Page 76 of Reluctantly You

Of course, he doesn’t.

“What do you want to know?”

The question leaves me reeling. What do I want to know?

“Everything,” I manage to say, and Mitch’s eyes slam into mine. “But first let’s start with where you’ve been going on your lunch.”

He huffs and leans back, sipping on his wine. I can see the fire in him, he wants to push back. He’s going to try, but I won’t let him. I’m too far into this.

I fight for what I want.

“And don’t even think about telling me it’s none of my business.”

He’s quiet for a moment, finishing off his wine and then holding out his glass, asking for more.

I refill it and then sit across from him and wait.

“I’ve been seeing a therapist on my lunch breaks.”

My mouth opens and closes, surprise completely enveloping me. A therapist. Holy fuck.

“After the intake, we decided to meet as often as possible. Apparently I have a shit ton of issues.”

I’m frozen in place. I didn’t expect this. Not at all. When I left that business card on his fridge, I didn’t expect him to use it. I expected him to set it on fire and shove it in the garbage can.

“Good. Therapy is good.”

“That’s one word for it. It’s fucking weird, but yeah, trying to be better and all that shit.”

I run a hand across my jaw and pour myself another glass as well.

“I’ve been in therapy for years,” I admit. “We all have areas we can work on.”

“Yeah, seems so. Like I said. Weird.”

I nod, sipping at my wine. “Do you like your therapist?”

“Yeah, he’s cool.” He sighs and then takes another large drink of his wine, almost as if steeling himself for his coming admissions. “Growing up, therapy was mocked a lot in my house, so it’s a bit of an adjustment.”

“Your parents seem like small-minded people.”

“They are. I’d like to say that’s why I am the way I am, but some of that is my fault. I could have…” he clears his throat and looks away. “…I could have not just blindly followed.”

“It’s hard when you’re a child and under their influence and worldview. I know. My childhood wasn’t ideal. I spent most of it in foster care. The only reason I’m as open-minded as I am is because of the staff at the group homes and a few of the foster homes I ended up in.”

“So it wasn’t all bad?”

“Oh, it was, but there were a few gems in there. They helped me figure out who I was, what I wanted. And, after several years of introspection, it wasn’t aligned at all with my dad.”

Mitchell turns and watches me intently. “What about your mom?”

“She was an addict and I never really knew her. She took off early on.”

“And where’s your dad?”

I meet his gaze. “He was an addict too. But he stuck around for a while. Until he died when I was twelve. Suicide.”

He shakes his head and then leans back slightly. “Well, shit.”

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