“Nothing.” Brooks does his best to sound bored, but his gnarly smile deceives him.
“Whatever,” I huff, collapsing into my seat. “Thanks for my lat—hey!What the hell is this?” Instead of the usual heart or leaf latte art, a foam penis floats on top of my honey lavender latte.
Brooks bursts out laughing, along with Raj, who’s standing behind the counter arranging croissants on a platter.
“You are no longer my favorite barista, Raj!” I shout over my shoulder, but when I turn back to Brooks, I’m snickering too.
“You said you had a shitty writing day yesterday. I figured you could use the laugh.”
“You’re evil.” I blow him a kiss.
Brooks and I have a good thing going. We met back when he was in songwriting. While he still occasionally writes songs, his focus is screenwriting—the script he’s been working on gives major Shondaland vibes. We meet at least once a week and spend our first few minutes together asking one another if what we wrote is worthy or utter shit. On days I don’t see Brooks, I send him screenshots of pages, usually accompanied by texts like:IS THIS STUPID? YES OR NO?He always gives it to me straight. He pushes me in ways I would never do myself. In return, I support him through his impostor syndrome.
“What are you working on today?” I ask as I snap a pic of thepenis art (quite impressive, Raj). I text the image to Tyler, then silence my phone to avoid distractions.
“I’m going to comb through the text for grammar issues. I know, super boring, but I don’t want to look like an illiterate idiot when I send it out,” Brooks replies. “What about you? Is it ayouday or athemday?”
There is a distinction between the two. While I am writing a book, I also freelance as a copy editor.
“It’s athemday.” I sigh. “Gotta pay the bills.” I once heard that to be a good writer, a person should also be a good reader. So while copy editing has polished my craft, I still find myself being sucked into an unhealthy ‘why is everyone getting published but me?’ vortex.
Also, it’s often said that a book that hasn’t been written can’t be published. Dammit.
It’s a constant battle, a tug-of-war, editing work for others versus writing my own. I’m forever indebted to people like Brooks who know exactly what to say to keep me both motivated and humble.
I place my laptop on the table just as Raj sets down a cranberry-orange scone, my favorite.
“A maple leaf for my favorite brown-eyed girl.” His smile lights up his whole face.
“A what?” I tilt my head up and blink at him.
“You know, to say I’m sorry for my offensive art.” He winks.
“Oh!” I slap a hand to my mouth to stifle a laugh, but I’m not quick enough. “I think you mean an olive branch.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Raj says, turning and heading to his spot behind the counter. “You try learning English as a second language.”
Loud enough for all to hear, I shout, “Thanks for my morning cock!”
2
Josefine
“Doyou want to talk about it?” Brooks asks from behind his coffee mug.
It’s a question I’ve heard hundreds of times throughout the years—spoken to me twelve years ago, after my father died. First by my Aunt Rachel, then many times by a handful of therapists. But, oddly, never by my mother. For so long, I despised that question.
The first two therapists I saw were lovely people, but during every session, they asked me some variation of “Do you want to talk about it?” While my insides were screamingYes!my responses included a plethora of shrugs, awkward silences, and grunts. Even at ten, I worried about saying the “wrong thing” in therapy. I’d seen more than a few movies that included patients lying on leather sofas to know that therapists cataloged every word spoken. Too afraid that I wouldn’t do therapy “the right way,” I said nothing at all. After barely any progress, I was pawned off on yet another therapist—a woman named Sora.
When Aunt Rachel drove me to my first session with Sora, I was surprised to see that her office was a bungalow near thebeach rather than a drab room in a stale office building. A small collection of wind chimes framed the entrance, and cloud-patterned drapes covered her windows. A calico cat sunbathed on a rainbow doormat that readAll Are Welcome. The cat woke with a start and quickly disappeared inside when Sora opened the door.
She bent to my eye level when she introduced herself. Her smiling lips were coated in a clear gloss and her short nails were painted a summery yellow. A zillion gold bracelets covered a floral tattoo on her forearm—their clinking harmonized with the wind chimes outside. She offered me a beverage from the mini fridge by the door, and I accepted a fruit punch Capri Sun.
Sora recommended a café around the corner to my aunt and politely said we would see her in an hour. After Aunt Rachel hugged me, Sora directed me into her office. While a modest desk was pushed up against the window-lined back wall, a white leather sofa took up the main space. Colorful tapestries layered across the back gave it a warm, inviting feel. Two yellow beanbag chairs, along with a sea of pillows, sat on top of a plush white rug.
Sora, to my surprise, plopped herself onto one of the beanbag chairs, no yellow legal pad in sight.
One wall was covered in a collage of children’s art that she had arranged into the shape of a rainbow. The bag of beans I settled into crinkled like Rice Krispies beneath me.
