Page 23 of Physical Therapy

THIRTEEN

Boe

What a goddamn mess of a day. After my session with Edith, my distraction level was so high that I missed out on a sale to Rogers. Fucking Rogers of all people.

Mind you, the moron could use the extra commission if he plans to keep Kendra satisfied.

My fingers tap on the steering wheel while the traffic crawls across the intersection before me. Light rain wets the windshield, not quite enough to warrant using the wipers, but enough to be a pain in the ass when you’re out in it. The monotone drone of the afternoon DJ on the car radio cuts to my ringtone. I smack Accept on the dash panel.

“Afternoon, sis.”

“Thought I’d make a quick call while the monkeys are quiet. We’ve probably got all of five minutes,” Clara says with a chuckle.

“Ditto.” The outline of my apartment building taunts me on the horizon.

“We haven’t spoken since your first session. I wanted to check up on you and see how it was going.”

I’ve always loved her bluntness; it cuts the crap and saves so much time. “They’re progressing.” I shift through the gears, our lane finally moving on.

“Progressing how? In a good way? Or bad?”

“They just are.”

Clara, being younger, missed most of the bullshit with Dad. She was aware that something at our father’s work stressed him, but she was still naïve enough for the trial to go straight over her head. Of course, she knows what he did, now, but that doesn’t change the fact she was protected from the worst of it at a critical age.

Discussing the direction Edith wants to take our sessions would only raise questions I don’t want Clara to ask.

“You’re still going, though,” she queries.

“For now.” I slow and come to a stop behind a car that waits on another to park. “I still don’t see how these friendly chats with a shrink are supposed to help me.”

“They’re meant to allow you a safe space to unload your problems, Boe.” She sighs.

“I don’t need a ‘safe space’, and I sure as hell don’t have problems to unload.” I exhale as the traffic moves off again. “They suit me just fine buried down where they are.”

“Bottling isn’t healthy. You need to share the burden every so often.”

“She’s asking me things I don’t want to discuss, Clara.”

“Perhaps she’s asking about things that need to be said,” she challenges. “If you get defensive, that means she hits a nerve.”

“Surely that’s not a great idea when you’re treating a man for rage issues.” It couldn’t feel any better than it does to pull into the apartment garage today.

All I want to do is lounge around in my underwear and drink beer.

I want to shake this bullshit air of sophistication I wear to snare sales, and just be a basic goddamn man.

“What is she querying?” Clara asks. “Is it relevant, you think?”

“It’s relevant.” I slip the Cadillac into my park. “I just don’t think it’s helpful.”

“Things often get worse before they get better. Stick it out, okay?”

“And if I don’t?” My head hits the seat rest, legs falling wide against the confines of the car.

“Then you go to prison, remember?”

“At least I’d get my meals cooked for me,” I tease.

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