Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“Wait. It’s Sunday,” I realize with a wince. The pre-season just started and I feel bad for missing a game. “Didn’t you play today?”
“I did. Kicked the New York Leopards ass and thank you very much for not listening on your drive. It is on the radio as well as TV. We are Big Game winners.” He can brag—he has the two rings to back it up.
“Yeah, well, I had to suffer through show tunes all the way to Darling Springs, so this is information that would have been helpful a few hours ago.”
“Someone is prickly,” Carter observes as I near Main Street. “What crawled into your coffee this morning?”
“Good question,” I grumble, then I sigh as I brake at a stop sign, trying to breathe out some of my irritation.
There’s a long pause, then Carter says, like a light bulb has clicked on, “Oh, shit. You just realized you’re hot for Juliet.”
“What? No.” Is he a mind reader?
“Yeah. You did. And it’s making you mad.” He laughs, a deep, rich sound. I can hear him flop down on a couch. “The drive to your hometown was like a trip back in time, and you realized you haven’t forgotten that week long ago.”
“Why did I ever tell you about that?” I mutter as I take a right onto Main Street.
“Why don’t you ask yourself that, Doctor?” he says.
But I know the answer. After my residency in New York City, I met Elizabeth, another psychiatrist. We went into practice together, fell in love while working late nights, bonding over the field we both loved, then got married. Trouble was, a year into our marriage, I grew disillusioned with psychiatry and the limited medical solutions it offered and became interested in the complexities of the human heart and mind. I wanted to change to clinical work, instead.
She said she felt abandoned.
I said I was leaving psychiatry, not her.
Then she said I already worked too much, invested too much time in patients, and that it was only going to get worse as a therapist.
And, oh, also, she wasn’t in love with me anymore.
So yeah, that didn’t work out.
“Anyway,” I say, now with a sigh. “It’s all fine. It’s just fine. I can handle it like I handle everything.”
“Yeah?” Carter asks.
“Yeah.” I’m grateful he doesn’t press. “So, what’s going on?” I ask as I pull over near Clementine’s, a new tapas bar in town. I looked it up in advance, betting Juliet would like it.
“Mostly I just wanted to know where you want me to leave all your Well-Groomed Man of the Month supplies.”
I groan. I’d forgotten that was arriving today.
“Like, should I unpack them and set them up on the vanity so they’re ready for you? Looks like”—he pauses, gearing up to mock me—“shaving cream, cologne, and fancy soap in here.”
“Kitchen is fine,” I mutter.
“You sure? I want to provide excellent service as your building concierge during your trip.”
“Fuck off,” I say.
“But wait. Should I sign up for this too? I mean, this shit is cool. It’s all cruelty-free and plant-based, the box says.”
“Yes, try it sometime.” Why did I ask him to pick up my things? Oh, right. Because the building management hates it when shit piles up.
“I think I will. Also, good luck with your crush, man. That can’t be easy.”
I appreciate the acknowledgement. But it’s not a crush. Nope. “It’s just nostalgia, that’s all. I’ll be fine.”
He chuckles. “Whatever you say.”
We end the call, and I get out of the car, grateful that I’ve gotten some breathing room from the house. I roll my shoulders, loosening my muscles before I head inside, where I grab a brushed metal stool at the bar. The counter looks like it’s made of reclaimed wood. The walls are warm, exposed brick. I like the vibe, and it’s a new spot, so the proprietor probably won’t know me. Perfect. I’ll order some food, bring it back to Juliet, and it’ll be a fresh start. And while I wait, I’ll read my book on how to help clients who over-research everything on the Internet.
That’ll be all I’ll need to unwind.
The woman behind the bar strides my way. She has a pierced lip and a closely shaved head. Bracelets jangle up and down the deep brown skin of her arms. With a confident tilt of her head, she says, “I’m Clem, and you look like you need a drink.”
I laugh mirthlessly. “That obvious?”
She holds up a thumb and forefinger. “Only a little.”
“And I was hoping I appeared less tense.”
“If you want to be less tense, I highly recommend the spicy olive mix. Locally grown olives with farm-to-table chili peppers. A little olive oil and salt takes your mind off the day.”
“I’m sold. But no drink. I’m driving. I’ll place an order for takeout.”
“Sounds good,” she says and taps the placard with the QR code to start an order. “I’ll get those olives fired up.”