“Nice job there.” Mari Judson steps into my line of sight, her purse strap pressing a path between her breasts that I definitely do not notice. “Seems like you’re getting the hang of all this?”
I shrug and dust my hands on my jeans. “I’ve brewed about twelve zillion batches of beer in my lifetime. I could do this in my sleep.”
“I meant the production side of things.”
“Oh.” Hell. We’re destined to miscommunicate at every turn, which is a shame. Blame it on the golden warmth in her eyes, or the way she always looks like she’s staring right into my brain.
Scary thought, so I glance away. “Let me know if you want to try the new pale ale. We’re bottling it tonight.”
“Thank you.” Her smile is stiff and polite, which I’m taking to mean she’d rather gargle swamp water. “Actually, I came by to give you something.”
“Me?” I’m just dumb enough to think for a split second that she’s offering a kiss. Also dumb enough to think I’d accept, so it takes a second to regain my bearings. “What is it?”
She slides her hand into her bag and comes out with two paperbacks. “These books on adolescent psychology. This one with the white cover—it’s specifically about communication strategies for teenage girls. The other is more general. A focus on the difficulties and opportunities surrounding puberty, if you will.”
“I will.” My hand closes around the books, fingers brushing her knuckles and making me forget what the hell we’re talking about. “Read them, I mean. The books. I promise to read them.”
She smiles, and the bottom falls out of my stomach. “It’s not assigned homework or anything,” she says. “I just thought it might be useful after—after our conversation.”
Her cheeks flush pink, and I can see she’s about to apologize again, so I cut her off before she can bring up our awkward exchange. “Thanks.” I clear my throat and set the books on a bank of storage lockers. “Things are going better. With Sophie, I mean.”
“Good. Wonderful, I mean. That’s great.” She winces. “I really am sorry about—”
“Don’t.” I drag a hand through my hair. “Look, I probably owe you an apology. If I hadn’t been such a grumpy asshole, we’d have avoided the misunderstanding in the first place.”
She opens her mouth like she’s thinking about arguing, then presses her lips together. Her eyes search mine, and there’s a weird flutter in my belly. “Can I ask you something?”
I’m instantly on guard but feel myself nodding. “Sure.”
She pauses, choosing her words with care. “Are you uncomfortable around me? Or I should say therapy in general—is that something outside your comfort zone?”
I hesitate. I made no secret of my divorced status when the Judsons interviewed me to join the show, but I’m sensing Mari wants more.
For some reason, I feel like giving it to her. “My divorce was—ugly.” That’s a fucking understatement. “My wife—my ex-wife—was seeing a therapist for a while before she asked for a divorce. I guess you could say the request took me by surprise.”
Again with the understatement. I still see Gabby’s face in my mind, her green eyes filled with tears.
“I never realized before how unhappy I’ve become.”
Mari’s eyes search mine, and I could swear she hears that same echo of my ex-wife’s voice. “I see,” she says softly. “And you think she wouldn’t have asked for a divorce without the therapist’s involvement?”
I grit my teeth, reminding myself to tread carefully. “I don’t think the shrink put her up to it, if that’s what you’re asking. But I’m not sure she’d have reached that decision on her own.”
Mari nods, and I try not to get lost in her eyes. “That sounds very painful.”
“Yeah, well…” I trail off there, not wanting to get into it. “We also did couples’ therapy after that. Let’s just say it didn’t go great.”
Mari’s expression is one of solemn sympathy, and I wonder if they teach that in shrink school. “Couples’ counseling is typically about either saying hello or saying goodbye,” she says. “People often come to the process when they’re past the point of achieving the former.”
“Yeah. I guess that was it.”
I still remember Gabby sitting there like a statue, her mind made up. I knew by then she was just going through the motions, and I wished like hell the shrink would snap her out of it. To say something, anything, to bring my wife back.
But that’s ancient history. I’m over it now. Moving on with my life and whatnot.
Mari’s still looking at me, her expectant expression suggesting she might squeeze my brain like a grapefruit to get more out of it. “It’s understandable that might leave a bad taste in your mouth,” she says.
I’m still stuck thinking about grapefruit, so my brain does a weird short-circuit and blurts the first thing flashing through it. “Citra.”
She blinks. “I beg your pardon?”
“Citra,” I repeat like a dumbass. “It’s—uh—one of my favorite hops with lots of grapefruit and tropical flavors. I keep thinking I smell it, which is weird since I’m not getting a hops shipment until tomorrow.”
Looking startled, Mari touches her hair. “Oh. Um, it might be my shampoo. It’s some sort of citrusy fragrance. I’m sorry it’s a little strong.”
“No, it’s great—I mean, you smell amazing.”
Oh, God. Kill me now.
I’m sniffing the pretty shrink like some pervert, but she just smiles like she’s used to random strangers smelling her. “Thank you. And kudos to you for wanting a better life for you and your daughter. Being a single dad isn’t easy. It’s great you’re looking for ways to improve communication.”
“Thanks.” My shoulders relax as I recognize the olive branch. Talking about Sophie feels way safer than talking about my ex-wife or the smell of the sexy psychologist’s hair. “My kid’s amazing, so that helps.”
Like I’ve cued her to take the stage, my daughter bangs through a side door. Sophie’s wheat-colored hair is curly today, framing her face in wisps that remind me of the family photos we took on her fifth birthday. Her T-shirt is black instead of the pink daisy one she wore back then, and there’s black goop around her eyes that makes her look like an angry raccoon.
I bite my tongue, deciding to pick my battles. It’s not every day my kid comes to visit me at work.
“Hey, baby.” I hold open my arms, surprised when she launches herself into them like she’s waited all day for this hug. “How was school?”
“Good. I got invited to a sleepover and Mrs. Gibson is making us write a paper on Ivan Pavlov, so that’s lame. But he did do cool stuff with the dogs, so maybe it’s okay.”
This is about a dozen more words than she’s uttered to me in weeks, and I fight the urge to do a fist-pump. I dare a glimpse at Mari, whose face glows with an encouraging smile.
“Hello, Sophie.” She holds out her hand, and my kid blinks at it a moment before extending her own hand to shake. “I’m Marilyn Judson. Mari. We met at orientation?”