“Yes, right.”
“I guess you didn’t do all of your homework. You’re not a big football fan, are you?”
“Not really, Mr. Warner.”
“And I guess your boyfriend is into basketball or hockey, then?”
“What does my boyfriend have to do with whether I know about football?”
“So you have one?”
“Have what?”
“A boyfriend?”
“Mr. Warner,” I sigh in exasperation.
“Call me Dak,” he says with a panty-dropping grin that reveals a dimple in his left cheek that I didn’t realize he had until this very minute. It only adds to his attractiveness.
I watch quietly as he inspects from afar the three photos I have in silver frames of varying sizes on the ledge behind my desk. There’s a picture of me and Pat, me and my nephew Nathan (Pat’s son), and Butters. John doesn’t approve of me having personal photos in a clinical setting, but I find that it helps clients identify with my humanity. They see me as a real person and not some sort of all-knowing emotional soothsayer.
“Is that your son?” he asks, focusing on Nate’s photograph.
“No, my nephew.”
Suddenly he stands up, startling me.
“May I have a closer look?” he asks.
“Um, sure.”
In my time at this practice, no one has ever asked me about my photos. As he walks over toward my desk, I find myself holding my breath as his arm brushes dangerously close to my shoulder. I awkwardly scoot my desk chair to the right to avoid any direct contact with the massive mound of muscle who smells faintly like burnt vanilla and soap.
“Do you have any kids?” he asks.
“No, I don’t,” I respond in an inexplicably raspy voice.
“Do you like kids?”
“That’s a personal question, Dak.”
I’ve never been sure about having my own kids. Maybe because I’d never want to take the chance of abandoning them the way my parents involuntarily left me. What if they died when we were much younger? What would have become of us then?
My sister has always been the braver one between the two of us. I’m in awe of the perfectly normal life she’s managed to create for herself after such a traumatic loss we both experienced. But I simply not sure if I’m up to the challenge. People leave. People die. It hasn’t just happened to me once, but twice. Why would I want to subject a tiny human to that kind of pain?
“He looks about the same age as Bella,” he says.
“Can I ask you something, Dak?”
“You’re the therapist. Shoot.”
“Did your daughter witness what happened between you and Mr. McCall last week?”
His face drops.
And he takes his seat again with a slightly defeated posture.
“Fortunately, my five-year-old doesn’t watch my football games,” he says solemnly. “She’s more interested in her books.”
