Andrew: So it’s my mystique with the neighbors that made you bring me a Hi cake.
Tessa: There’s also the fact that you’re single and hot. I admit it.
Andrew: Jesus, you need your head examined. Are you one of those crazy needy people who become stalkers?
Tessa: No, I’m just a single girl who spent too many years in L.A. dating a lot of creeps. I like single, hot, interesting guys. So sue me.
Andrew: Why are you in Millwood?
Tessa: My grandmother died and left me a free house. It was better than what I was doing, so I took it.
Andrew: Not a bad deal, I suppose.
Tessa: No, except that I’m starting to think the air conditioning is broken. It’s too hot to sleep at night. I’m so fucking tired. You don’t know anything about fixing air conditioners, do you?
Andrew: I draw comics. I don’t fix things.
Tessa: You draw comics? How did I not know this?
Andrew: Because we literally don’t know each other?
Tessa: You ate my cake. We know each other well enough.
Andrew: I find you confusing. What do you want from me?
Tessa: Admit you liked my cake.
Andrew: No.
Tessa: Admit it.
Andrew: My wellness therapist is here. I have to go.
Tessa: Your what?
Andrew: It’s fucking weird, so don’t ask.
Tessa: Who is that woman getting out of her car in your driveway? Is she actually wearing a caftan?
Andrew: Welcome to my shitty life. Now go away.
Andrew
Donna the wellness therapist was about fifty, with drawn-on eyebrows and a large bushel of brown curly hair. She tended to wear caftans over flowered tights, and her bracelets jangled as she motioned with her hands. I told myself the reason I didn’t kick her out every time was because my mother had hired her, but the truth was she sort of amused me.
Today she sat facing me where I sat on the couch. I had my legs arranged neatly and carefully, because without any sensation it was easy to injure my legs and ankles without knowing it. But once arranged I lounged back, my plate with its piece of Hi cake in hand.
“So,” Donna said after she had closed the blinds and lit some incense, her usual method of starting therapy. “Your brother is gone on his honeymoon. I sense grief coming from you.”
“There’s no grief,” I said, taking a bite. The cake was vanilla, buttery, and—I could admit it to myself—delicious.
“There is definitely grief,” Donna said. “It’s coming off you as an aura. Deep blue.”
“That’s just my usual misery,” I said. “My grief is burgundy.”
She shook her head. The problem with Donna was that it was nearly impossible to tease her. “No, your deep blue is definitely grief. Your brother was very important to you. He was your connection to the outside world.”
“Is,” I corrected her. “He is my connection, not was.”