“We are.”
I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean.”
“Go on, spill.”
I tell her everything up until him asking me to dinner.
“You sure do know how to catch a man, sis.”
My face burns. “I am not trying to do that,” I scold her.
"Yeah, yeah," she laughs, and I stick my tongue out at her.
I cast one more glance over my shoulder at Kace, who is concentrating on his laptop, pounding away at the keys. I wonder what his mind will conjure up next and whether I’d be a part of it.
Chapter 7
Kace
Tiffany is entirely against counselling family, despite my brother insistence. She feels she wouldn't be objective enough or hard enough on me. Which is why I'm sitting across from a middle-aged man with wide-rimmed glasses and hair that's thinning at the top. He wears a white dress shirt with black stripes, and his beige pants look like they have seen better days. His office is dusty and dingy. The couch I'm sitting on looks like it was handed down several generations. Despite that, he seems friendly enough and offers me great filtered coffee, which is always a plus.
“It’s so good to meet you, Kace.”
“Yeah.” I nod, looking around the room. One wall is covered in books. I wonder if he ever read any of them. There are paintings of flowers and landscapes. A dirty coffee mug is on the table, and no matter where I look, I keep coming back to it.
“So.” He taps his pen on his spiral-bound notebook. “What brings you here?”
“I don’t know. My brother practically forced me into this. His way or the highway.”
I lean back in my chair, already annoyed.
"I see." He looks at me thoughtfully. "Maybe we can start with you telling me a bit about yourself." Really, is this even necessary? I mean, most things are in that form I completed on my way in.
"I'm twenty-eight years old, a writer-slash-pizza delivery guy. I haven't held onto a job for a long time. I either grow out of it, or I'm thrown out. Anything else?"
“Can you tell me a bit about your family?”
“I have a brother.” I don’t feel like elaborating. He notes something in his notebook and then meets my gaze.
“The same one who referred you?” I nod. “Any specific reason why?”
"I was drunk. I called him to come to pick me up because I couldn't drive."
“Oh.” He says it like there’s more to the story than what I’m letting on. There isn’t.
“Do you find yourself drinking alcohol to that extent often?”
“No more than anyone else.” I lift a brow and cross my arms across my chest. What is this asshole insinuating? That I’m a drunk?
"Do you have any other family members? Your parents, perhaps?" He tilts his head to one side while listening.
“They’re dead. Died when I was just a kid.” I stare at him. If he’s going to look at me sceptically every time I answer a question, he might as well stop asking and complete that himself. I wonder whether it’s the fact that I’m lying that makes me so defensive.
"I'm sorry to hear that. You're a smart guy. Write for the newspaper." I never volunteered that information, but I figure Tiffany did when she referred me. "What's this about not being able to hold down a job?"
“The problem is that I hate being dictated to. All those assholes telling me what to do and how to do it. It’s just not my thing. I want to be left to do what I need to. Is that so much to ask? I don’t just want to do one thing, and a nine to five requires that of me.”
"There are often hierarchies in the workspace. Managers, processes, job descriptions, things like that. It's not often easy to defy authority."
