It was the only answer I had available. I couldn't tell her about my very blonde, very bratty catastrophe. Not unless I wanted to see Nick blow his top, which he would, because this was the stupid kind of catastrophe I should've known better than to run straight into with open arms.
She nodded. "That tracks."
I gestured to her screen. "What's new in geological climate science?"
"Old rocks, new data. Same shit, different day, you know?" She closed her laptop. "You look tired."
"Thanks. You're a good friend to insult me to my face." I glanced at Nick. He was busy moving around the kitchen, a dish towel draped over his shoulder and a bottle of beer within arm's reach. "Group therapy is exhausting."
"Probably because you're not allowed to get away with all your bullshit," Nick said. "And believe me, I'm fuckin' thrilled it's Shap calling you on it."
"Why?"
"Because she's this sweet little thing—"
"There isnothingsweet about her," I said.
"—and you hulk around like fuckin' Dracula—"
"Okay now that's just ridiculous. I have a great tan." I shoved up my sleeves and presented my arms as evidence. "See? I blink at the sun and I look like this for the year. Nothing pale. Nothing shimmery. Not a vampire."
Acevedo gave me a flat stare.
"You do have a tendency to hulk around, though it reads more as Edgar Allan Poe and his raven to me than vampire," Erin said. "I think we're focusing more on vibe than skin tone, you know?"
"If you say so," I replied.
Erin had a way of staring at people and seeing into the stitching of their souls. She could flip through a mind like it was a book written in a language only she spoke and she did it in a manner that left you thanking her profusely for the intrusion.
"I know it's not the therapy aspect that bothers you," she mused, giving me a narrowed study through her tortoise-rimmed glasses.
She was right about that. I'd been through plenty of therapy. One of the many things Erin and I had in common. Another thing—we were both fucked-up kids living in adult bodies and pretending we had any clue what we were doing.
"Although it's therapy with a person you don't know very well but have had difficult interactions with so I guess that could be tough," she went on. "What's happening in your sessions?"
"We had to put a jigsaw puzzle together using only the cardboard side of the pieces." I ran a hand through my hair. "Last week, we had to juggle."
"Juggle? Like"—she bounced her hands in front of her—"juggling juggle?"
I blew out a miserable sigh. "We had to talk while we tossed things back and forth. It got a little out of hand."
Erin nodded slowly. "That seems to be happening a lot these days. How's Sara doing?"
"How the hell should I know?" I asked with way,waytoo much firepower.
"Remember who you're talking to," Nick warned. "If you're a dickhead to my wife, I'm sending you home without dinner."
Erin shot an amused grin in her husband's direction. "You know I can handle this, right?"
I didn't even care that I was an object in need of handling. Didn't have a single fuck to give, because my whole life was fucked. Sara was everywhere. At work, in my building, with my friends, inside my head, everywhere. And now I knew what she felt like. How she tasted. How she fell apart for me.
The only answer was avoidance yet I was expected to see her this weekend and—what? Not kill her the second she opened her mouth? Not kiss her simply to shut her up? Not touch her just to prove to myself she wasn't as good as the memories?
"Speaking of Sara," Erin said, "I need you to do something for me."
I rubbed my eyes because that could not be right. I was hallucinating—and I was cool with that. Far better than my present helping of reality.
"Anything," I murmured from behind my hands.
