Page 411 of End Game

Two therapists, neither licensed.

I start pacing.

Kitchen island.

Sink.

Fridge.

Island again.

“What if I start doing sessions in L.A.? Or Nashville? Austin said Nashville like it's a normal place to casually fly to for three days, which I guess for him it is because he has a fucking plane—”

“He does not own the plane,” Ronan says.

I stop. “That's your contribution?”

“You have said that three times. He charters it.”

“Thank fuck you're here.”

“You're welcome.”

I pace again.

“And what if I say no because I'm scared to leave and then ten years from now I'm still pouring tequila for twenty-two-year-olds who call me sir and I want to fucking die?”

Micah stands up straight.

My chest is tight.

Not panic.

I don't think.

Maybe.

No.

Too much caffeine?

I had one coffee today.

Two?

Three?

Fuck.

“My brain keeps rolling Perception checks for traps in a room with no enemies. And everybody keeps telling me this is good and I know it's good, and I am happy, so why does my brain keep acting like somebody put twelve fucking browser tabs on autoplay?”

“Because you're trying to solve all of them tonight,” Ronan says.

“I know that.”

“Then stop.”

I stare at him. “Oh, excellent. Have you considered writing a book?”