Page 72 of What's Left of Us

I do know that. It’s what got me into trouble at the end of my marriage. Not that I can blame Knight. I’d asked him to look into Georgia despite his warnings against it.

“You still seeing Lucy?” I ask him to change topics. He’d been in an on-again, off-again relationship for years. I always told him he could do better, but who was I to talk?

Knight stretches his legs out, letting me drop the previous conversation. “Nah, I think she got tired of my hours. She’s seeing some lawyer in Brooklyn.”

“Oooh.” Vaughn makes a face. “She switched to the dark side. Sorry to hear that, man.”

Knight shrugs. “It’s fine. Our sex life was becoming nonexistent anyway. I can’t remember the last time I got my dick sucked.” He’s thoughtful for a second. “Actually, I do. It was a couple weeks after the breakup. Met a girl at The Barrel. She was hot, but she used too much teeth—”

Vaughn groans. “We don’t need the details, bro.”

Knight scoffs. “Says the guy who told us all about his wife’s monster hemorrhoids that you basically fucked out of her.”

Vaughn pales. “Dude, it was brutal. I thought she had ass cancer when I bent her over the bed and saw them. Turns out, pregnancy can do that to you. She even named them they were so big.”

“Dude,” we groan simultaneously.

Vaughn holds up his hands. “You’ll get it when you two decide to grow up and settle down. Next thing you know, you’ll be going to the pharmacy to pick up hemorrhoid cream and adult diapers with witch hazel for your wife.”

Knight looks at me, watching as I take a long sip of my beer. It’s a long stretch of silence before I say, “Been there, done that.”

Vaughn realizes what he said. “Sorry, man. I just meant—”

“You don’t need to elaborate,” I cut him off, knowing he’ll just dig himself a hole. Standing, I tuck my wallet into my back pocket. “What kind of beer do you want?”

Vaughn clears his throat. “Hey, about Georgia—”

“I don’t want to talk about her.”

He presses his lips together and nods once.

Knight says, “Corona.”

I grab my truck keys and leave before I can hear them mumbling something about me that I don’t want to hear.

*

The grocery storeis quiet when I walk in. A few of the workers I’ve dealt with in the past offer me smiles in greeting, probably glad I’m not here to deal with another larceny case.

I beeline toward the alcohol section, browsing the selection to kill time. My friends mean well, but their prying is grating sometimes. If I go back too early, they’ll want to talk about shit I don’t want to deal with. But if I stick it out here, they’ll likely get bored and forget about the impromptu intervention they have planned for my arrival.

As I reach for the twelve-pack of Corona, I see a familiar head of brown hair attached to a petite frame. She’s not wearing glasses or a skirt and there’s not a notepad in sight. “Surprised to see you here, doc,” I remark, causing Doctor Castro to startle.

She nearly drops the bottle of strawberry daiquiri, but I quickly catch it before it hits the linoleum. “Mr. Danforth,” she says, accepting the drink I hold out to her.

“It’s Lincoln,” I remind her, noting how small she looks drowning in an oversized hoodie. “I’d say you can drop the formalities since we’re in public.”

Her smile is the same professional one she gives me during our sessions, but there’s something tense in it.

I readjust the beer in my hand. “What? Are you going to pretend not to know me? You’re going to hurt my feelings.”

“Didn’t you read the paperwork you signed when we began working together?” she asks, one eyebrow arched up.

“No,” I admit. “Was I supposed to? I figured it was like the terms and conditions. Nobody reads those.”

The softest laugh comes from her. “It states that we’re not supposed to talk outside of sessions for privacy reasons. It’s to protect you and your personal life.”

Huh. “So you just ignore people?”

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