Her eyebrows popped up. She pulled a shot glass from beneath the counter and filled it with vodka. I downed it, cringing at the burn before nodding for another.
She obliged. “That bad, huh?”
“Not a great day.”
“You’re not from around here, are you?” she asked, filling my glass again.
“Actually,” I said with an ironic laugh. “I grew up here. Five miles east. My mom still lives here. I came back…” I stopped myself. My mom didn’t need her business spread around. She didn’t need everyone to know she’d gotten in a serious accident two weeks ago that resulted in surgery, persistent concussion symptoms, and an unknown recovery time. Hell, maybe the whole town already knew. They probably did. And yet still, I finished with “To see her.” I downed my second shot.
“Enjoy your visit,” she said, raising the bottle to pour me another.
I held up my hand. “How about a beer? Do you have anything local?”
She nodded and left to fill that order.
“You said no then?” asked one of the preppy guys next to me. Not to me. To the other guy. They were both very attractive. The one closest to me in a boy-next-door way, with soft brown curls and a friendly demeanor. The other had thick, dark hair, perfectly clear olive skin, and full lips. He wasn’t the boy next door. He was very… pretty. But in a villain sort of way.
“I said, why would I go to therapy if there’s nothing wrong with me?” Maybe he wasn’t asboy next dooras he looked.
I almost snorted. That vodka was going to my head quicker than I anticipated. I probably should’ve eaten something first. I couldn’t remember when or what I’d eaten today. A granola bar? Ten hours ago?
Maybe I did snort because Mr. I’m Perfect Therefore Don’t Need Therapy gave me a sideways glance. I lowered my head, staring into my empty shot glass.
“Exactly,” Villain Pretty Boy said.
“Let me guess, you’re a pro therapy person,” Mr. Perfect said.
It took me several beats to realize he was talking to me. Had I snorted again?
“What? Not my business,” I said.
“No, please, you’re obviously listening.”
“I just think everyone can benefit from therapy is all.”
He sighed. “You see, that’s my problem. If you thinkeveryoneneeds it, then it’s not exactly a remedy for anything, is it?”
“I didn’t say everyoneneededit. I said everyone could benefit from it.”
“That’s how they get you. They create this narrative that the world would be better with therapy. It’s a gimmick, a scam.”
“Who isthey?” I asked, turning on my barstool to face him more fully, just as the bartender slid a glass full of amber liquid in front of me, the white foam on top nearly sloshing over the edge.
“The therapists,” he answered.
“Obviously,” Villain Pretty Boy said. There was a teasing gleam in his eye, and I couldn’t tell if it was because he washumoring his friend or because he, too, found the idea of therapy laughable.
“Who wants you to go to therapy?” I asked. “Your mom?”
This time Villain Pretty Boy outright laughed.
Mr. Perfect scowled. “No, my fiancée. Couples therapy, before we get married.”
“And this is too hard of an ask for you?” I said, my voice full of sarcasm. If this guy couldn’t accomplish this straightforward request, what other things would he attempt to avoid in their marriage? She needed to run. Or maybe that was my recent breakup speaking. Iwasfeeling extra bitter right now.
“I could do it,” he said. “Humor her. But the way a marriage starts is going to dictate the entirety of it.”
“So youdoget the point then,” I said.
