Broken Minds, Mended Hearts

Chapter One

Peter told her she had no choice. Holly had to be shadowed by this journalist. If there was one thing she hated more than Peter, it was journalists. They tended to make psychologists' jobs harder. There had been a recent uptick in exposès about the failings of the mental healthcare system, citing recent statistics on suicide rates and hospitalisations for self-harm and attempted suicides as a reason for the poking and prodding of mental health professionals of all kind just trying their best.

She sat at her desk, writing a care plan for one of her patients. She'd done her best to make her office not look clinical. The two-seater couch was a pastel blue, and her armchair was a mint green placed next to a pastel pink recliner. There was a clear, oval-shaped coffee table between the two seats and couch, with a colourful patterned rug beneath it. She wasn't allowed to paint the office, so she opted to decorate with pastel artwork, neutral decor objects like vases and white cupboards, drawers and desk setup.

She was just starting out clinically, a fresh 26 years old, and already she was exceeding expectations from former professors and current coworkers. She looked like the typical blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman who, at face value, might not seem all that intelligent, but she had applied herself very well in both school and college, and was shooting straight for being the best psychologist within San Francisco, and possibly even in all of California. She was determined to reach her goals. She planned to be well-known by the time she was 28 and anticipated her books to be full by that time.

Even Holly agreed that the support offered for mental health resources was scarce, and at times, subpar. Still, that was no excuse for the utter poaching of mental health workers by members of the press. She was a strong woman, and possibly even a little conceited, too, so she thought of all the ways she could use her psychological knowledge to trick this journalist into dropping their story. It's not like there was a story with her anyway. She only became a psychologist because she watched a young boy take his life as a teen after years of crying out for help. She wanted nothing else but to help revamp the mental health system.

"And that's exactly why I wanted to do this story," a man's voice stated, coming from her now open doorway.

"Excuse me?" she scoffed, partly in shock that he invited himself into her office, partly in confusion as to what he was talking about.

"You were just thinking of ways to manipulate me into not doing my story," he said, chuckling quietly when her mouth gaped. "You're not the only one who's good at reading people. Except I didn't waste eight extra years getting a degree to do it. I'm Will, and I'm presuming you're Holly."

"And I'm presuming you were raised in a barn," Holly said, feigning politeness as she shook his outstretched hand. "Do you walk into everyone's offices without knocking, or am I just special to you?"

He laughed louder this time. "You're a psychologist," he started, "so take that however you'd like."

She raised her eyebrows. "So, you dislike me, I dislike you," she surmised. "This is going to go wonderfully, I'm sure. Take a seat, William."

Will smirked, sitting in the armchair and Holly internally screamed at how much he infuriated her already. Taking a proper look at him as she sat down on the couch, she noted he couldn't be more than a couple of years older than her, though the wear on his face told her that he'd been through it. He was tired, exhausted even, which was shown by the deep purple bags under his eyes. He couldn't have gotten a good night's sleep in years from the looks of it.

"Stop doing that," he snapped, snapping her out of thoughts. "Just ask me what you want to know."

She gulped, shocked at his sudden outburst of irritation. "How old are you?" she asked, shocking both of them.