“Yeah. You know? That little zing, when you talk to someone or touch someone that you’re attracted to and like? That’s a thing, right?”
The lines around Andy’s eyes crinkled. “I think we all call the zing something different, but yes. How long has it been since you’ve felt that zing?”
Since about an hour ago. Katrina carefully avoided glancing in the direction of the office door. Or more accurately, at the man who was waiting for her outside it. She wasn’t ready to talk about that yet with Andy. She kind of hoped she’d never need to. “I don’t know. I’ve always been a romantic, but . . . I didn’t think it was for me, and I was at peace with that. These urges are kinda new.”
“Not wanting sex and romance is totally natural. So is wanting sex and romance. Going back and forth between those wants, depending on where you are in your life, that’s also fine.”
“I’m not doing this because I feel pressured or anything, don’t worry.” She lifted her shoulders. I want to figure out if these things I’ve started feeling for this one particular man will translate over to other men, because I can’t . . . with him.
Later. She’d discuss him with Andy later. She needed to process him first.
“I might be scared to actually meet someone face-to-face.”
“You fear you won’t be able to mask?”
“That’s part of it.” Masking was a nice word Katrina had learned from Andy. It covered what she did when she went out in the world and pretended she wasn’t sweating over what her brain and body might do to her.
Fear of fear. That was what her very first therapist had called her panic disorder, and it was accurate.
“It’s always an option to tell someone up front that you may have a panic attack, if you feel comfortable doing so.”
She inwardly shuddered. That was an option, but only a select few people knew about her panic attacks. They made her vulnerable, and she knew how vulnerability could be used against her. “I don’t think I’m there yet.”
“You don’t have to be. Only do as much or as little as you feel comfortable doing.” Andy grinned. “I’m not telling you to be a serial ghoster, but don’t beat yourself up.”
Katrina picked at her cuticles, then stopped when she noticed the quick glance Andy shot her hands. “Got it.” Andy’s nonjudgmental face was calming, but Katrina didn’t know if she’d ever be at a point in her life where she’d stop judging herself.
“It’s one step in front of another. Downloading the app, texting, talking, having a coffee. You’re in charge.”
Find someone else. Anyone else. “Okay.”
They spoke for a few minutes about other, more casual matters, until Andy discreetly checked her watch. “Is there anything else going on that you want to talk about?”
Katrina kept her face placid. When she exerted a small amount of effort, she was a stellar actress. “I’m good, thanks.”
“Same time next week?”
“Absolutely. Thanks as always for meeting me here.” She politely stood when Andy did and walked her to the door. Andy’s leather jacket creaked when she grabbed the helmet from the coatrack. She and Andy had started meeting in person relatively recently. Before this, they’d conducted most of their weekly sessions via video.
“No thanks necessary.” Andy embraced her and patted her on the back gently. “I can see myself out. Text or call if you need anything.”
“I will.” Katrina waited for Andy to make her way down the hallway to the back door of the building before heading in the other direction, toward the café’s dining area.
The large place was usually filled with sun, but the blinds were still closed, giving it an intimate, quiet air. This street didn’t get much foot traffic in the early morning, so the owner opened late and focused on brunch and lunch.
Katrina went straight to the counter. She avoided looking in the mirror behind the register that reflected the whole café.
And the tall, dark, and handsome man sitting motionless near the door.
Instead, she visually traced the sign hung above the mirror, made up of driftwood and rope, the kind of thing you could get at a stall on the beach.
Happiness is a radical act.
She mouthed the words to herself, as she had since the first time she’d come in here, pushing them into her soul.
A slight silver-haired woman bustled out of the kitchen and beamed at Katrina. Her face was wrinkled from sun, weathered by wind and the ocean. The eighty-year-old café owner remained an avid surfer. Every morning before she came to this shop, she hit the beach. “How was your visit with your little friend?”
“Lovely, thank you.” Mona Rodriguez knew Andy was her therapist. For a year now, every Thursday morning, Mona had graciously provided the use of her back office before the business opened. She treated Katrina like her granddaughter and the sessions like they were playdates.
“Are you staying for a bit? Can I get you more coffee?”
Katrina nodded. Sometimes she left before Mona opened, but today she’d like to be around other people. “Yes, please. Two, actually, and a croissant.” She handed over her mug and tapped her smart watch to pull up her credit card.
Mona shook her head firmly as she poured the coffee. “No charge on refills.”
Katrina raised an eyebrow, not swayed by this new tactic. “We both know that’s not your policy, and one of those isn’t a refill. Well, two of those, since a croissant can’t be refilled.”
Mona smiled. “It’s my policy for investors, especially when those investors are friends.”
Warmth filled her heart and Katrina couldn’t help but smile back, though her sigh was exasperated. “We’ve been over this. That wasn’t an investment, I want no equity.”
“When someone saves my business from a big shitty corporation trying to steal it from me, and tells me they don’t want to be paid back”—Mona scooped a croissant from the display case onto a plate—“I consider them investors, and they get a free cup of fucking coffee every now and then.”
Katrina’s cheeks turned hot. The situation hadn’t been nearly as dramatic as Mona made it sound. A few months ago, Katrina had learned that French Coast had been served notice of a sky-high rent increase. It was a common ploy to force older mom-and-pop shops out in favor of big-chain money.
Mona had started this business with her husband forty years ago. Her spouse and son were gone. She needed the café and not only for the money it provided.
Katrina didn’t lack for money. It hadn’t pained her to give Mona a cash infusion to make up the difference in the higher rent and float her through a couple years. She’d earned that money back easily on her actual investments.
Her gift had been partially made out of sentiment. This had been the first place she’d managed to step inside of, after almost five years, where her PTSD and panic disorder had narrowed her range of activity to her own home and the grounds around it. The coffee shop was a simple place, but coming here had given her the confidence to try to go to another place, and then another.
“Instead of the free coffee, of course, I could set you up with my neighbor as thanks.” Mona beamed at her. “He’s beautiful. Has a nice head of hair, always has a lady wandering in and out of his house. I talked to one of them once, when she stepped on my petunias. He’s got a huge—”