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There is absolutely no way that Stratt doesn’t know about my thing.
I am a very curious person. I leave no stone unturned, no weird phenomenon unsolved. But my thing is just my thing and nothing more, because if I let it be something more—if I research it and apply a name to it—then it will become all the more real. I didn’t have time to deal with that when I was a teacher, and I certainly don’t have time to deal with that now that I’m helping to save the world.
But when I haven’t slept for long enough, or it’s been a particularly rough day, I can feel myself start to slip into it. My rambling becomes a bit more nonsensical than usual, and if I don’t acknowledge the problem then, the urge to cry sneaks up on me. The point of no return is typically when I start crying, and I know then I’ll be useless for at least an hour.
The first time I think Stratt notices—or at least the first time she lets it show that she knows—is when I have to get my blood drawn by Dr. Lamai. Sue me, I’m scared of needles, especially ones that stay in my arm for a whole minute, stealing my blood.
Stratt volunteers to go first, probably trying to give me a minute to collect myself after she notices my face going pale when she tells me I have to get tested. I appreciate the sentiment, but all it gives me is time to agonize over it. The smell of disinfectant and the unbearably low temperature of the room overwhelm me.
I can’t tear my eyes away as Stratt offers up her left arm onto the table and stares unflinchingly as Dr. Lamai wraps the rubber tourniquet around it.
“What are you, like, a vampire?” I joke. I force a laugh, and all it does is make it even more evident that I’m on the verge of breaking down completely. I cringe at the sound of my voice cracking and decide that talking is not the best course of action.
Dr. Lamai does not laugh. Her mouth doesn’t even twitch. She’s now disinfecting the crook of Stratt’s elbow with a cotton pad. Alright, tough crowd.
I make a noise sort of like I’ve been punched when the needle slips under Stratt’s skin. She’s acting like she doesn’t feel any pain! She glances up, assessing me, and I try to give my best pleading look to say please don’t make me do this, but her expression is unchanging. I should have known puppy dog eyes do not work on the great Eva Stratt.
She looks back at her arm as the blood makes its way through the tube and into the first vial. I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to turn around. I lean against the wall, trying to quell my dizziness. I have approximately ten seconds to calm down before it's my turn to sit in that chair, and it’s not looking good. I try to remember the things I’ve told my students—deep breath in through the nose, out through the mouth—but I can hear Dr. Lamai finishing up with Stratt, and it’s disrupting my train of thought.
I hear the ripping of tape, the clattering of a needle being tossed into a sharps container, and then footsteps making their way toward me. Though I anticipate it, I still flinch when a hand rests on my shoulder.
“Dr. Grace,” Stratt says softly, and I shudder. I open my eyes and turn to her, and yep, there’s that unwavering seriousness in her gaze. Can’t she take pity on me and my cowardice just once? She’s not physically forcing me into the chair and holding me down, but she might as well be.
I sit in the terribly uncomfortable chair and watch nervously as Dr. Lamai sanitizes her hands. She’s not an intimidating woman, but I can’t help but feel as if she towers over me, threatening. I try to distract myself with complicated formulas, but I find that it’s hard to think, like my brain is stuffed with cotton.
The revelation of what’s happening hits me belatedly. My thing. This has to be the worst possible moment for this to happen! The thought of Stratt seeing me like this makes my stomach churn. I’m sure she already sees me as weak, and this whole phobia isn’t helping, but my thing? I must be the most pathetic person she’s allowed onto the project.
The doctor says something that I don’t process, but judging by her stance, I can guess what she’s asking. I unfurl my arm and put it on the armrest closest to Dr. Lamai. Even with the steady surface beneath my arm, I can see my hand shaking. In fact, my whole body is shaking. I whip my head around, looking between Lamai and Stratt, and both of them seem entirely unsympathetic, or maybe oblivious. Don’t they realize that I can’t do this? I have to get up and run away; I’m good at doing that, but Stratt tilts her head at me, and I feel pinned to the chair.
My breaths come quick and unsteady as a small spot on my forearm is disinfected. I shake my head at Stratt. She shakes her head back, but I’m pretty sure our head shakes mean entirely different things. I feel tears well in my eyes, and yep, there’s that point of no return. I’m useless now.
