“What thing?”
“The thing where you run scenarios in your head. I can practically hear you calculating exit strategies.”
“I don’t—” I stop, because my hand is in my hair again, the nervous habit I thought I’d trained out of myself years ago. “Okay. Maybe.”
“There’s no exit strategy, Bennett.” She glances at me, her expression softening. “This isn’t a trap you can think your way out of. It’s just... me. Trying to help.” The word “just” is doing a lot of work in that sentence. Because nothing about Gisele LaRue has ever been “just” anything.
“By ambushing me at dawn.”
“By showing you that I’m serious.” She pulls into the small lot behind Glamboozled, cuts the engine. “You know how you operate. You wait things out. You let the heat die down and then you go back to normal like nothing happened. I’m not letting that happen this time.”
“Fine.” I unbuckle my seatbelt. “Let’s get this over with.”
She leads me through the back door of the salon into a room I’ve never seen before. It’s small, clearly a break room or office space, with a worn couch against one wall and a mini fridge humming in the corner. But the thing that stops me cold is the wall.
The entire surface is covered in Post-it notes. My first thought is: this is chaos. My second thought is: she organized the chaos. Color-coded. Categorized. She built this for me.
Different colors, different handwriting, arranged in some kind of system I can’t immediately decode. Some of them have single words: ANGRY. SAD. ANXIOUS. OVERWHELMED. Others have phrases: “I feel frustrated because...” or “Right now I need...” or simply “I DON’T KNOW.”
“What is this?”
“Your emotional vocabulary starter kit.” Gisele moves to stand beside the wall, gesturing toward it. “Welcome to the board.”
“The board.”
“The Emotion Post-it board. Patent pending.” She pulls a yellow Post-it from the center and holds it up. “The idea is simple. When you can’t find the words for what you’re feeling, you pick a note that comes close. It takes the pressure off having to articulate something from scratch.”
I stare at the wall. There have to be a hundred notes up there, maybe more. A hundred different ways to feel, organized into what I now realize are rough categories: the red section heavy on anger variations, the blue section full of sadness and loss, a green section that seems to cover fear and anxiety. There’s a purple section too, smaller, off to the side. I can’t read the notes from here, but the placement feels deliberate. Like she’s saving those for later.
“This is insane.”
“Maybe.” She doesn’t seem offended. “But it works. I’ve been using it with clients for years—not officially, just when someone’s having a hard time. Turns out a lot of people struggle to name what they’re feeling. You’re not special.”
That lands harder than it should. I’ve always thought I was special. Thought my control made me different. Better. Turnsout I’m just another emotionally constipated man who can’t name what he’s feeling.
“There’s also this.” She picks up a laminated card from the coffee table and hands it to me. “Your Peopling Bingo card.”
I look down at it. It’s exactly as described—a bingo card, but instead of numbers, each square contains a social or emotional task. “Compliment someone without sarcasm.” “Ask how someone’s day is going and actually listen to the answer.” “Admit you were wrong about something.” “Make eye contact for a full conversation.” “Hug someone.”
I stare at that square longer than the others. When was the last time I hugged someone? Mom, maybe. At Christmas. Because Boone made me.
“You’re joking.”
“I never joke about emotional growth.” She’s fighting a smile, though, which means she knows exactly how insane this is. “Think of it as a game. A challenge. Something your competitive brain can latch onto while your feelings catch up.”
“I’m not playing feelings bingo.”
“Then call it accountability training. Call it interpersonal skill development. Call it whatever you need to call it to make it feel less threatening.” She takes the card back, sets it on the table. “But you’re going to do it, because you agreed to participate, and I’m holding you to that.”
I run my hand through my hair again. Stop. Shove both hands in my pockets. “Where do we start?”
“Here.” She gestures to the wall. “Right now. First exercise.”
“Which is?”
“Pick one.”
I blink. “Pick one what?”
