Gemotions

The waiting room smelled of antiseptic and something vaguely floral, both scents doing nothing to soothe the tightness in Liam’s chest. He tapped his foot, the faux leather of the chair squeaking in protest. He hadn’t expected this. Not *him*. Liam hadn’t seen Mark since the last day of high school, when he'd sworn to never lay eyes on the man again. Now, here he was, staring at the receptionist’s perfectly coiffed hair, trying to decide whether to walk out or finally, finally, unleash the years of buried resentment.

His palms were slick. He rubbed them against his jeans, a futile attempt to dry them. The name on the door read, “Mark Olsen, MA, LPC.” Liam felt a surge of… something. A churning in his stomach, a desire to smash the framed diplomas adorning the wall. He gripped the armrest, knuckles white. He would go through with this. He had to. He’d come too far to back down now.