Page 61 of Rather: The Therapist

So lost in the story of Kema and Dillan, I struggled to recall the purpose of my visit. The time on my phone’s screen revealed another hour was on the horizon. Eleven was approaching and I’d been seated since ten, precisely.

Kofi.

My brows crinkled in search of the center of my forehead. The genuine disgust that quickly began mounting led me to my feet. Irritation was heavy on my heels as I marched toward the counter. Giving up Kema and Dillan after reading the first five chapters of their story felt too much like torture.

Through the lens of my black shades, I set my sight on the register, fully prepared to request the price of the publication so I could checkout, gather my things, and head out. The solid chest that met my shades, pushing them further onto my face, had appeared from thin air. My entire body shifted backward.

Swiftly, I placed the book in my left hand and slid my right hand into the back of my jeans where my weapon was partially concealed. The palm against my elbow, pulling my arm in the other direction was seconds away from being blown to shreds.

I retrieved my weapon, ready to shoot first and ask the nagging questions later. However, the debilitating baritone I’d heard many hours prior at the first family dinner left me paralyzed.

“Don’t blow your cover.”

Taking the request into consideration, I shoved my Beretta back into my jeans and fixed my shades. I took a healthy step back, separating us while simultaneously trying to gather oxygen the man before me had stolen from my lungs.

“You’re late.”

“I know,” Kofi groaned, removing the shades from his face while rubbing his forehead.

“And, hungover,” I sighed, heading in the opposite direction.

He followed behind me, taking a seat at the table I stopped in front of. I placed the book I was reading face down, sure not to lose my current page.

“Unacceptable.”

“Good morning to you, too.”

“Tardiness is a sign of disrespect, Kofi. I’m certain I don’t have to tell you this. You’re a mess.”

“I’m not.” He shook his head.

“You haven’t recovered from what I assume was a good night. You’re late. And, though you seemed to have bathed, liquor is coming from your pores. If this is any indication of how much you value the connection we’ve been tasked with developing, then you have a ways to go before I happily walk down the aisle. This behavior will not be tolerated.”

Without saying a word, he stared directly at me with a smile on his face.

“What is it that’s on your mind?”

“My father wasn’t lying,” he sniggered with a shake of the head.

“What does that mean exactly?”

“You girls are special.”

“If that was meant to be a compliment, thanks.”

“It was, which is why I don’t want you to take much of what’s said at this table personal.”

“Thanks for the warning, but I can’t promise you anything.”

“Fair enough.”

“Would you like coffee?”

“Nah. I’m in no mood to be shitting all day. That’s all coffee does for me.”

Taken aback by his remark, my face contorted. The smirk I was trying to keep at bay fought for relevancy.

“You’re going to be on the toilet in an hour tops, so we need to hurry this shit up, anyway.”

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