Page 24 of Physical Therapy

“Ugh. You do anyway, considering you hardly have any food at home.”

“Cooking isn’t a man’s job.”

“Tell that to the chefs who prepare your meals.” Clara laughs. “Goddamn, brother. You’re a lost cause, aren’t you?”

“Apparently that’s what therapy is for.”

The humor disappears from her tone. “Just stick it out. I promise it’ll end up being a good thing.”

It already is. But for all the wrong reasons. “I’ll call you next week.”

“Okay. Take care.”

I disconnect, kill the engine, and then retrieve my gear from the car. An unread message on my phone catches my eye. I lock the vehicle and swipe to open the thread as I head for the lift.

What’s your favorite take-out?

Interesting…

Is this a professional question?

I smirk at my reply and pocket the phone to enter the lift. Her answer comes through, vibrating against my leg, as the lift reaches my floor.

I’m establishing your profile ;) Just answer the damn question, Boe.

Italian, I reply.

I’m still in the middle of thinking up something else sarcastic to say when she flicks a message back.

Be at yours in forty minutes.

Edith, Edith, Edith. I let down my guard with her today, frustrated by the need to dredge up the less savory recollections of my grandfather. He had his vices—we all do—but he was an honorable man. Unlike my father.

I let that show. I gave Edith a glimpse at the man I am when I lie awake at night. The man who allows himself no more than thirty minutes a day to break down and feel before he locks that shit away where it belongs. And surprisingly, it proved beneficial.

Women love a man to mother. Edith, though… It seems she loves a man to mend.

I hope the food isn’t the only surprise,I send before opening my apartment door.

You’ll have to wait and see.

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