Dinner time rolled around, and I made my way to the dining area with everyone else. I went through the line, waiting silently as the cook slapped some kind of chunky mush into the biggest slot of the tray. Next came a single roll and a spoonful of broccoli so heavily steamed it would probably would turn to mush. Sighing at the lackluster fare, I grabbed a plastic spoon from the bin and a carton of milk.
The orderly that usually assigned seats was occupied with a patient trying to stuff their broccoli up their nose, so I took advantage of the small bit of freedom and crept away to sit at the vacant table closest to the exit.
I took a moment to survey my meal cautiously, wondering if it would attack me if I tried eating it. Feeling less than confident with the mush I thought was supposed to be shepherd’s pie, I decided to play it safe. I set the spoon down, figuring I’d eat the bread first since it looked the most appetizing, or the least unappetizing.
I was about halfway through the cardboard-flavored roll when a bang and some shouting snapped my attention back towards the buffet line.
Mr. Mysterious was there. I recognized him immediately, even from behind. He was wearing the same grey sweatpants and hoodie as everyone else with his pretty hair done up in a messy, yet unaccountably sexy man bun, but it was definitely him. He was the one who was making all the noise. As I watched, he slapped his tray down against the metal bars they slid across.
“This food is shit. Why can’t we just get a little salt and pepper here?! Do you even know what that is?” he growled at the man doling out food.
I had to give props to the cook behind the partition. Not only did the guy manage to not flinch at the sound of Mysterious Man Bun’s shouting, but he seemed completely bored with the whole ordeal. He simply turned his back on the angry patient and began cleaning out one of the empty, metal food containers.
Guess when you work around crazy people all day, you get used to all the different types of insanity that come with them.
Mysterious Man Bun growled angrily at the cook’s nonchalance before he whipped his head around in my direction, as if he could feel my gaze on him. I quickly averted my eyes, not wanting to get caught staring.
I sat there for a minute, pretending to thoroughly enjoy the dried roll, before peeking through my lashes at him.
My jaw dropped when I spotted him on the wrong side of the partition.
While the cook had gone back into the kitchen, separated from the cafeteria by a half wall, Mr. Mysterious had snuck behind the buffet line and was searching through the stack of condiments on a table. I watched, mesmerized, as he found what he was looking for and began to shake a generous amount of it onto the food on his tray.
Who the hell is this guy?
He quickly shoved what I thought was salt back into the group of condiments and turned. When his eyes found mine, I didn’t bother hiding that I was staring. He didn’t seem to mind though.
His eyes locked on me and his lips quirked into an impish smile. He lifted a finger to his mouth, signaling me to hush. Internally, I wanted to laugh at his playfulness, but all I could manage to do was nod at him.
He exited from the back of the buffet and began walking down the hall, away from the cafeteria, with his food tray. Where was he going? I had no clue. I thought everyone had to eat in here.
Guess I was wrong.
* * *
After dinner—and a blessedly solo bathroom visit now that I’d been here long enough for them to know I didn’t have an eating disorder—I was shuffled along to group therapy with Dr. Park. I hoped that, since I’d skated by every other time without having to talk, I’d keep my lucky streak if I just kept my head down.
Keeping my head down and staying quiet was easy enough, since I was absorbed with thoughts of Mysterious Man Bun. I decided that nickname seemed fitting, at least until I learned his real name. I kept rolling over the questions in my head.
Who was he? Why was he here? Had he been here long? Was his hair as silky and soft as it looked? How’d he get away with bringing a lighter past the metal detector? Why did he—
“Miss Bloom, care to join us?” Dr. Park’s voice startled me out of my reverie and made me jump in my seat.
I glanced around and noticed everyone’s eyes were zeroed in on me—waiting.
“Uh, what was the question?” I asked, completely confused.
Dr. Park sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, making his glasses bob with the movement. When he looked back up, he asked, “Would you please share your story with the group? We’ve yet to hear from you. It would benefit you to participate like everyone else.”
Crap.
“Um. I don’t know. I don’t have much of a story really.”
“Well, try anyway. Tell us about your life growing up: family, school, jobs, friends. Anything.”
I looked down at my lap uncomfortably, playing with a piece of invisible lint on my sweatpants. I didn’t want to talk about my life. I was, for the most part, being honest with him. I didn’t have much of a story. Well, besides the fact that I’d had visions most of my life. But I wasn’t about to share that. Everything else not dealing with my visions was absolutely boring.
I cleared my throat, deciding that maybe boring was the safest route to go anyway.
“Pretty normal childhood, I guess. My father is a successful lawyer. My mother is a high-profile executive for a marketing company. No siblings. We come from old money, and pretty much everyone knows who we are within a thousand mile radius of our house. I’ve always been kind of a loner, so not many friends. The ones I do have are busy in college making new friends. I’ve only ever worked two jobs: one as a cashier at a boutique and one as a file organizer for my father's office. Neither lasted long, since I have zero taste in style and am actually quite terrible at organizing.”
