The Fall Before Flight

by L.M. Halloran

Maybe I am a sociopath, but I don’t think so. I have feelings aplenty, just not fear. I love my twin, robust red wines, blueberry pancakes, and eighties flicks. And I even love my father. I loathe my ex and the dumb cow he screwed in our bed. I abhor the smell, texture, and taste of pickles. Baby animals make me cry, and there’s nothing funnier than crass jokes. See? Feelings. And I have a conscience. I don’t willfully hurt or manipulate others, unless they deserve it. I’m not crazy.

Then again, crazy people rarely think they are.

It’s not a voice easily ignored; neither is the attached body. I’ve always had a thing for men who wear glasses.

Promiscuity has never been my drug of choice, but I’m still a red-blooded, twenty-eight-year-old female. And Dr. Chastain is a visual treat.

But this isn’t another life, and the crude fact of it is I don’t fuck men I like. Not for years. Not since Kevin.

That he knows I was ogling him doesn’t embarrass me. He’s fully aware I think he’s hot; I told him so in our first session.

“Everyone’s broken. Some of us are just better at gluing the pieces back together.”

“I’ve never had a man this excited to be off my sex radar. I think I’m insulted. Help me up. I don’t want to be in your lap if it’s not doing anything for you.”

I really don’t know why I keep torturing myself. Or him. Or maybe I do—he’s my distraction. A fantasy rarely entertained and certainly unrealistic. Stability. Family. Love.

want to tackle him, crawl inside his skin, and stay safe and warm until everything isn’t so frightening anymore. I’m so fucked.

“The truth? Fine. I’ve wanted you from the first moment I saw you. Damn you, Amelia. Damn your sarcasm, your lies, your eyes that tell me more than your mouth ever has, your scent that drives me crazy, and your beautiful, wounded heart. You’re goddamn perfect and I’m going straight to hell.” And he kisses me.

How many feelings can you feel at the same time? A goddamn landfill’s worth, that’s how many.

In all my years, I’ve never seen the look in his eyes from any lover. Like I’m more than exquisite—like I’m worthy of worship.

“I’m keeping you,” he whispers. My heart swells, so full, so hot. “Okay,” I whisper back. “Can I keep you, too?” “I’m already yours.”