Page 100 of Nothing Less than Magic
“Call JoAnn Sands,” I say, because what kind of therapist would I be if I wasn’t a proponent of therapy? And to say I’m struggling is an understatement. “My guess is she doesn’t have an opening anytime in the near future, but it’s worth a try.”
“On it.”
“And thank you, Ronnie. Thank you for all you do. I may not say it often enough, but you’re appreciated.” I sound like one of my self-help lectures, which makes me throw up a little in my mouth.
At seven, Austin comes through the door, surprising me with gyros from the Greek place on the corner. The restaurant is actually called Troy, but the entire time we’ve lived here, we’ve simply called itthe Greek place.
“Wow, a little out of your comfort zone,” I tease.
“I was in the mood for French fries.” The Greek place makes incredible fries. Double-fried, with the exact right amount of salt and a healthy sprinkle of parmesan cheese.
He unpacks our food from a series of white greasy bags, while I set the table. It’s been our ritual for as long as I can remember.
“What do you say we go out Saturday night?” He uncorks a bottle of white from the fridge.
“Sure,” I say, though it’s only Wednesday, and I am not thinking that far ahead. But Saturday date nights were also part of our routine on the rare occasions we could fit it into our schedules.
“Some place special.” He squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll make a reservation.”
“Look at you.” I smile at him, but I’m finding it difficult to breathe, like I’m on that mountainous road to Misty’s house and I can’t look down. It’s just a nice dinner, I tell myself. Like dozens of other nice dinners with Austin.
“You okay? You look a little pale.”
“I’m great,” I say. At least the pressure in my chest is loosening.
“Good.” He pulls me in for a quick kiss, then goes on to tell me about his day, specifically about a client who, against his counsel, has decided to give up everything. The house, the investments, spousal support, half her spouse’s pension, all in exchange for the cat. She just wants the cat.
“These are not paltry assets,” he says. “The house alone is probably worth two mil, and it’s paid off. Between that and the investments and pension, she’d be set. But the fucking cat, yeah, that’s an equitable trade.” He shakes his head. “You can’t fix stupid.”
“Did you ever think that maybe the cat is her child, and without it, she’d be lost?”
“It’s a cat, Chels. This is a woman in her late fifties, who works three days a week as a substitute teacher. How’s she going to secure her retirement on a damned cat?”
“Did you ask her that? For all you know, she has a plan.”
“I don’t care if she has a plan. The husband’s getting away with highway robbery.”
“You’re just mad that you’re not getting to fight.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“All it means is that it’s not always about money or winning. Sometimes it’s just about getting the life you wanted. In this case, the life is a cat.”
“Whatever the hell that means.” He takes a big bite out of his gyros and grins. “In other news, I booked us a trip to Bonaire this spring.”
“What?”
“You said you always wanted to go, and after everything . . . us, the accident . . . well, we shouldn’t put it off. Carpe diem, right?” I must look stunned (I am), because he quickly adds, “Don’t worry, I checked your schedule with Ronnie, and everything lines up. No conflicts.”
I’m at a loss for words. The best I can do is, “Bonaire, wow,” hoping that it sounds enthusiastic enough.
He doesn’t miss a beat. “You need this, babe. It makes me happy that I can give it to you.”
“Thank you,” I say, but I’m already dreading it.
Chapter 27
JoAnn Sands’s office is in a bright yellow Victorian cottage in Berkeley, not far from campus. She specializes in trauma and is booked out until summer, but as a professional courtesy, she made a slot for me. Seven thirty in the morning.
