CHAPTER 13
DR. ESPINOSA’S office stands in stark contrast to her clothing, which plainly exists only in shades of brown and off-white. Plants dot every surface, all in what look to be handmade ceramic pots. An aromatherapy diffuser on a reclaimed wood side table infuses the room with eucalyptus-scented vapor. The Moroccan rug below his feet matches the yellows and oranges in the Native American blanket that lies across the leather sofa. It should feel cluttered, but it’s pleasantly full and cozy. He wonders what Kayla’s office looks like. If he had to guess, he’d say fewer plants but even more color.
They’ve gone through the pleasantries, and now Daniel’s sitting across from her silently, drumming his fingers on his knees.
“What made you decide to make this appointment?” she asks after a minute passes.
“Kayla—my sister—says that everybody should go to therapy, and I’ve got insurance.”
Dr. Espinosa smiles, the wrinkles next to her eyes becoming more pronounced. Daniel places her age somewhere slightly north of halfway between him and his mother. “Smart woman.”
“She’s a therapist, too.”
She nods. “I see. Well, what made you pick up the phone now?”
Daniel swallows. It feels weird to say this to someone you’ve known for all of fifteen minutes. Then again, she probably hears about much worse every day. Should he really be here? Everyone expects to lose their parents. Maybe not in their twenties, but still.
He decides it’s worse to sit there in silence, wasting both of their time. “The anniversary of my dad’s death is on Thursday. I think I should talk about it?”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Daniel. I’m glad you came in.”
It takes him a little while, and a few more leading questions from Dr. Espinosa, but eventually he starts to talk. He recognizes some of her techniques from Kayla and smiles to himself because he’s never been more certain that his sister is great at her job.
The hour is up before he knows it, and it’s jarring to go from that indoor forest where all his secrets flow freely to the busy street below. He’s got about twenty more minutes if he doesn’t want to invent a fake client lunch to appease a prying colleague, and he intends to spend it with a bacon, egg, and cheese on a bagel. He’s chasing the everything seasoning with black coffee when he gets a message from his sister.
Kayla
So????
Daniel
i am miraculously cured.
Kayla
Hilarious.
Daniel
it was good. said more than i thought i would. how do therapists get us to do that? witchcraft
Kayla
If I told you, I’d be out of a job! Love you, Danny.
Daniel
love you too
He pockets the phone and finishes his sandwich. When did he get here? In college, when Lily cheated on him with her differential equations TA, he moped around for a bit before spending an entire weekend cross-faded and party hopping with Tran and Evan. The weekend after he told his parents that he wasn’t going to apply to medical school and his dad yelled at him for an hour, their antics earned him a hangover that can still churn his stomach if he thinks too hard about it. And even though the bender was less extreme when he and Emily, his first post-college girlfriend, parted ways, he weathered the heartbreak more or less the same. It’s not that any of it quite compares to his dad’s death, it’s more that he’s always handled everything in his life like he’s Teflon, letting it all roll off his back. This must be adulthood, then: going to therapy and talking about it instead of pretending it isn’t there.
He remembers the moment when he was dancing with Liyah, how badly he wanted to kiss her. That’s completely different, though. She’s finally his friend, one of the closest ones he has. He’s not going to mess that up. She’s too important, and there’re other beautiful women in this city he can kiss.
He decides that’ll be his next move in therapy, working up the nerve to start dating. Or, at very least, redownload Tinder. Baby steps, and all.
LIYAH FINISHES READING her email, filling with an overwhelming urge to slam her computer shut. It’s her desktop, not her laptop, so instead she says, “I swear to fucking God!”
“If God’s fucking, she’s a wee bit too busy to hear you swearing,” Siobhan calls, not looking away from the open Photoshop file on her monitor.
“Ha ha. Jeff is mad at me about the wine night ending early.”
Siobhan spins her special-order ergonomic desk chair around to face Liyah. “What? I just thought Jeff had sent another email where the entire message is in the subject line.”
Liyah shakes her head. “Much worse. Dear Aliyah,” she reads from her in-box. “I mean, first of all, when has he ever called me by my government name? I feel like I’m getting first-name-middle-named by a parent.”
