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I frown. “How do you think?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you. I wouldn’t presume to try to understand someone else’s grief.”
I shift in my seat and glare at her.
“Are you going to tell me to mind my own business?” she asks mildly. “Because that’s fine; you’re within your rights to do that.”
I swirl my coffee in the cup. I know she’s thinking it would be a predictable retort. I don’t particularly want to talk about my feelings. What guy does? But I also hate being predictable.
I think for a moment. “I’m angry that he was taken before his time. Furious at the guy who caused the accident, but I don’t feel I can express it because he didn’t mean to do it, and he’s gutted that he injured someone and killed his dog. And I’m sad at losing my best friend.” I stop as my throat tightens and have a mouthful of coffee.
“It’s always good to get things out in the open,” she says. “And I know that’s not everything. I know you’re angry and resentful at your father, and I suspect that’s not a recent thing. He’s obviously been a huge presence in your life. All sons feel a need to impress and prove themselves to their fathers, and some are harder to please than others.”
I don’t say anything.
“You’re still grieving over your mother’s death,” she continues. “Of course you are, because the loss of a mother never goes away. Most of us who lose someone to cancer have lots of blame to throw around—we blame the disease and we blame ourselves for not working hard enough to find a way to fix them and we blame the hospital and the doctors and nurses for letting them die, even though of course we know it wasn’t their fault.”
I look away, out of the window.
“And on top of all that,” she continues relentlessly, “maybe because of the way your father is, and also because it’s a part of your nature, you’re imbued with this incredible drive to succeed and to make something of yourself, so you work fourteen-hour days, and subject yourself to incredible stress. And it’s like lying down with a stone monolith on your chest. If you don’t have support, it will eventually crush you. It’s too much for one person to bear. Are you seeing a therapist?”
Speechless, I shake my head.
“You should,” she says. “You should talk to someone who can listen and give you ways to work on releasing that stress.”
“I’m talking to you,” I reply.
“I think after what happened between us, I’m not the right person to help you.”
“I’m sure you can think of a way to help me release my stress.” I let my lips curve up.
I thought it would make her blush, but instead she lifts an eyebrow. “You think turning this conversation to sex will distract attention from the fact that you’re struggling and hurting and need help?”
I’ve never had anyone talk to me like this before. Even men who are good friends don’t discuss thoughts and feelings. Women I know through work would also never talk about personal issues. And it’s only now that I realize the few women I’ve had serious relationships with were never interested in me like this. They only wanted to know how I was feeling or what I was thinking when it impacted on them in some way. I’d come to assume that everyone is selfish and concerned only with themselves. So maybe that’s why Scarlett’s open discussion shocks me to the core.
“You’re a qualified therapist?” I ask.
“I don’t just weave flax and eat kale over there.” Her lips twitch as she leans forward and picks up one of the brownies. She takes a bite and chews, then says, “Mmm. These are lovely.”
I pick one up and take a bite. “Yeah.”
“They’ve got cherries in.”
“Have they?” I look at it in surprise. “I guess.”
“You didn’t know?”
“Well, I didn’t make them myself.”
She laughs. “No, I guess not. Although you said you liked cooking.”
“I can fry a steak. I’m not a great baker.”
“Pity. I can see you with the white hat and checked trousers.”
We both chuckle.
“I suppose we should talk business,” she says, “rather than continue embarrassing you.”