“You do a shit load of charity work,” I told him. “You aren’t married now but you were once, or at least engaged. No kids. You drive a Land Rover, and you like off-roading on the weekends. You probably tried to get into the military, but because of your foot, you didn’t qualify for active service, and you used it as an excuse to go to school. Your dad probably hated the idea of you becoming a shrink, which is why you don’t speak anymore.”
Trying to keep my breaths calm, I stared at him as he opened and closed his mouth a few times. Eventually, he cringed a bit and found his tongue.
“Evan, have you been…spying on me?”
“No,” I snapped. “You told me all of it, just not with your mouth. Don’t ever think I miss the details.”
It took him several minutes, but he eventually gathered his wits about himself again and continued on.
“I meant you might be missing some of the…nuances of female behavior.”
“She was having a good time,” I said. “I know how to tell when a chick is happy.”
“And then…what?” Mark asked. “You are obviously observant, so tell me what you saw.”
My tongue ran over my lips as I conjured up images of Bridgett running across the park and away from me. Playing the whole scene in reverse, I brought myself back to the dog park and her back pressed to my chest.
“I told her…I told her none of this shit was serious,” I paraphrased. “She already knew that.”
“She wanted more.”
My eyes moved from the rug to his face, and I stared at him for a long moment before shaking my head and returning my gaze to the swirly patterns.
“There isn’t anything else.”
“You don’t think you have anything to offer a woman?”
“I don’t think anything I have to offer a woman is in her best interest. Seriously, you’ve got a better idea of how…of what I’ve…of what happened. How could I ever try to explain that to a date?”
“Lots of people deal with PTSD every day, Evan,” he reminded me. “You don’t do too badly for yourself. I know working under the table isn’t ideal, but at least you’re not a criminal, right?”
I tried not to actually laugh.
“Tell me one thing,” Mark said as the session ended and I got up to leave, “how did you know about my father?”
“Your jackets don’t fit right.”
“What?”
I took a long, deep breath.
“You’re fine in jeans and polos, but whenever I see you wearing a button down shirt, dress pants, or a jacket, they’re wrinkled and they don’t fit right. Rich kids get taught that shit. You’re a blue-collar guy.”
“You still haven’t said anything about my father.”
I rolled my eyes.
“No blue-collar guy goes into a white-collar profession without pissing off his dad.”
Mark laughed, and I took the opportunity to get the hell out before he asked me anything else. Besides, I had a little side trip I wanted to take, and I needed to do something first.
I grabbed my phone out of my back pocket.
“Hey, Nick,” I said when he answered.
“Hey there!” Nick replied.
“Am I interrupting anything?” I asked.