But she’d mentioned therapy too.
She’d said, “If you’re interested, you can find a list of in-network therapists. Or, if you have someone out of network you’d preferto see, you can submit a claim to your insurance, and they should reimburse a portion of it.”
He hadn’t had a therapist at the time, hadn’t evenconsideredgetting one when he barely had enough money to put gas in his car and still have enough left over to feed himself.
But the idea had stuck in his head and with a couple of paychecks in his account, he’d found himself browsing Boston-based therapists one evening in his new studio apartment.
He’d nixed the religious ones, the ones focused on women, the ones for couples—obviously none of those applied to him—but when he’d skimmed Harlan’s bio, he’d paused, his gaze lingering on the line,After serving seven years in prison, Harlan completed his Associate of Arts degree with a Sociology Concentration from Bunker Hill Community College, his Bachelor of Science in Psychology from University of Massachusetts Amherst, and his PsyD in Clinical Psychology from Boston University.
The guy was an ex-con.
And the more Thad read, the more interested he grew.Harlan’s wrongful conviction led to various state-level judicial reforms and his work with the Innocence Project has created a passion for working with formerly incarcerated men. By creating a therapeutic environment where formerly incarcerated persons can heal from the trauma of the carceral system, he hopes to empower them to reach their fullest potential.
Thad had felt the words like a blow to the chest. It left him feeling oddly shaky, gasping for air and surprised by the emotion thickening his throat.
Hewantedthat. He wanted it more than he could put into words. And maybe, just maybe, this guy Harlan was the key.
For a few days, Thad had debated contacting him, but he kept returning to the bio and the picture of the broad-shouldered, white-haired Black man with kind eyes.
Eventually, he’d reached out, set up an appointment for a brief consultation, and nearly bailed on it.
The intake form hadn’t really allowed Thad to elaborate on his prison experience, so as he’d sat in Harlan’s office and told his story, he’d watched the man’s bushy white eyebrows climb higher and higher on his forehead, wondering if he’d made a mistake.
Harlan had told him, in the deep resonant voice he had, that he didn’t typically work with men like him.
Thad wasn’t sure what he meant at first.
“Your experience as a white man is different,” Harlan had said in that measured tone of his. “And if we are going to move forward, I’ll need you to do some work to understand it has given you privilege the Black community isn’t offered.”
Thad had nodded, agreeing.
“But mostly …” Harlan had given him a disbelieving look as he shook his head. “I need you to acknowledge that while it doesn’t negate any of the trauma you experienced while incarcerated, youwalked intowhat many of us were forced into.”
“I get that,” Thad said hoarsely. “I know—I know my decision seems a little, well, fucking batshit crazy to you, but uh, hockey players are kinda nuts and?—”
Harlan had laughed. He’d let out a deep belly laugh of genuine amusement. That had been the first glimmer of a professional connection between them. They’d talked some more, and in the end, he’d agreed to take Thad on as a client.
Harlan’s office offered a sliding pay scale and worked scheduling around his travel with the team, so for nearly a year now, Thad had been seeing him for an hour every two weeks.
And still, when the tall, beautiful mahogany-skinned receptionist called his name today, his stomach dropped to his toes.
“Thanks, Joi,” he said as he passed her desk and walked down the hall to Harlan’s office.
She smiled warmly at him, and it didn’t do a thing to make him feel any less anxious about what he needed to talk about today with Harlan.
After he’d shaken Harlan’s hand and settled onto the comfortable green tweed couch and Harlan was seated in his matching chair a few feet away, Thad felt even more antsy.
“What would you like to discuss today?” Harlan asked.
“I don’t like the fact that—that I’m lying to my boyfriend,” Thad said, glaring across the small, cozy room.
Harlan Sparks raised an eyebrow, used to Thad’s glare by now. “What are you lying to Graham about?”
Thad crossed his arms. “Well, my history.”
His thick white eyebrow rose even higher. “I was under the impression you’d told him about your incarceration.”
“No, not that. He knew about that when we were still … buddies.”