“Go on.”
“I have reviewed the numbers after your little wine shindig”—she pauses for Siobhan’s disgusted groan—“and we saw no appreciable difference in the membership sign-up rates. Now, I understand that there may have been some extenuating circumstances—”
“Yes, like a fecking blizzard. Does he think you have a weather machine?”
“It gets worse. There may have been some extenuating circumstances, but the proposals that you and Kinley brought are all quite costly. If we’re going to shell out for a local winery, or a DJ for the costume party this weekend, the board and I expect results. Need I remind you that—”
Siobhan holds up her hand. “Christ. Never mind, I’ve heard enough. If he weren’t our boss, I’d say tell him to eff off. It goes on like this?”
“Basically. He’s dangling curator in front of me, acting like this is some personal moral failing. Yeah, I would’ve liked for the night to go long enough to do the membership raffle. I would have also liked not to work coat check with Toby and Daniel, or spend half the night on an air mattress in front of SUE while I waited for the snowplows to come.”
“You stayed here alone? Oh, I’m so sorry, love. I didn’t realize. I know you’re petrified of driving in the snow.”
“I wasn’t technically alone.” Liyah fidgets with a pad of sticky notes. “Daniel stayed with me. Still, less than ideal.”
Siobhan sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, brow furrowed. “I see. And you drove yourself home after that?”
She shakes her head. “Well, no. He drove us.” Siobhan stares, nodding. “What?” Liyah asks.
“Nothing. It’s almost five—why don’t you send Jeff something like ‘I understand, I’ll do better next time’ and delete it? Then we can bunk off.”
Liyah laughs, looking up. “I’m gonna have to use context clues for that one and guess you’re offering to leave early.”
Siobhan smiles, the worried look melting away from her freckled face. “Come on, let’s head out.”
As Siobhan gathers her belongings, Liyah replies to Jeff with unearned kindness. She hits send, then moves to delete, but another message pops up what feels like seconds later:
To: Aliyah Cohen-Jackson <[email protected]>
From: Jeff Chapman <[email protected]>
RE: Wine Membership #s
Also, I heard from security something about you sleeping in an exhibition. Was this for the sleepover or the snow? Regardless, you should have slept in your office.
Since we didn’t see improvements, I’m going to say no to the photo booth this Saturday. We can’t afford extraneous expenses.
Sent from my iPhone
God, she hasn’t felt this chastised since she punched Corey Packton in the cheek in seventh grade. And even then, she mostly got herself out of it when she told the principal what he’d said to Neen, slurs uncensored. Liyah folds her arms on the desk, resting her forehead on her wrists. The photo booth was a major component of the event—they needed it so that attendees could vote on the costume contest. This whole marketing thing is absolutely fucked, cursed from the beginning.
Wait … “Siobhan, you have a DSLR, right?”
“Oh no, did Jeff nix the photo booth?” Liyah grunts in affirmation. “Yeah, I’ve got one. Also, I have an eighty-square-foot piece of black fabric we could use as backing—don’t ask. No lighting, though, but I reckon we could rent?”
Liyah lifts her head. “You are a lifesaver,” she says, but her stomach still turns. The way this marketing effort has gone, she’s half convinced she’s going to be out of a job and designing polka-dotted pop-up Instagram traps for the rest of her career.
Siobhan walks over, placing her hand on Liyah’s shoulder. “Delete the email. And then hot chocolate, my treat.”
Liyah nods, but her mouse slides from the trash icon to the arrow. She types out a quick message and hits forward before getting ready to go.
The response comes an hour later, when she’s almost successfully forgotten about the email in the first place:
To: Aliyah Cohen-Jackson <[email protected]>
From: Daniel Rosenberg <[email protected]>
RE: Message from a Fan
Yikes. You’re right, we can do it ourselves. Want me to show you my worst from Brett? The typos alone will keep you laughing for days.
Daniel
P.S. I got my costume together last night. Every millennial in Chicago is gonna be a member after Saturday, I can feel it.