I droned on and on, saying as much as I could without really saying anything at all. They wouldn’t get the deepest parts of me here. Then they’d truly think I was crazy.
“Sounds like a pretty good life to me,” Dr. Park stated sincerely. “So tell us why you ended up with us.”
My throat turned dry and clenched tightly. I hadn’t taken into account that giving just the mundane details would bring suspicion on how I ended up here. How would someone with such a normal, uninteresting life end up in a place like this?
Stupid, Lydia. So stupid.
“Uh… ” I said numbly.
How do I explain?
“There’s no judgement here, Lydia. You can share,” he encouraged.
I stiffened in my seat. There was nothing wrong with his words, it was the way he said it that set me on edge. It was as if he were prodding me to reveal a secret he was in on. He stared at me unblinkingly, giving me a very uncomfortable, tingling feeling up my spine.
I swallowed hard and my breathing picked up speed, giving away my panic. I scrambled to think of something to say before I suddenly remembered the lie I’d told Dr. Ferrer.
“Even people with normal, safe lives get stressed. I had a nervous breakdown and threw a chair through a window at a café. I hadn’t been sleeping well, and it got the best of me,” I rambled off quickly.
Dr. Park raised a brow, eyeing me skeptically. I tightened my lips and looked away from him, hoping my body language showed him I was no longer in the mood to speak.
Thankfully, he proceeded on to the next person. I let out a quiet breath, feeling myself relax now that I wasn’t under his scrutiny.
I was beyond ready to get out of there.
* * *
Getting out of group therapy was like a splash of cold water on a hot, summer day. The relief I felt at escaping that room was indescribable.
I always looked forward to arts and crafts, but today even more so than usual since it meant putting distance between the ever-creepy Dr. Park and me. Even James The Pencil Stabber, who—after his ban was lifted—somehow always managed to have art with me, despite the rotating schedules, wasn’t enough to spoil my anticipation.
I smiled when I stepped into the room and took a moment to admire it. It was much better lit than any of the other rooms inside the facility, or at least what I’d seen of it so far, so I tried to sit near the windows for a little vitamin D. It also didn’t have that asylum feel to it, which was a nice change. Instead of pale blue walls and fluorescent lighting, the walls were covered in paintings, drawings, and an assortment of crafts, made by the more talented artists that had come through here. Soft, yellow light from studio-style light fixtures just added to the warm, inviting brightness.
Today was a special day. I’d heard the other patients whispering about it during group showers. Today we weren’t stuck with children’s coloring books or glue and uncooked macaroni. Instead, easels with blank canvases were set up in rows with small bar stools set in front of each one. There were a couple of orderlies and a few patients already in the room, but an easel set up directly under one of the windows was available. I made a beeline to it and picked up the plastic tray of paints already set up to be used.
I was never much of an artist. I wasn’t terrible, but I definitely wouldn’t be mistaken as the next Van Gogh. Still, I really enjoyed it. I’d taken some art classes in high school as electives, and occasionally pulled out a sketchbook, but it wasn’t something I did religiously. It was the quiet, soothing feeling I got from just painting or drawing whatever was in my mind at the moment that I coveted. This, to me, was true therapy.
I went to work painting a beach scene. Cerulean ocean waves crashed against tan, textured sand. An umbrella and a towel sat close to the water, with a faceless person sitting there. I imagined that was me—free and warm, soaking up the sun with the sand between my toes. All that was missing was a hot guy serving me delicious finger food on a platter. I chuckled softly to myself.
I glanced away from my painting for a second, only to do a double take. My eyes had fallen on a canvas two down from mine. A guy with dark auburn hair swiped his brush across the canvas furiously.
What he was making was breathtaking, to say the least.
A perfectly detailed and extremely realistic landscape of the Eiffel Tower in Paris at night. Had I not been watching him, I would’ve sworn it was a picture he’d taken, not a painting.
The buildings beneath the tower were illuminated. Smoke billowed out of chimneys. Stars twinkled in the sky above, almost seeming to glitter and shine. Detail after exquisite detail left me stunned and speechless. I tried to say something, but all that came out was a light gasp.
Apparently, my gasp wasn’t as quiet as I’d thought.
The guy painting it suddenly stopped. He lowered his brush and turned his head to look at me. I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment at being caught staring but could not look away. He had the most enchantingly unique eyes I’d ever seen. They were a pale, silver green, rimmed in deep grey and encircled with lashes so dark and thick it looked like he was wearing makeup. His lips were soft and perfect, and his jawline was sharply squared and covered in five o’clock shadow.
He lifted a thick brow at me, his expression both smug and guarded. When he saw the awe on my face, the defensiveness left and his eyes twinkled with amusement. A slow, devastatingly sexy smile overtook his full lips, and he winked at me before turning back to his painting and continuing his work.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
What is up with these random, good looking guys popping up in this place?
I guessed what they said was true.
The hot ones were always taken, gay, or crazy.
Guess which ones I’d found.