揑 remember looking over at my Mom and noticing how tired she was, but she just shook her head and quietly chuckled at me, told me I was going to miss my bus.?
I think of her face, now, and the tears instantly spill over. How she struggled not to laugh at me, how I made her flinch, shoulders jumping, when I continued my screeching.
Meyer replaces the hand in his pocket with mine梩o keep me secured or contained, I suppose梐nd wipes my face with his sleeve. When he抯 satisfied, he pulls my hand back out, laces our fingers together, and patiently waits for me to continue.
揑， um?I went to leave, and I was so angry I wanted to break something. I remember thinking that. But I didn抰 actually intend to do it, you know?
揃ut, I grabbed my umbrella, and in my tantrum I shoved it open so hard that it went completely inside out. All the spindles on one side poked through, and I tried to right it but?it was already torn. I burst into tears and my Mom was still gentle with me. Gentle, but firm. She calmly walked up to me, turned it the correct way, handed it back to me and said, 慡erves you right for getting mad at the rain, Farley,挃 I exhale a shaky breath. 揥hen I got home that night I cried some more, and apologized. She told me she forgave me, told me that it was okay, to forgive myself. She said that it was going to be one of our favorite stories one day because that was me. I was always going to have big feelings, and it was going to be up to me to make sure they were worth it. She told me I was going to have to learn to wear those feelings proudly, without doing damage to the things or people I love, that I抎 only hurt myself in the process if I did.?I look back up at Meyer and let my eyes slip along my favorite corners of his face. The ripples of his forehead, the jut of his jaw.
揥hat happened to the umbrella??he asks.
揑 used it for years, actually. Up until it basically disintegrated outside of Lance抯梠n the day I met you.?I laugh, remembering. 揃ecause of my many shoddy patch-up jobs over the years, it had become a little sloped in one section and would collect rain. So when it fully broke, it dumped more water on me than if I抎 have not used it in the first place.?I smile as another tear falls.
揝o, yeah. I guess I抳e always had a thing for umbrellas.?
His mouth lifts into a sad smile. 揃ut you don抰 want a new one??
I shrug. It doesn抰 make sense to me either. 揑抣l just keep borrowing yours, if that抯 alright.?
He nods.
揝he sounds like she was pretty great, Fee,?he says, swiping his thumb over the back of my hand.
揝he was.?
He reaches between us with his free hand, stalling midway before he tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
揧ou know,?I start, letting it barrel out of me in a moment of bravery, 搒he and I watched a few of your sets together. Not in person since I was too young, obviously. But she loved your stuff. She used to call it 慶austic??
His eyes widen and his face falls. He visibly struggles with a reply before he comes up with, 揟hat makes me really happy, Fee. Thank you for telling me.?
Click
I blink, then look to my right and see a man with a camera.
So, I smile and wave.
10
32 MONTHS AGO
揗y psychiatrist told me I was crazy and I said I want a second opinion. He said okay, you抮e ugly too.?- Rodney Dangerfield
FARLEY
My steps hit the ground hard enough to reverberate up my shins as I get to the parking lot. I swipe angrily at my phone, which naturally results in it not registering anything, until I slide into my car and slam the door. After a soothing breath, I manage to scroll to Meyer抯 name and hit call.
揌ey.?
揝he doesn抰 fucking like me, Meyer.?
揟oday was therapy??
揝ee!!! You know what I抦 talking about before I even have to explain!!!?
揑 know because it抯 on the calendar and because I know you,?he replies, offensively calm.
揂nd you know how inherently unlikeable I am? Respectfully, Meyer, what the fuck??
He sighs wearily and says something to someone away from the phone.
揙h, I桰 didn抰 know you were busy. Why would you answer if you抮e busy with someone??
揥hat makes you think she doesn抰 like you, Jones??he breezes past my question.
揝he didn抰 laugh or even smile at any of my charming quips. Not one, Meyer.?
揊arley. She is your therapist. You are not there to entertain her.?
揙h, bullshit. Why would anyone be a therapist if they didn抰 want to be entertained by other people抯 issues??
揂lso, this just confirms why therapy is important for you. For me. For all of us, but especially people in this field. Your likability is not directly correlated to how much you make someone laugh.?
揊irst of all, how dare you. Second of all, she wouldn抰 even meet me halfway, Meyer. She straight up ignored my self-deprecating comments. I even told her that story about how you made fun of my run, and how I didn抰 think I actually cared, but then I had that dream棓
揊ucking hell, Jones, you performed a bit for her?!?
揑 didn抰 perform it. I asked her to translate the Freudian meaning behind the dream. I told her how I was being chased by killers and how they stopped and started laughing at my run. So, I asked, does this just mean that I need to take running lessons, or does it mean that I am so deeply self-conscious that I worry that even a killer would find me lacking-slash-unworthy??
揗eet me for lunch somewhere. I need to see your face to gauge how serious you are with this shit.?
揊ine!?
揟he Kabob place down the street from Lance抯 in thirty??
揊ine.?
My steps stutter as I take Meyer in at a table on the patio. He抯 already got an empty platter of hummus in front of him, with my favorite marinated chicken pita half-eaten on another.
揥hat the hell? You ordered without me??
He slides his palms down his parted, jean-clad thighs, and something hitches in my lower gut. It抯 a constant with him lately, yet I抦 caught off guard every time. I wish I could at least predict which things would make my stomach dip so I抎 know what to avoid. But it抯 always some tiny mannerism, some passing comment, or even some sound.
Last week, he pumped my gas for me and wiped off my windshield, his shirt riding up to expose a strip of toned torso, a dusting of hair trailing down from his bellybutton?I broke out in a cold sweat.
揑 did. I didn抰 know if this was a professional lunch or not, after all.?
揥hat does that mean??
揑t means that I don抰 know if I抦 still going to be your manager.?
揗eyer棓 I whine.
揓ones. Listen to me. Therapy is a condition of me working with you. I抳e got no interest in working with you closely and watching you fade. And you fucking will if you don抰 learn how to balance your shit out. You can still use your humor, wield that like a whip, but keep your mental health a priority. Which means learning tools from an expert. I feel secure in saying this to you, and not at all lame, and I抦 not even tempted to make a self-deprecating joke about it because梱ou guessed it桰 go to therapy.?he folds his arms onto the table and cocks his head, looking me directly in the eyes.
揥ell, you抮e kind of unfunny for a comedian,?I retort primly.
His palms go to his heart in mock horror. 揓ust wait until I tell you about your meeting with a financial advisor and how I plan to make you set up a 401k.?
揕ovely. Do you jerk off to Dave Ramsey, too??
揘o, but I did find a podcast of women who talk about NFT抯 and sometimes I抣l have a go at myself to that.?
I know he抯 kidding （I mean, he has to be, right?） but the mental image of Meyer gripping himself in the shower sweeps over me and pulls me under. I can抰 swallow air back fast enough, my stomach left somewhere above my skull in the atmosphere. Nononono?