Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Hot pebbles crowd my throat. I feel Josiah’s eyes on my face, but can’t bring myself to meet his stare, not sure whether I’ll find contempt or compassion.
“That’s exactly right,” I tell Kassim, forcing a laugh. “I kind of fell apart for a little bit there, but talking to someone helped.”
“I’m not sick or sad,” Kassim says. “I’m not falling apart.”
The statement, spoken in complete innocence and void of any malice, lances through me for a moment. No, I was the only one who fell apart. Those familiar demons of shame and guilt pull up a seat at the counter, running cool fingers through my hair and hissing lies in my ear.
“We all need help sometimes,” Josiah says to Kassim, but looks at me. The contempt I feared his eyes would hold isn’t there. I’m not sure what is, but Josiah is hard to read in the best of times.
“You need help, Daddy?” Kassim sounds surprised, and his brows shoot up. “Do you talk to a therapist?”
Oh, this should be good.
I don’t rescue him. I can’t. Josiah has been so adamant in the past that he doesn’t need a “shrink,” I’m not sure how to help. If I’m being honest, I don’t want to.
“I’ve never talked to one, no,” Josiah says, meeting Kassim’s intent stare. “But I’ll do it if you will.”
I nearly topple off my stool.
He will?
“You will?” Kassim asks, surprise evident in his expression. Though Josiah never articulated to the kids, as far as I know, that he thinks therapy is a bullshit placebo to make you feel better and make “quacks” rich, he always seems self-contained, assured and unshakable. So hearing that he might need “help” must shock Kassim as much as it does me.
“I will.” Josiah says it smoothly, but his jaw ticks, which tells me Kassim needing him to do this is another form of duress. He’d do anything for our kids, though. I know that. He’d said he’d do anything for me, but therapy was some invisible line in the sinking sand of our life together, and he’d never talked to anyone.
And here we are.
“You talk to someone and I will too,” Josiah says, extending his hand to Kassim. “Deal?”
Kassim’s face lights up and he grabs his father’s much larger hand.
“Deal.”
Chapter Ten
Josiah
What the hell just happened?
Did I just agree to talk to a damn therapist? I don’t buy into the idea that just talking to someone about your feelings makes anything better. It may make us feel better about our shit, like we’re “taking steps,” but it doesn’t actually change anything. I know Yasmen thinks it’s helped her, but she was also on antidepressants. Drugs? Sure, those can help. Meds are measurable. They’re real. The talking shit?
“Hellooooo,” Deja says from the doorway separating the kitchen and the dining room. “Can I get another slice of pizza if you guys are finished talking about how brilliant and perfect Seem is?”
She flashes a quick grin at her brother, softening the sharp words, and musses his hair on her way to the pizza box on the counter. They may tease one another mercilessly, and are classic big sister, little brother, but they would do anything for each other. They drew closer when the seams of our family started ripping.
“Yeah, I think we’re done,” I say, looking at Yasmen and silently asking for confirmation.
“Um, yeah.” She glances at Kassim, whose expression is serene as he grabs another slice of pizza. “I think we have a plan.”
I stand, jangling the keys in my pocket. “Then I’mma head home. I’m tired and hungry and want to relax for a while. Early start tomorrow.”
I pat my leg twice. “Otis, you coming?”
I always ask, as if the dog gets the courtesy of deciding where he’ll sleep. He could bounce between the houses like the kids do, but he always stays with me. He stands and walks toward the foyer, head tilted to an imperial angle. Conceited bastard. After a bath, he practically struts at the dog park.
“I’ll walk you out,” Yasmen says, standing from the stool and following Otis.
I let her walk a little ahead of me. These damn pants she’s wearing. The material must be hand-sewn by the devil and shipped from hell the way it hugs her ass and hips. The T-shirt crops just above her waist, gifting glimpses of her stomach—smooth and brown and toned. Beneath the top, her breasts hang ripe and overfull. When we were married, she’d walk around the house with no bra to torture me. I never missed an opportunity to drag her into the pantry or into a corner, tug up her shirt, bare her breasts, and suck her nipples. It was our own kind of foreplay. There were times, if the kids were upstairs or out of the house, when I would take her on the kitchen counter. Spread her wide, eat her out.