She knows I can’t resist the puppy-dog eyes, so I don’t bother trying. Honestly, I’m just grateful she’s fitting in. “Let me text Mrs. Cox to make sure it’s okay with her.”
“Thank you!” She bounces up to kiss me on the cheek, smearing my skin with the sticky lip gloss she’s been wearing lately.
Since I’m a sucker, I don’t bother wiping it off as I continue on my path to see Mari. By the time I get there, she’s moved on to talking with a woman I recognize as the community’s hairdresser.
“And how did you feel when you caught him in bed with your sister?” Mari looks kind and earnest, her gaze fixed intently on the woman’s face.
“Terrible,” the other woman says. “But like—how do I move past that? I feel like such a failure.”
Mari shakes her head and slides an amber-filled glass across the bar. “Your marriage wasn’t a failure. Think of it as graduating to something else. Something better.”
I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but I can’t look away. Seeing Mari in her element like this is captivating. I notice the long line of customers snaking from the bar around a curve in the cavernous bunker. As she sends the hairdresser away with a hug, she moves to the next guy in line.
“Can I pour you something, Sam?”
He shakes his head. “Nah, I don’t even like beer. But maybe you can suggest how to handle it the next time my mom calls and starts telling me what a failure I am?”
Mari doesn’t miss a beat. “Why is it you think you should be responsible for managing someone else’s disappointment?”
The man’s brow furrows. “Wow, that’s—I never thought of it like that.”
Someone touches my arm, and I turn to see Lana smiling at me. “She’s great, isn’t she?”
I nod, thinking of way more than her skills as a therapist. “I’m surprised she’d agree to do this out in the open.”
Lana points to a sign above the bar. Free mini therapy. Privacy not guaranteed.
“Ah, I see.” I’m guessing for folks who agree to star in reality TV shows, privacy isn’t a top priority. I’ve sure as hell had to get used to it. “Does she see this kind of volume in her office every day?”
“No, that’s the thing.” Lana gestures to the bar lined with beer taps and a jar that says “tips: take one.” It’s filled with tiny cards, and I’d bet my last paycheck they’re filled with therapy advice. “Something about this format has people falling over themselves to share. I guess it’s about making it accessible.”
Or it’s about seeing Mari looking competent and courageous and open as hell. When she looks at me and smiles, my heart starts knocking in my chest. I wave, but she’s already turning back to the woman next in line.
“Everyone needs a coping mechanism,” she’s saying. “Some—like exercise or meditation—are healthy, while others—drugs or violence, for example—are less healthy strategies for coping.”
The woman nods, then points to the taps. “How healthy is the IPA?”
Mari grins and grabs a taster glass. “Everything in moderation,” she says. “Besides, a study at Loyola University found that moderate beer drinkers are twenty-three percent less likely to develop dementia than those who don’t drink beer.”
“No kidding? I always knew it made me smarter.”
The woman wanders away with her taster glass as I glance toward the back of the line. It stretches clear into the next room, with everyone waiting their turn for Mari to address what’s ailing them. Young, old, male, female, smiling, unsmiling—they’re stacked single-file and eager for this stunning, brilliant woman to dole out advice.
My chest squeezes tight, and I force myself to look away. This is…not good. Or hell, maybe it is good. Maybe I’m ready to move on. Not just a physical fling, but a relationship with real emotions. A relationship with Mari. I think I could be ready for that. A shrink could say for sure, but being with Mari has taught me plenty about trusting my instincts.
I glance back at her, feeling another surge of instinct rising inside me.
This one.
I shake my head. There’s no way. I’ve fallen for the soulmate myth before, and I’m not doing it again.
But maybe, just maybe, with a lot of hard work and patience, we could find a way to make it work.
That’s the moment I know I’m falling for her. As I take a sip of IPA, I decide then and there to make her fall for me, too.
Chapter 9
CONFESSIONAL 716
Judson, Marilyn, PsyD (Psychologist: Juniper Ridge)
Studies show that a sense of belonging leads to improved health, happiness, and motivation. You’ll even see “belongingness” on Abraham Maslow’s hierarchy of needs as a major motivator in human behavior.
It’s why people present themselves in particular ways with the hope of belonging to a specific group. The practice is normal and healthy and—well, yes.
Belonging to a cult does present some challenges.
I pride myself on being one hundred percent focused on the patient during every therapy session.
But normal therapy doesn’t occur in an underground bunker with a beer tap and the man who made me come my brains out standing ten feet away, so yes, I’m distracted.
That doesn’t mean I’m not giving damn sound advice.
“What if you tried this the next time you meet someone new,” I say to the pretty young horticulturalist we hired a few weeks ago to tend the Juniper Ridge grounds. “What if you thought of dating as a chance to see how you like them and if you enjoy spending time with that person, rather than focusing on getting them to like you. Concentrate on your own experiences instead of someone else’s.”
“But—” Shelly scrunches up her face. “You’re right. I do spend too much time stressing about what people think of me.”
I nod and pull the tap to splash an ounce of dark beer into the taster glass. “Try the coconut porter. You’ll like this if you enjoyed the stout.”
I can’t believe I’m doling out beer samples with mental health advice, but it’s hardly the strangest thing I’ve done in my career. I once did a morning talk show with a couple who stripped naked and got halfway to having sex on stage before the producer cut to commercial. This experience in the bunker seems tame in comparison.
“Thanks, Dr. Judson.” Shelly picks up her coconut porter.
“Mari, please.” I smile as she turns to go. “Who’s next?”
The line is finally thinning after hours of being backed to the other end of the bunker. Maybe I should start serving beer in my office. Not exactly conventional, but it could be key to getting community members to prioritize mental health.
A tall, muscular guy we hired to operate Juniper Ridge’s on-site gym steps up to the counter. “Hey, Mari,” he says. “Could I have the IPA and some advice for motivating clients to show up for personal training appointments?”
“Hey, Cal.” I pour his sample into a taster glass, taking care to let the liquid hit the side the way Griffin showed me so it doesn’t foam over. “This is the Riverside pale ale with six-percent ABV and 50 IBU. It’s made with citra and mosaic hops, and your clients might enjoy knowing that motion creates emotion.”