Page 152 of Love Arranged
He goes back to cooking our chicken with his trusty food thermometer, which at one point reads 175 degrees.
“I think we’re good,” I say when I catch him stabbing the chicken in a fourth spot.
Lorenzo clearly takes food safety seriously, along with our personal safety, given the insane alarm system he has set up. Every time he lets Daisy outside, he disables it, and at one point I joke if he has a bunker.
The answer isNot yet.
After a minute, he still hasn’t let go of the thermometer, so I pry it out of his hands.
“You good?”
He shuts his eyes. “I’m out of it today.”
I want to broach a subject with him, but I don’t know the best way to start.
Thankfully he sees the strained look on my face and asks, “What are you thinking about?”
“I was wondering…and please don’t take offense, but I… Ugh.” My nose crinkles.
“Lily. Just say it.”
“Would it help if you talked to someone?”
He laughs so hard, he ends up needing to drink some water. “There’s no way that’s happening.”
“Why not?”
“Because what good will that do?”
I place my hands on my hips. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who don’t believe in therapy.”
“And if I was?”
“Then I’d ask what happened to make you think that.”
He looks away. “I went before. Back in Vegas, but I didn’t last long.”
“Why not?”
“Turns out confidentiality has a price, and my uncle was easily able to pay his way into knowing everything about me.”
My chest aches for all the shit his uncle put him through. “So this is a trust issue.”
“Which is kind of a problem since therapy requires it, don’t you agree?”
“Fair, but let me ask you a different question, then.”
“What?”
“Do you trustme?”
He looks up at the ceiling before answering, “Surprisingly, yes.”
His honest answer fills me with warmth, and I use it asmotivation to push the issue. “What if I know a therapist who couldn’t be bought by anyone?”
“Everyone has a price.”
“From what I hear, her hourly rate is expensive, but she’s worth every single minute of it.” My sister has said as much, but I can’t personally confirm.
