Page 3 of Biker's Tribute: Property of Bear

“What about the club?”

“What about the fucking club? Mom… It could be–”

“I know,” she says. “I know what it could be.”

She finishes the rest of the wine. I’m too stunned to tell her to stop. I don’t even want to poke the bear and ask if she’s sure that drinking all this wine will be a good idea when she might have…

“I’ll tie up my loose ends out here and get Deacon on the phone.”

“I don’t want people to know,” she says quickly, as if that should be her primary concern. I fight the tension building into something more volatile. I don’t care if peopleknow.The only thing I care about is getting this woman into a PET scan machine to make sure she doesn’t have…

“He can be discreet,” I tell her. “You’re gonna be fine. Just fine.”

But the truth is, I don’t know if she will be. We all have to go at some point. Dad probably had it the worst – blown to smithereens on American soil by the same people he fought to protect after surviving IEDs in Afghanistan. And mom.

Is this how I’m going to lose her? Cancer?

She must be crazy to even think I could want to find a woman right now.She needs me.

* * *

One

Amanda

The day Keyshawn called me out of the blue and I heard from my cousin for the first time in over a decade, I knew I was about to experience a major shake up. I just don’t know when it’s all going to go down. And how big this shake up is going to be. Mallory and I have totally opposite schedules on Tuesdays, so we won’t ever cross paths in our office today. Our dream came true, though. My best friend and I opened this practice together after we moved from Chicago to Boston to start a new life with better dating prospects, excellent restaurants and just… morehistory.I missed Boston after leaving for clinical rotations. Home just wasn’t home anymore.

This unfriendly, cold, historical New England city feels more like my home now.

I’ll definitely need a big ass glass of pinot grigio when I get home from the office today. My desire to keep the lights on at our new clinic caused me to foolishly book all my most difficult clients back to back. My nerves are already frayed by lunch time. The worst of my gambling addicts stole from his wife’s wallet and I spent our entire session trying to convince him that telling her the truth and coming clean now was the right thing to do.

I couldn’t even get him to agree that saying something untrue was lying. It’s not just men. It’sclients.There’s a reason all therapists have therapists and mine quit her practice about two weeks after I got here.

This job will turn you into a cynic faster than Cinderella’s coach turns into a pumpkin at midnight. People lie to each other so damn much. I stopped believing in love halfway into my clinical rounds. Seriously. My three months in couples therapy almost turned me into an alcoholic. If it weren’t for Mallory, I would have lost my mind completely. Sure, therapists all have a therapist, but you have days where your future therapist’s appointment isn’t enough.

My last client cries throughout her entire session. Three relapses deep into her vape addiction, and her frustration yields to more explosive outbursts – pretty typical mood swings when you’re coming off of a nicotine addiction. People all respond differently – both to the drug and to treatment. It just makes me feel good to help people who actually want to be helped.

Like my cousin Keyshawn.

I barely understand what she said was going on and I honestly don’t know how much of it I should believe. I helped her get a rental car, and I have to hope that was enough help and not some elaborate scam. If you met my family, you would understand my suspicions.

I have no reason to suspect Keyshawn, though. I trust her and I only have good memories of her from my past, but it’s impossible not to let the cynicism from this job touch every other part of your life. People don’t give you much hope to hold onto.

By the time I pack my notes and iPad up into my tote bag, closing up my office for the day, I hear Mallory greeting her last client in the hallway.

No after work gossip session today. It’ll just be me, white wine, a simple noodle dinner and theories about what the hell Keyshawn is up to out there in Chicago. I shudder. You couldn’t pay me to go back. I took it as a sign when I got into grad school in far east Boston. I shut out all the voices telling me that I would never find a decent black man in Boston.

It’s not that I didn’t believe them – I just didn’t care.

My walk home is completely boring, but I live for the routine. I only live ¾ of a mile away from the new office, so I get to meditate on the day ahead and get much needed time to myself on the way home. Halfway through my walk, I spot the hottest guy walking towards the Harvard Bridge. We stop on opposite sides of the crosswalk and lock eyes for a moment.

It’s almost like a movie. He’s tall, about 6’5” and has thick, black hair, about shoulder length. He’s dressed in a classic, All-American outfit – blue jeans and a white t-shirt, with tattoos all over his forearms. I have a problem. Guys dressed in navy blue suits at the Prudential Center barely get my attention, but some guy covered in tattoos makes me wet instantly.

Unfortunately, life isn’t anything like a movie. He abruptly breaks eye contact, turns away from me and walks in the other direction. Damn, he was fine. I can’t believe they make men that hot in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Maybe all hope isn’t lost… Dating in Boston so far hasn’t been any better than Chicago. Is Instagram really allowed to lie to you like that?

I walk the rest of the way home thinking about the hot guy the entire way, because why not indulge in a crazy fantasy about a hot man blowing my back out? I’m lucky I can afford to live alone at all, but my studio reminds me of a minimalist coffin. Homes have a lot more space in the Midwest, but out here everyone fights — and overpays — for every inch of real estate.

My energy levels tonight are screaming “RAMEN FOR DINNER” instead of my salmon dinner, so I grab a packet of Shin Noodles from the pantry and put on my electric kettle. I nearly jump out of my skin when the kettle starts buzzing. But it’s not the kettle, just a phone call from another unknown number. Is it Keyshawn again?

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