The Fallout (The Therapist #3) - W.S. Greer Page 0,6

literally shake my head as I step into the kitchen and pass the spot on the tile where a puddle had formed after Ava came all over me, and I approach my liquor cabinet.

Without even thinking of changing clothes first or turning on the TV, I pull the cabinet door open and grab a bottle of Vanilla Crown Royal. This has become my drink of choice lately, and when I grab the bottle of Sprite from the fridge, my mouth literally starts to water in anticipation of the taste. I place the soda and liquor bottles side by side, and step over to the right to reach for the cabinet where I keep my glasses.

When I open the cabinet, I see an array of shot glasses and tumblers. I have a particular tumbler I always drink out of, and I always put the tumbler back in the same place. I never even put it into the dishwasher. I scrub it by hand, dry it off, and set it back in its exact place. This repetitiveness that borders on OCD is the reason I frown when I see my favorite tumbler turned to the side. It’s only a slight change—just a smidge off, maybe a seven or eight degree turn off of perfection.

“Damn,” I whisper to myself. “All this tension has me acting out of character. Goddamn I miss Ava.”

Before thoughts of Ava pull me back down into the darkness, I grab the glass and fill it with ice, followed by liquor and a splash of Sprite. Leaving the Crown and soda bottles on the counter, I walk back into the living room and sit down on the couch, before kicking my shoes off and lifting my feet onto the cushions next to me.

This couch will be my sanctuary tonight. Tomorrow, I will have a first session with new clients, and I’ll try to figure out how to treat them. Tonight, however, I will have a drink and try to figure out how I would therapize myself.

5

~ Malcolm ~

If a challenge were personified, it would look just like the two people sitting in front of me right now. Demi and Eli Lane sit on the couch across from me with a two foot gap between them. The looks on their faces aren’t happy expressions. This is what sadness and dissatisfaction looks like. I have no idea what will come out of their mouths, but their bodies are telling me a sad, painful story.

Eli lane is a good looking guy. He’s burly, with a confidence that floats off of him like steam. He’s wearing blue slacks and a white button-up with blue buttons. He’s very masculine, somewhat of a man’s man, and I imagine he plays the part well. His face is blank, while his eyes carry a ton of weight in them. He looks like he’s trying to hold back how he’s feeling, but he can't keep it from pouring out of his eyes.

For whatever reason, Eli looks at me like he’s already annoyed before any conversation has even begun. He’s prepared to get up and leave the room, but a small part of him is begging for help. The large man leans forward with his elbows on his knees, waiting for me to start things off, and I can't tell if he’s hungry for this to go well or for it to completely fall apart so he can leave. I’m anxious to hear what words come out of his mouth first.

Demi Lane’s face says the other side of the story. She’s a pretty woman: maybe five-foot seven, a hundred forty-five pounds, with light brown hair, and a round face and a dimple in her chin. She has the type of face that would look beautiful when she smiles, but she rarely gets the chance. The stress she seems to be going through has put dark circles under her eyes, but Demi is trying to maintain. Her makeup is perfectly applied, and she’s trying to hold her head up high, but it’s being weighed down by an invisible man’s hand. As I watch her, Demi’s eyes keep bouncing from me to the floor.

“Good evening,” I begin with a smile. I’ll have to be careful about how I approach this session. It feels like a fuse has already been lit between them, so I have to be cautious not to cause an explosion. “I usually like for my new patients to begin by telling me what brought them in to see me.