Perfectly Flawed by Nessa Morgan Read Free Book Online

while talking about classes and the
usual things. Luckily, she doesn’t mention anything about her
classmate—that means she hasn’t heard anything. I strongly doubt
she could keep anything about Ryder Harrison and me to herself,
even if nothing has, or ever will, happen.
    Somehow, during our friendship, we’ve grown
apart. It was expected, really. Jamie is one of those girls that
glide around school on a perfect fluffy cloud with her boyfriend
attached to her arm and a trail of minions, oops, I mean friends,
following closely behind.
    Instantly, the conversation lulls and we’re
in silence, quickly running out of things to talk about. It’s a
comfortable silence, and we’re used to it, there’s only so much I
can tolerate talking about Marcus and his hair. Or his muscles. Or
his blinding smile.
    Zephyr joins us, briefly heading home before
he has to drive back for football practice. I walk through the
front door and run up the stairs to dump my bag and books on my bed
before I head to therapy. I grab the keys from the ugly ceramic
bowl by the front door, call up to my aunt in her room just to let
her know that I’ve blown through the house, and head out.
    ***
    The windows don’t glint in the late afternoon
sun when I pull into the sparsely filled parking lot. It’s rarely
crowded when I arrive so parking is never crazy. No pun
intended . Usually my car’s the only vehicle in the lot. Today
it has the company of an aged Ford truck past its prime and more
rusted than its original navy blue, a new yellow Mercedes, and a
1970s era Volkswagen Beetle that has seen way better days.
My car, or my aunt’s car, is an SUV from the early 2000s. I have no
idea the make, model, or year, and I don’t really care. I never
cared. I’m not a car girl. I don’t know the first thing about them.
All that matters to me is that I have a license— check! —and
access to a working vehicle that can get me from Point A to Point
B. Today, Point B happens to be the local psychiatric center.
    Goody, goody gum drops.
    I let Vivian, the middle-aged receptionist
that needs to touch up her graying roots if she wants everyone to
believe that she is a natural redhead, know I’m here. She smiles at
me—her wrinkling face crinkling more with her polite toothy
grin—and I return it just to be polite in return. Like always. It’s
not long before I am sitting in Dr. Jett’s office, in the plush
brown recliner across from her, focusing on various knickknacks and
things placed around her room. Scenic landscape on the wall across
from me, neat and organized desk in the corner of the room covered
with family photographs, paperwork, and business cards, an Apple
laptop with a black screen sitting open on the desk, a box of
tissues on the table that separates me from Dr. Jett; I stare at
these things every session every month. Watching everything evolve
with time throughout my years as her patient. Especially the doctor
herself.
    When I first walked into her office—cowering
behind my aunt, obviously—I was eight. She was fresh out of school
and excited to be my doctor. And I mean overly excited. “My name is
Caroline Jett,” she told me with perky enthusiasm, shaking my tiny
hand vigorously. Back then, she was different; her blonde hair
curled wildly, framing her face in a naturally fluffy cloud, and
she wore mostly comfortable work clothes. She wasn’t fancy and I
usually forgot that she was a doctor, or psychiatrist. At some
point, she was pregnant with her first child. That was when I
learned that she was married. After that, she started dressing more
professionally and styled her hair differently, less wild.
    I still don’t know what spurred the change
and I never wanted to ask.
    Dr. Jett, throughout the time that I’ve know
her, tried her hardest to seem like my friend in the beginning. She
tried to get me to trust her. It was useless; I didn’t trust anyone
easily. I still don’t.
    Makes sense, right?
    Still, she tried. I didn’t