She ignores it. “How about the incident with your team? This is connected, too.”
I sigh. “We’ve talked about that a million times. I know where that comes from. After my parents died, after all the shit with Jake… I need to test the people I find important to me. I need them to prove themselves.”
She nods. “What do you think you can do to adjust this type of behavior?”
“I have no idea. Why don’t you tell me?”
There is a beat of silence as she looks at me through the screen, her eyes looking over my face. “Georgia, let me gently point out that you are feeling cornered right now, and you are beginning to exhibit signs of both testing and lashing out at me, too. I’m going to pause our session here.” She scribbles something next to her laptop. “I think that’s something you should sit with this week. Think about some strategies you can employ that would be beneficial for your trust in relationships. Perhaps, as you dig into this, you’ll uncover more about your thought processes, and then you will be able to break your behavioral patterns.”
I obviously procrastinate my therapy homework. I mean, who actually does their therapy homework? Right?! Instead, I think about how I am going to apologize to Oliver with the mother and father of all apologies. I think about how I need to comply with all of his directives, and then some. Maybe even offer to suck hisdick.
Kidding. But I need to make him happy. I need to keep this job.
Unfortunately, I don’t get to see him before I leave for the weekend. I think I see him for a split second outside my door, while Oni is in the middle of a presentation about Nigerian traditions, dressed in a beautifulankara, but I can’t say for sure. But at least he doesn’t storm into my classroom and fire me. And at least it gives me more time to think about how I can take the feedback he gave me about my culture and identity unit and incorporate it in a way that knocks his socks off.
I don’t get too long, though.
Saturdays are Fort Greene farmer’s market days.
Saturdays are when Eloise and I wander over to Fort Greene with two tasks.
The first is to scope out four million dollar brownstones with “For Sale” signs in the front so that I can simultaneously dream about owning one and mope about never being able to own one. Eloise joins me for moral support, because she actually probably can afford one.
The second task is for both of us, and that’s scoping out the celebrities who live in the neighborhood and are known to frequent the farmer’s market.
Actually purchasing fruits and/or vegetables is infrequently a third task, as both of us are pretty whatever about cooking and baking. Eloise doesn’t have the time, and I don’t have the patience. As evidenced by the Undercooked Chicken Fiasco.
I elbow Eloise in the ribs, as we pretend to peruse a table of leafy greens. “I think that’s the guy from Succession,” I whisper at the kale.
She dips her head a centimeter to the left. “Oh shit,” she says. “I think that is him.”
“He’s shorter than I expected him to be.”
“He looks way nicer than his character, too.”
We wander over to a table of tomatoes. I pick one up and pretend to inspect its firmness, confused as to why it is a bright yellow. I get an elbow in the ribs this time.
“I think that’s the guy from Crazy Rich Asians,” she whispers.
“Oh shit. The same one who jumped out of the car trunk naked in The Hangover?”
“No,” she says, poking at what I think is called a leek. “The hot one. The main character. The love interest.”
“Oh, shit.” I’m wearing my reflective sunglasses on purpose, so potential celebs can’t see where my eyes are looking. I don’t want to make them feeluncomfortablewhile I’m ogling them, okay? Celebrities are people, too. I turn my head ever so slightly, giving my eyes a wide berth to search the crowd.
My heart drops. “Oh,shit,” I repeat.
“Right?!” Eloise stage whispers. “He’s much hotter in person!”
“Eloise, that’s…” I panic.
“He’s walking this way,” she whisper-screams.
I drop the yellow tomato, and it hits the sidewalk without a bounce, with more of a splat. “Hey, Mr. Flores,” I croon up at him.
He looks down at me, surprise in his eyes, glowing golden in the autumn sun. “Oh.”
I huff. “It’s me. Georgia Baker.”