I can’t pull my eyes away as the needle slips under my skin and my blood shoots up into the first capsule, and oh gosh, I’m definitely going to pass out. I feel all the blood drain from my face.
“Ryland,” Stratt says firmly, and I snap my gaze to her. “Don’t look at it.”
She never calls me Ryland. Dr. Grace, sure. Grace is pushing it. But Ryland? I am effectively distracted by this for what must be at least ten seconds before the stinging in my arm reminds me of where I am. The dread, now bigger than I am, pulls me back under like a rogue wave. My head starts to turn back towards Dr. Lamai and her pristine white robes.
I am surprised yet again by Stratt when she grabs my free hand and squeezes it. I turn my head back in her direction with wide, teary eyes. Some vague notion tells me that I am not allowed to express vulnerability like this, and certainly not in front of Stratt, but I can’t remember why. Why not, when she looks so welcoming? Why not, when she offered me her hand when I needed somebody to clutch to? Eva Stratt, I am suddenly sure, is perfectly safe for me to be with when I am experiencing my thing. I squeeze her hand tight as the needle finally exits my arm, and she squeezes back.
“See? That wasn’t so bad,” she says, and I swear that her lips are upturned in what could be a smile. I’m not sure what I did to make her smile, but I’m certainly proud of it. I beam back at her, even with the last of my tears running down my cheeks.
Before I can muster up the words to thank Stratt, Dr. Lamai is gesturing for me to get out of the chair, and I realize that I’m all done and bandaged up. Huh, I think simply. I turn back to Stratt, hoping to see remnants of that smile, but she’s back to her serious face.
I tune out their parting conversation as I pick at my nails and sway side to side. I’ve never felt pleasantly fuzzy in this way before. Typically, the emotional crash that precedes my thing bleeds into the experience and leaves me feeling even more upset than before. But now, with a positive experience to counteract this—with Stratt—I might even describe this as good. I am sure there is something to be said about how that relates to my lack of human connection, but I don’t have the brain power to figure it out.
“Ryland,” Stratt says, and I stand straight up, at attention. She rests her hand on my shoulder as she walks me out of the building and into the cool breeze.
She looks around like she’s checking for eavesdroppers before stopping and turning to me. “You have the rest of the day off.”
“Huh?” is all I manage to reply. I could have sworn that I had things to do! I remember dragging my feet this morning at the prospect of the boring meeting I knew I was going to have later in the day. And there was that lesson with Dubois and Shapiro…
She doesn’t seem bothered to elaborate. “Get some rest, Doctor Grace. You need it.”
She hurries off and leaves me standing there, wind blowing my overgrown hair into my face and the pleasant fog in my head fading into confusion.
I try to take advantage of my day off, but I’m restless at best. I pace my room—it only takes two steps to get to the opposite wall—and think about all the extra work I’ll have to do tomorrow. This certainly wasn’t what Stratt had in mind when she gave me a break.
Speaking of Stratt, I try not to think too hard about her and what happened earlier, but it’s a lost cause. My brain has expertise in phoning in on exactly what I’d like to be avoiding. The rational part of my brain says that Stratt will pretend none of this ever happened tomorrow and that I should too. The other part of my brain, that cloudiness trying to push in from the corners of my mind, wants to take over and talk to Stratt. Why, so I can plead pathetically for her attention? So I can try to get her to smile at me again? Get it together, Ryland!
I’m also surprised that my thing doesn’t seem satiated. Maybe I didn’t cry enough? Typically, crying myself to sleep solves the problem, and I can shove it down for a few more weeks. Now, it persists. I suppose that resisting it is silly when I have the rest of the day to myself, but something stops me. It could be fear; giving into my deepest vulnerability and then being crushed beneath the weight of repressed emotions for the next few hours doesn’t exactly sound appealing. But even then, this is the perfect opportunity! What could possibly be— Gosh. It’s Stratt, isn’t it? My brain wants Stratt to be here when it happens. Fudge.
I try to speed up my pacing to match the rate of my thoughts, but I nearly slam my face into the wall, so I slow down and flap my hands instead.
Despite what people speculate, Stratt and I are not engaged in ‘sexual congress.’ My brain has, however, decided that she needs to take care of me while I cry. I think that’s somehow more embarrassing than the rumors.
