Page 41 of When the Smoke Clears

I finish chewing and swallow. “The ocean.”

“Because?”

“Because you read some book right before we met that theorized a connection between water and peace or something like that.”

“Blue Mind Theory.”

“Sure,” I mumble, adding more syrup to the last pancake.

“Skeptical?”

“The NICU.”

“Because?” She folds her hands on the table.

“Because that’s where true miracles happen.”

Her smile swells. “Despairing?”

“I don’t remember that one.”

“You do.”

“I don’t. Do you need my Realtor to help you find some good houses tomorrow?” I focus on eating the rest of her pancakes instead of looking at her because I know she wants me to finish answering her question about despairing.

“Did you get laid?” she asks.

“Yes. It was good. Thanks for asking.” I set the fork on the empty plate and wipe my mouth. Then I make the mistake of looking her in the eye as I take a drink of her water.

She knows I’m lying, but instead of calling me out, she averts her gaze. “I’m thinking about buying some land to build a house. Think you can not evict me until it’s done?”

I draw a long breath and hold it in my cheeks, then I blow it out slowly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why?”

“Because Maren, Fitz, and Jamie know too much about what happened eleven years ago. And they think it’s a bad idea for us to live together.”

“Oh, Maren, Fitz, and Jamie think it’s a bad idea? But you don’t? And it’s your house, but they are the decision-makers? Or did you lose control when you returned from visiting your parents, and they jumped on your side, and now you can’t undo what you’ve done without choking on your pride?”

“You’re a terrible therapist. Did you know that?”

“That’s because I’m a psychiatrist.”

I roll my eyes. “What’s the difference?”

“I perform psychiatric evaluations and make medical diagnoses. I offer pharmaceutical interventions, and as you know, I use virtual reality for behavior modification. Therapists rely heavily on talk therapy. A therapist isn’t going to deal with a forty-five-year-old man who wants to kill himself since his wife found out he was raping his nine-year-old stepdaughter because the convincing voice in his head told him to do it. That’s just one example of things I’ve dealt with in my training.”

I bristle, slowly shaking my head. “Have you ever thought that you’re too young to emotionally handle men raping their stepdaughters? Is your emotional IQ as advanced as your other IQ?”

“No. My emotional quotient is lower than my Wechsler test, Stanford-Binet, Woodcock-Johnson, RPM . . .” She smirks. “I’ve been tested a lot.”

I nod several times. “What if it’s all bullshit? What if this life of yours is great until it isn’t? What if you feel eighty when you’re forty because your mind has been spinning at such a fast pace? Is being a genius a genuine gift?” I’m sure she thinks I’m an idiot. And I am. My thoughts aren’t based on anything more than unoriginal musings.

Scratching the back of my head, I mumble, “Never mind. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Yes,” Everleigh whispers.

I pause, taking a moment to see if I heard her correctly.