Page 61 of Don't Bet On It
“I can see that.” I exhaled heavily. “How are you feeling after today?” I was honestly curious.
“I’ve felt better. At least the cat is out of the bag. I’ve been terrified at the thought of him finding out.”
“Because he would be a jerk?”
“He actually took it better than I thought he would. How sad is that?”
“Pretty sad. I kind of wanted to punch him for you.”
He burst out laughing. “You do that a lot, don’t you? Punch people, I mean.”
“More than I should. It’s my only bad quality. My temper is terrible.”
“Have you considered talking to somebody about it?”
I was thrown by the question. “Like Candy?”
“I wouldn’t mention the punching to Candy.” He grinned then sobered. “The other stuff, though. She seems to understand where you’re coming from.”
“She has gone out of her way to try to make me believe that,” I agreed.
“You don’t believe that?”
I shrugged. “In general, I abhor therapists. There have been a few I’ve trusted over the years, though. Robin is the one who tried to help me the most.”
“Have you considered regular sessions with her?”
Irritation roiled in my stomach. “Why are you so interested in getting me into therapy?”
“I happen to believe that we could all use therapy. I mean, we all have issues.”
He wasn’t wrong. “And you talk to your therapist how often?” I was eager to change the subject. If I put the onus of the conversation on him, it would be better for me.
“Once a month, generally.” He didn’t balk at answering the question. He was matter of fact. “If I’m feeling the pressure, it’s twice a month.”
“And you find it helps you?”
“Oh, most definitely.”
Our server arrived with our drinks, so there was a pause in the conversation. When she was gone, he continued.
“I have coping mechanisms for my anxiety,” he explained. “The biggest is my art. Obviously, I can’t drop everything andpaint something when I’m at work. I go through a few mental exercises instead. It really does help.”
“I’m not sure I need therapy,” I hedged.
He arched a challenging eyebrow.
“It’s true,” I protested.
“You’re angry with your mother.” He said it as if it was a fact. “I think you could get past it if you had a conversation with her and put it all behind you. You still need a bit of therapy.”
I glowered at him. “Let’s change the subject.”
“Fine.” He held up his hands in supplication. “What do you want to talk about?”
The question threw me. “What’s your favorite scary movie?” I asked without thinking.
He chuckled. “The Shining.”