My whole body stills, along with my heart, when three knocks ring out at my door. It could very well be one of the security personnel trying to force me out of my room to eat something because Stratt commanded them to a few weeks ago. But I must have subconsciously learned the differences between people’s knocks, because I know with a sinking feeling in my gut that Stratt is behind that door.
Unwilling to face her wrath, I only take a short moment to collect myself before I open the door for her. She looks me up and down before bothering to greet me, making me want to shrink in on myself.
“Hello, Dr. Grace,” she finally says. She holds a cardboard drink carrier in her hands with a coffee cup in each slot.
“Wow,” I say, distracted by the fact that I am genuinely impressed. “You need four whole cups of coffee now? I think this is potentially lethal levels of caffeine.”
“No, I drink three cups. I don’t want a heart attack. The fourth one is for you.” She lets herself in and sets them down on my desk, handing me one of the cups. A cardboard sleeve covers it, but the cup is in no way hot, so it must have been a while since she got it for me. Well, I’m not going to complain about getting much-needed caffeine.
“Thank you,” I say earnestly. “Although I really don’t think three and four cups is the line between healthy and a heart attack.”
She waves a hand as if to brush me off. “I am surrounded by the best doctors on the planet if I truly need them. But I will not be needing them.” She sounds so sure of it that I almost believe her sheer willpower will keep cardiac issues at bay. A Stratt a day keeps the doctor away, or whatever they say.
She picks up one of her coffee cups and takes a sip. Steam wisps out of the lip of the cup. She doesn’t let it show on her face, but knowing the coffee machines we have around here, she just burnt her tongue.
I take a polite sip from my cup, only slightly annoyed that I clearly got the only one that wasn’t hot, and then pause. It’s… chocolate. Hot chocolate, although I wouldn’t exactly call it hot. I take another sip to confirm. It’s a kid’s temperature hot chocolate. Chocolate milk, practically. Stratt deliberately brought me a drink for a child. I glance over at Stratt, and her eyes are boring into mine. I can’t tell if this is meant to be an insult or not.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she says.
I groan. I really don’t want to talk about it, but I can practically feel it seeping in through the corners of my brain, fighting to take over. I dig my nails into the skin of my palm until the pain takes up more of my attention than my thing, momentarily pushing it away.
“Not really. I mean, I’m insane, aren’t I? That’s what this is?”
She tilts her head at me a fraction. “If you truly think you’re insane, I can schedule you an appointment with a psychiatrist.”
“No! No, thank you.” I laugh nervously, remembering my past experiences with psychiatrists. It’s not like I was outright bullied by any of them, but I hated feeling like a cell on a Petri dish to be scrutinized. I never could find the words to describe what was wrong with me, anyway.
“Well, Dr. Grace, I am of the opinion that you are not insane.”
For some reason, this relieves me. I always hold Stratt’s opinion in high regard, but this is something that I desperately needed reassurance about. I can already feel my shoulders begin to unstiffen.
Stratt puts her coffee back into the cup holder and makes a step towards the door.
“Wait,” I blurt out, feeling confused and abandoned all over again.
She turns to me and raises an eyebrow.
“You… Why did you come here?” My words don’t come anywhere close to encompassing all of the questions racing around in my mind.
“I knew you would be wasting time in here overthinking instead of truly utilizing your free time. I came here to tell you to stop.” I can’t decode the look on her face—her lips are upturned, but her eyes don’t wrinkle like they do when she really smiles.
My mouth opens and closes lamely while I try to think of words or a convincing plea. Stratt seemingly decides that I have nothing else to say to her, because after watching me briefly, she walks out of my room.
After the door clicks shut, I stand there, staring, like I believe she might come back.
When it becomes clear that’s not going to happen, I slowly lower myself to the floor and let my head thunk back against my mattress, cross-legged. The ceiling is apparently very interesting to me, because although I lose track of time, I know I spend worryingly long staring at it.
Oddly, I feel comforted. I have never known Stratt to be someone to wear her heart on her sleeve. I never did expect her to hold me and tell me that everything would be okay. The fact that she even came to my room with the intent to ease my mind surprises me. This is her showing me that she cares in her own way.
Without getting up from the floor, I reach up to my desk and grab the cup that she left behind. I sip the cold chocolate. The heavy weight of my repressed emotions sits with me as it always does, but solace now joins it.