Page 36 of The Carnage We Keep

It’s this weird tick I have. No idea how it started, but sometimes, when I feel that I’m tripping over myself socially and am about to fuck up something good, I can talk myself off the proverbial ledge by latching onto something neat and predictable, like numbers in order. Like, it's a sequence that makes sense when everything else suddenly doesn’t.

Recently, I’ve caught myself doing it way too frequently around Galina.

I haven’t historically done too well with friends in general. And when I do make them, they tend to be guys. I guess inventing elaborate ways of playing Dunk the Pedo in Acid, or spending your weekends carving up dead bodies, doesn’t really lend itself to being “one of the girls”.

But, somehow, I’ve managed to make friends with Galina. I’m pretty sure by now that she’s totally fucking my dork cousin Lochlan, which is extra scandalous because he’s TAing the Psychology of Deception and Performance class she and I are in together. But, god-awful taste in sexual partners notwithstanding, she’s pretty fucking cool.

Which is probably why I keep gravitating to my weird little tick when she and I are hanging out. I guess I’m just shocked that I’ve made a female friend, and I’m terrified my mouth will start babbling about the chemical process of dissolving fatty tissue versus bone fragments.

“Britney?”

Dr. Fallon’s voice yanks me back to the matter at hand.

“Sorry. Could you please repeat the question?”

She smiles. “I was checking that we were speaking metaphorically about this man—what was his name again?”

“Blandrew.”

“Blandrew,” she echoes, a hint of amusement in her tone.

“Like Andrew,” I explain. “But bland.”

“Got it.” She smiles at me.

“And, Doc, when have I ever been metaphorical?”

Her smile falters slightly as she lifts her steaming mug of tea and blows on the surface. “It’s just, from the standpoint of protecting both of us when you start talking about literal crimes⁠—”

“I thought you weren’t allowed to say anything,” I frown. “Aren’t we in the trust tree or whatever? Like, my secrets are safe here?”

Dr. Fallon nods slowly. “Your secrets are safe with me, Britney. But in terms of doctor-patient confidentiality⁠—”

“That's the phrase I was looking for!” I crow, snapping my fingers. “Yeah, that. You can’t legally repeat anything we discuss. So, anyway, Blandrew comes out of nowhere and just stabs this guy in the throat. Like there was this horror-movie blood geyser and everything, it was crazy⁠—”

She frowns, holding up her finger again to stop me. “The thing is, Britney, I’m not going to tell anyone what we discuss. But if compelled to, I can’t rely on the legal definitions of doctor-patient confidentiality, because I’m not technically your therapist. From a legal perspective, I mean.”

I nod slowly. “Ahhh, right. Gotcha.” I grin as I tug a crumpled dollar bill out of my pocket and triumphantly slam it onto the kitchen island.

“Now you are!”

Her mouth twists in a small smile. “I think you’re thinking of lawyers and attorney-client privilege.”

I frown. “It’s not the same deal with therapists?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Well, shit.” I chew on my lip. “How do we change that?”

She chuckles to herself. “You call my office and make an appointment to come see me. Ideally during…daylight hours?” she says with a slight yawn.

Yeah, that’s not happening.

“Okay, well…metaphorically speaking it is, then,” I mutter. “Where was I?”

“Blandrew was…” She delicately clears her throat. “Metaphorically stepping in to⁠—”

“Stab a motherfucker in the neck! Yeah!” I finish with a grin.