She smiles. “It is for people I find crying in my parking lot.”
A surprised laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
I bite my lip, considering. The thought of walking in that building and sitting on a sofa crying about my life isn’t really something I’m looking forward to.
“Okay,” I say finally.
Putting the car in park, I step out and shut the door behind me.
Only then do I realize I forgot my phone at Simone’s.
It won’t matter anyway. It’s not like Logan will care much about where I am right now. Still, it feels strange to be without it, like leaving the house without a bra.
Thankfully, I always carry some cash.
I just hope it’s enough to cover this impromptu therapy lunch.
Claudia leads me across the street to a little diner tucked between two office buildings. It’s one of those retro places with a jukebox in the corner and staff wearing pink polka-dotted uniforms. Some nineties song I vaguely recognize hums through the speakers.
I must be staring, because she glances at my dubious expression and smiles.
“I know it looks a little questionable,” she says, “but trust me. Best food in the area.”
Deciding I don’t really have a better plan, I put my faith in her judgment and follow her to a booth by the window.
When the waiter comes over, I just order whatever Claudia orders, a cheeseburger and fries. I’m not usually this indulgent, but I also haven’t eaten anything all day.
As we wait, I awkwardly stare out the window at the cars passing by, suddenly very aware that I’m sitting with a total stranger who somehow convinced me to have lunch with her.
Claudia clears her throat gently.
I turn back to find her watching me with that same calm, patient smile.
“This is usually the part where you tell me what’s wrong,” she says.
I shift in my seat. “Don’t you get tired of listening to other people’s problems? I mean… it’s your break.”
Her expression doesn’t change. “If I didn’t want to listen, I wouldn’t have invited you.”
Then she tilts her head slightly. “But I can already tell you don’t really believe in therapy.”
“What?” I blurt. “No, I do. I mean, yeah. For people who need it. You know, like PTSD and stuff.”
“What’s ‘stuff’?” she asks mildly.
I shrug. “I don’t know. Hard times.”
“And are you having a hard time?” she asks.
I give her a tight smile. She’s good.
I lick my suddenly dry lips and take a sip of water, grateful when the waiter arrives with our food and gives me a moment to breathe.
Claudia unwraps her burger like this is just another ordinary lunch.
I watch her for a second, then blurt out the truth before I can overthink it.
“I… uh… cheated on my husband.”
