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Two and a half years since my wife passed and I have never struggled over a woman as much as I have over Island Hayes.
Perhaps it’s a good thing Darrel’s therapy center called and made an appointment for early this morning. I hope the neuropsychologist can prod around my head and yank out all thoughts of the salon owner.
“Where are we going?” Abe asks after I drop off Regan and receive my butterfly kisses.
“I need to make a stop and you’re coming with me.”
Cody has a meeting this morning so he won’t be able to help and I would rather drive us both into the river than ask Genevieve to watch my son.
Abe rolls his eyes and pops in his earphones.
I slow my car down in front of an unassuming building. The only sign that it’s a mental health center is the wooden plaque swinging in the breeze.
Abe pops out his ear buds. “Are you taking me to a new therapist?”
“No.” I release my seatbelt.
He stumbles out of the car and hurries beside me. “Areyoutalking to a therapist then?”
“Why do you sound so surprised?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t think you had the guts.”
My eyes harden. I want to tell him that ‘having the guts’ is wading through marshes in a hostile war zone with face paint, cameo and nothing but a hunting knife as a weapon. Or sitting for hours in the desert with a sniper gun waiting for the target to pass by.
It isnotsitting in an air conditioned office talking about feelings with a bespectacled academia nut who’s probably never experienced a day of real work.
But I don’t say those words out loud. Given where we are, it wouldn’t be the smartest thing to do.
I open the door, usher Abe inside and greet the small, sprightly woman who jumps to her feet.
“Hi, I’m Dina.” She pumps my hand. Her eyes slide down my chest. “My goodness, you’re ripped. By any chance, are you related to Thor?”
“Excuse me?”
“God of Thun—”
“That’s enough Dina.” Darrel Hastings approaches me. He’s wearing a white coat and glasses. Hands extended, he says, “It’s been a while.”
“Good to see you.” I give his hand a hearty shake. He’s still got a good grip.
“This your son?” Darrel asks.
“Abe.” I rest my hand on my son’s shoulder, proud as a peacock. He might be dressed like the Grim Reaper with the haircut of a pop star from the early two thousands, but he’s still my kid and I’m the only one allowed to get on his case.
Darrel’s lips curve up. “He’s your spitting image.”
Abe scrunches his nose as if he doesn’t like the sound of that.
Well too bad. I got strong genes.
Darrel motions to the books in his waiting room. “Think you can occupy yourself for an hour, Abe? I should have your dad back by then.”
He nods.
“He reminds me of Micheal.” Darrel smiles as he leads me to the scanning room.
I blink. “Your boy?”