were expecting me?”

She shrugs again. “Well, it’s been a few weeks. I was expecting to see you sooner rather than later.”

Shit.

I’m not usually that predictable.

“Well, thanks,” I mumble, cramming another neon-orange packing peanut dusted with delicious carcinogenic whimsy into my mouth.

I glance down at the hip, sunglasses-clad cheetah on the front of the bag, blowing smoothly into his saxophone.

“Did they ever explain why the Cheetos cheetah is a jazz musician?” I twist the bag to face her and tap on the cartoon notes floating out of his goofy-ass sax. “Like, why jazz?”

“Why not, I guess?”

“So his two great passions in life are cheesy snacks and John Coltrane? Now that is some psycho shit,” I mutter, stuffing another crunchy sodium and regret delivery system between my teeth.