“Down,” Skip says, flattening out his hand and moving his palm toward the floor.
Romeo ignores him.
“Down,” I repeat, mimicking the gesture and taking a step back so that Romeo’s paws slip off me.
I look at Skip. “Guess we’re going to have to learn some basic commands.”
Skip nods. “A dog that size needs to know when to sit, get down, and stay. It could actually save his life.”
“Really?”
“The streets around here are busy. You don’t want to lose control of him.”
I nod and take off Romeo’s cone so he can eat. “You’ve already earned your dinner, Skip. Anything else?”
“Any bad habits he has—don’t discipline him. It’s not his fault. Redirect and reward him with a treat, since he’s obviously food motivated.”
I like Skip’s approach. There’s a lot I like about him, actually.
I wonder again why our relationship fizzled before it could ever start. Maybe it was timing. Or maybe it’s because Skip is the kind of guy you get serious with, and I don’t want to be serious with anyone right now.
We slide into the banquet and eat in silence for a minute while Romeo wolfs down his kibble, then he flops under the table by my feet with a satisfied sigh.
“He’s doing really well with you around now,” I observe.
The velvety wine and hot, spicy panang have chased away the chill I felt outdoors. It’s also comforting to step out of my usual role and let Skip be the fixer with his concise directions about what I should and shouldn’t do.
“So, give me an update on the houses you’re building. They’re in Bethesda, right? Has construction started yet?”
“It’s good. Permitting took forever, but we break ground in two weeks. We’ve presold forty percent of them, so I’m happy. What about you? Any interesting new clients?”
Since I’m not a therapist, I’m not bound by the rules of confidentiality. Still, I’m circumspect in discussing the people who come to see me. Never using names or identifying details is one of my hard-and-fast rules.
“A few. I’m wrapping up with a young woman who kept getting her heart broken. She’s in a better place now.”
“Yeah?” Skip takes a big sip of wine. “You know, I was wondering—” He cuts himself off.
“C’mon,” I prompt.
“I don’t know, maybe you can give me a little advice, too?”
I shrug. “I can try. What’s going on?”
“It’s my sister. She’s been dating this guy for a while now. I think he’s bad news.”
“How so?”
“I’ve been picking up signs that he’s not the great person everyone thinks he is … and I’m worried about her.”
“Anything specific?”
“I’ve got my suspicions, but nothing I can verify. Do you think I should say anything to her?”
“That’s tricky. Shoot the messenger is a popular expression for a reason. She might resent you, even if you’re pointing out what she subconsciously knows already. On the flip side, if what you’re saying is accurate, something inside her will recognize it as truth. She won’t be able to unhear your words.”
Skip leans toward me, his expression intent, his half-eaten spring roll seemingly forgotten on his plate.
“It’s a risk,” I continue. “Your relationship might never be the same. Or you two might become closer.”
He nods slowly. “Thanks. You’re right, it is complicated.”
He looks down at his plate, then back up at me. “Have you ever treated patients like that?”
“Like what? Your sister and her boyfriend?”
“I guess I’m grasping at straws.” He gives a little laugh. “I was just wondering if you’d seen that dynamic before and how it played out.”
I shrug. “Sure. Power struggles are common in relationships, but attempts at control raise that dynamic to a whole new level. Remember that woman I told you about who was living with a controlling husband?”
It wasn’t a woman—it was Cameron. I’d shared the broad outlines of his case with Skip one night when we’d been trading stories about our lives. We’d also talked about my marriage to Paul, and Skip told me his real name was Steven, and that he’d earned his nickname as a boy because he’d been obsessed with sailing—Skip for “skipper.”
Skip nods and takes a sip of wine. “Right, she’s the one who was in IT?”