Page 22 of Unfix Me

Are you going to call him?

“Did someone send you an unsolicited dick pic?” Brooks asked, leaning across the table to peer at my phone.

I flipped it over and set it down. “If only.”

“Oooh.” His teasing tone made me scowl.

“Not for real. It’s just my mom.”

“She on your ass?”

“Something like that.”

“You should tell her to fuck off,” West suggested through his mouthful of chow mein. It was pretty disgusting.

“That’s probably not the right move.”

He shrugged and stuffed more food into his mouth. “It’s what I would do. Worth the black eye.”

Brooks and I shared a similar look. Thankfully, West didn’t seem to expect a response. The guy could hold a one-sided conversation better than anyone I’d met. If there was a stretch of silence, you could count on him to fill it.

I flipped my phone again and scrolled to the email she’d sent me over the weekend.

Derek Hamilton, LMHC.

He sounded like a dick. I wasn’t a fan of therapists. The ones at Camp Dumont had seemed nice at first, but they came up with some pretty fucked up exercises. They lured you in under false pretenses of safety, then used it against you.

My thoughts shifted to Travis. He’d made that mistake and screwed us both over in the process. It was a lesson I’d needed to learn, though. It got me to the place I was now. Not him, though.

With my appetite successfully ruined, I pushed my tray away. West looked at it and I breathed a laugh. When I gestured toward it, he pulled it over and proceeded to demolish it. I didn’t know it was possible to eat that much and maintain the amount of muscle he had. Lean, mean machine indeed.

Maybe I should just make an appointment. It couldn’t hurt.

Could it?

I’d think about it later. The thought of going made me nauseous, but so did the thought of not going. Right now, I just wanted to focus on school. I also needed to look for a job.

“Do you know if there’s anywhere hiring?”

Brooks drummed his fingers on the table. “A million places, I’m sure.”

West rolled his eyes. “Don’t ask him. He has a trust fund.”

“Don’t fault me for that.”

“I’m not, but neither am I listening to anything you have to say about jobs and shit.”

“Is that a no?” I prompted.

“The cafeteria probably. Taco Bell. I don’t know.”

I grimaced. Fast food didn’t sound like my thing. Anything part-time for a college student sounded less than appealing, but I was sure a certain hierarchy existed.

“Get one of those apps,” he went on. “If you go in asking about a job, they’ll just tell you to do that anyway.”

“You’re probably right. My dad told me to bring my resume to a bunch of places. He didn’t believe me when I said that’s not how things work anymore.”

“Ha! Screw that. I’d rather be poor.”

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