“Drive me fucking insane.”
Both Cage and I laughed.
“She’s a therapist,” Cage winked at Flint.
“Aannd… therapists make too much noise how?”
Flint sighed. “She’s amusictherapist.”
My eyes narrowed. “That’s a thing?”
He held his coffee with one hand, gulping it down, as he loosened his tie with the other hand. “Apparently.”
“Flint had a mile-long list of businesses that he would not allow to rent the space, but?—”
“But I couldn’t exclude some fucking profession that I didn’t know existed, in the agreement.”
“So, what are we talking? Piano? Guitar?”
“Depends on the day. Drums today.”
“I don’t see the problem.” I shoved more crispy rice into my mouth. “If she didn’t disclose her profession?—”
“She did.” Cage laughed. “But Flint didn’t think to ask what exactly a music therapist does because he was too busy ogling her tits.”
“Cage!”
He shrugged. “Flint’s words not mine.”
Flint pulled out the drawer to the recycling bin and tossed his bottle into it. “Therapist. Just the word implies lots of silence and a few quietly spoken words. I assumed a music therapist…” he rubbed the back of his neck “…I don’t know… let patients lie on an expensive leather sofa and listen to classical music, wearing noise-canceling headphones. Not autistic kids banging on bongos.”
“Sounds like a cool profession.”
Both Flint and Cage glared at me.
“What? It does.” How was I the only one in the room perceptive enough to see the obvious? “Harrison loves music. Maybe you should send him to see her for therapy.”
“My son doesn’t need therapy,” Flint said in a huffy voice.
“He does because his father has signed him up for every possible sport, yet, all he wants to do is play music.” My nose wrinkled. “I know you hate it when I say this, but I think Harrison is a musical genius—a prodigy.”
“He spent three very influential years of his life being raised by my single, ex-mother-in-law. She enrolled him in dance class. If he needs therapy, it’s to channel the testosterone in his body.”
“Says the guy who concocted his own herbal, anti-itch salvefor Shayna when she had the chicken pox.”
“I’m well-rounded. Harrison can play Bach and pirouette around the living room, but he can’t make a free throw or catch a football to save his life.”
“I don’t think his lack of athletic ability is a life-or-death situation. Right, baby?”
Cage’s gaze flitted between us. “I think it’s time for Jeffrey to come home.”
He jabbed his thumb toward the door. “I’ll let you two work this out.”
“Coward.”
“Just smart,” he called before the door shut behind him.
Flint and I stared at each other for a few seconds before we both chuckled. “Feels like the old days.”
