“Okay, fine,” she whispered and I felt like I had just won another mini-battle. “When’s your next root canal?”

“In a couple of days.”

“Do you need . . .”

“Nah, I’m good.” I was tempted to say yes if only to be certain to see her again. I loved being around her even if I wasn’t exactly sure what the hell we were doing. “Check in with you after, though?”

“Absolutely.”

We stepped up to the counter to place our orders. “I’ll have a pineapple coconut and . . . Jessie?”

She gave me a funny glance before placing her order for a medium strawberry banana.

As we moved down the line I said, “What was that look for?”

“You just ordered a smoothie with the two flavors I hate most in the entire universe.”

“Are you kidding me? You’ve never had one of those fancy beach drinks, like a piña colada?”

“Gross.” She scrunched up her nose. “Just the thought of those flavors mixing together with any type of alcohol makes me want to gag.”

I shook my head and grabbed our drinks. Jessie continued to surprise me at every turn and I couldn’t keep the smile from tugging at my lips.

I took a huge gulp of my beverage, made a big display of swishing it around my mouth and then leaned toward her lips. “So you wouldn’t want me to breathe anywhere near you right now?”

Her gaze shifted between my lips and eyes and I could’ve sworn I saw a flicker of longing flash in her irises. “Guess you’ll have to keep your distance.”

I cracked a grin and bent even closer. She pumped out one ragged breath. “Are you averse to the smell of suntan lotion as well?”

“Hmmm . . . I guess it’s more the taste and not the smell.”

“Taste, huh?” I watched her open her lid and dig a plastic utensil in her cup. “Is that why you’re eating your smoothie with a spoon as opposed to sipping it through a straw, like a normal person?”

“The flavor is stronger this way,” she said and then shoved a heaping serving toward my mouth. “Try it, you’ll see.”

As I swallowed the frozen concoction, she stared at my lips awaiting my reaction. I had the urge to yank her mouth toward mine and sample her sweetness, too.

“Tastes the same to me.” I shrugged. “But now you’ve got my coconut germs on your spoon.”

She rolled her eyes and laughed. “C’mon, walk me back to my car. I’ve got to get to Raw Ink.”

***

My phone rang just as I got home from my appointment with Dr. Drake.

“Hi, Mom,” I said, sinking into my couch and throwing my feet on the coffee table.

Today I expressed to Dr. Drake how much damn effort it took to hold it all inside. He suggested I seek support from close friends, when I was ready. He said I’d be surprised how many people probably already had an inkling about my dad, or how many might have gone through something similar. Lots of people had shitty childhoods, he’d said, and still grew up to create healthy relationships of their own.

“What are you up to, sweetie?”

“I just got home.” I hesitated. But then drew a deep breath. “I just . . . I’ve begun . . . seeing a therapist.”

“What?” she said, her voice panicked. “Why, honey?”

“You know why, Mom,” I said, pretty much expecting that reaction from her. “Our family is messed up and I needed to talk to somebody about how everything has affected me.”

There was silence on the line but I could hear her heavy breaths.

“I . . . I . . . okay, honey. If that’s what you need,” she said. “I’d just recommended you keep that information from your father and brother.”

That’s when I lost it. I rarely argued with my mother, but today I was ready to go toe to toe. “Why, Mom? Is that something I should be embarrassed about? Because I’m tired of feeling shame. In fact, I think I’ve had enough shame to last me a lifetime.”

“Nate, stop it, right this instant,” she said, her voice shaking. “You know your father doesn’t believe in therapy or broadcasting our family secrets.”

“See that’s the problem right there, Mom,” I said. “He’s worried because he’s done some fucked-up things. And he doesn’t want anybody to know about it. So he likes to make threats and keep us under his thumb.”

Her breathing pitched through the phone line but I kept on going.

“But I’m not going to keep pretending that it didn’t happen, that he isn’t who he is. I’m an adult, not a scared little kid anymore,” I said.

“Nate, I don’t think . . . I don’t think you should—” and then she dissolved into tears. I waited her out, moisture pricking the corners of my eyes.

“For the first time in a long while I feel free,” I said, softening my voice. “Relief. Hope.”

“I’m sorry, Nate,” she said, sniffling into the receiver. “So sorry.”

“Mom, please,” I said, thrusting my legs on the floor and standing up. “Leave him, come live with me for a while.”

“What? No, honey, that wouldn’t work at all. You have your own life and . . . you need to finish your degree.”

“Is this about the money, because I don’t give a shit about the money,” I told her. “We can figure this out together.”