Holly throws up a hand. “Stop. Please don’t make me relive that story. I masturbated for a week after you told me the first time.”
“Noted,” I say with a smirk. “It was the sexiest, dirtiest thing I’ve ever experienced. And that’s the problem. I’m not this dirty woman who hides things from the people she cares about. I am not the therapist teetering on the edge of breaking client privilege because it’s all justtoo much.”
She cuts me off mid-rant. “Here. Taste this.”
She’s trying a new seasonal coffee flavor and I perk up because I love being her taste-test dummy. “What is it?”
Her smile could light a tree. “I’m thinking of calling it Holly’s PJs or P.O.J.”
I take a sip. “What does it stand for?”
“Peanut butter on Java. Oat milk whipped topping made with peanuts from local Black farmers.”
“I love it. Sweet, creamy, right amount of nut.”
“That’s what she said,” Holly deadpans, and we both crack up.
We’ve bonded overthat’s what he said/she saidjokes almost as much as coffee.
I squint at her cup. “But wouldn’t it be PBJ?”
She glares. “Heiffer! Did I say peanut butter andjelly?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Thank you. Now you’re gonna tell all your rich friends to come get a taste of my new drink, right?”
“Yes, Holly. I’ll make sure everyone gets a taste of your crazy invention–P.O.J.”
“Thank you. Now, back to you.”
I groan. “I know. What should I do?”
“Listen, while Ididtake nine hours of life coaching classes for my life coaching certification, I think you’re gonna need someone a little more qualified than me. This,” she gestures to me like I’m a walking case file. “Everything you’re dealing with, is heavy, mama. You need to talk to someone. Someone more able to handle this than your local neighborhood coffee lady.”
I laugh, then exhale, the sound more like acknowledgement than amusement. She’s right.
One of the first things you learn as a therapist is that youwillneed your own therapist. A safe place to unburden yourself. In all my years of practice, I’ve never actually had that. Never thought I needed it.
Most of my work has been coaching spoiled executives and counseling people whose biggest obstacle was getting out of their own way. But this job? Being the team’s therapist and performance coach? It’s an entirely different beast.
Beautiful boys pretending to be men, each carrying enough baggage to sink a ship, burying it all in the game until the whistle blows and they’re left with nothing but the weight of it again. It’s heartbreaking.
And to add insult to my already fragile professional ethics, I’ve gone and fallen in love with my best friend’s fine-ass father.
“You’re right,” I admit, my voice softer now. “I do need to talk to someone.”
I squint, lowering my head a little in mock shame. “So…it’sreallya bad idea if I go over to his house for Sunday dinner with him and Marlow tonight, huh?”
Holly looks at me like I just spit P.O.J. straight in her F.A.C.E. “Bitch, what have we been talking about this whole time? That man is too fine for you to be in the samezip codewithout supervision! Why would you walk straight into the line of fire like that? Marlow is your friend. Grant is off-limits. Your vagina is one bad choice away from turning into a four-alarm blaze. I beg you—do not go to that man’s house!”
I sigh. “Too late. I’m making the cornbread.”
***
In the name of avoiding temptation—and by temptation, I mean Grant Mills in all his fine-ass, broad-shouldered, salt and pepper glory—I choose an outfit that practically screamssafe. A black jogging suit and black-and-white sneakers. No heels. No cleavage. No risk.
I was told to dress down tonight, and when I warned Marlow that “dress down” for me usually means Timberlands or sneakers, she just shrugged and said I could come however I felt comfortable.