Delicate Monsters by Stephanie Kuehn

of me. That you got me home safe. I don’t know how to repay you.”
    â€œYou don’t have to do anything. It was nothing, M.”
    â€œIt was definitely something.”
    Emerson shrugged, wishing like hell she’d change the subject or let him go so he could hang himself or cut his wrists or jump off a goddamn roof, but that’s when she leaned forward, rose up on the tips of her toes, and kissed him on the lips. Quickly, but not too quickly. Emerson was stunned, totally taken aback, but she tasted good, so good, and her touch was everything he’d dreamed of, warm, powerful, a tumbling force of nature he couldn’t deny.
    So he let himself do what he’d wanted to do for so long. In front of the whole school, he held her closer. He kissed her deeper. Because he had to erase the self-doubt and shame pooling in her eyes.
    He had to.
    It killed him to see it.

 
    chapter eighteen
    Sadie thought, if anything, Dr. Call-Me-Tom looked more disheveled this week than last. Maybe this was because they were meeting in a different office, one that made her wonder who he must’ve pissed off in order to justify the move. The new space was smaller, was situated uncomfortably close to the administrative bathrooms, and came with a scarred metal desk that looked like it had survived the days of mass polio vaccinations and mandatory lice checks.
    He’d brought his dumpy laptop with him, along with his rolling chair, although he clearly hadn’t had time to unpack. A few milk crates and recycled banker’s boxes were shoved haphazardly into a corner, and the only thing on the wall was a bright-colored poster distastefully labeled a “Feelings Chart.” The Feelings Chart consisted of a repeated line-drawn character whose frowned and pouted and pulled faces meant to show off his/her emotional state. Sadie wasn’t sure if the chart was intended to teach her how to express herself or how to understand others, but seeing as both endeavors were pretty much scraping the bottom of her priority barrel she asked Dr. CMT if he could move it to the opposite wall.
    â€œWhy?” he asked.
    â€œSo I don’t have to look at it.”
    â€œThe poster bothers you to look at?”
    â€œIt’s unattractive. It bothers me to look at things that are unattractive. Especially when there are eyes involved.”
    â€œEyes,” he echoed.
    Sadie waved a hand. “I don’t like looking at all those eyes. There’s a lot of them on there in case you hadn’t noticed.”
    â€œYou’re saying you don’t want to be watched.”
    â€œDo you want to be watched?”
    â€œThe poster doesn’t bother me.”
    â€œWell, you’re not the one looking at it, are you?”
    He paused. “Why don’t we explore your experiences with being watched, Sadie. Could you say more about that?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œI said no. Aren’t you supposed to be good at this listening thing? Isn’t that what therapy is? I tell you things and you listen, and then I go home and have sex dreams about you or whatever?”
    He gaped. “Is that what you think therapy is?”
    â€œAsk me about my experiences with watching,” Sadie instructed. “That’s more interesting than being watched. Because sometimes I see things I shouldn’t.”
    For a moment, Dr. CMT didn’t answer. He pulled at his unattractively pink ear. He stared at his computer screen. Sadie understood he was torn between discomfort and his desire to challenge her, but he had to know there was nothing to be gained from trying to get the upper hand with her. That was the thing with psychologists, counselors, helping professionals, whatever boring category they wanted to identify with these days. Deep down they were all people pleasers. It’s why they did what they did. They cared about being liked, and they cared what other people thought about