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Ever since selling Cookie Jar for an obscene amount of money, Ian has kept himself busy working for a nonprofit that funds scientific research. He’s the kind of guy who is smart enough to pick up and understand nearly anything. So, he researches grant proposals and makes recommendations about funding them.
“You ever read anything about therapy chickens or somatic therapy?”
“No. You want me to research it for you?”
“Nah. Don’t worry about it.”
I settle into the chair next to his with my coffee and scroll on my phone until the pizza arrives a few minutes later. Ian doesn’t close his laptop until there’s a slice of greasy pizza to lure him back to the real world.
It would never occur to Ian to ask why I drove out to see him today, so I broach the subject on my own. “I worry about you out here all by yourself.”
He shrugs. “I’m not out here by myself. You’re here.”
“Yeah, I’m here now.” I grab my own slice of the pizza from the box that’s now open between us. “But that’s, what? Once or twice a month?”
“So come out more often.” He pushes back from the bar and crosses to the refrigerator.
I twist on the stool to watch as he pulls a Shiner Bock from the fridge, glancing back at me as he tips his head in question. I nod.
He grabs the two beers, pausing by the sink to twist off the caps and toss them in the trash. He stands there for a second, staring out the window over the sink. That window looks out at the “front” yard, facing away from the lake, where there’s a pool and a little guest cottage that probably dates back to the original house that was here back in the sixties.
After a decade of friendship, I’m used to the ebb and flow of conversation with Ian, with the long silences where he gets lost in his own head.
I’m on to my second slice of pizza by the time Ian returns to the bar with the two beers.
“You should move out here,” he says as he slides onto the stool. “You could live in the guest house.”
I nearly spew the beer I just took a sip of. I swallow hard. “Why the hell would I move out to the lake to live in your guest house?”
“You’re obviously lonely.”
“I’m not lonely.”
He just shrugs. “Who do you even hang out with now that I don’t live next door to you?”
“I have other friends.” I don’t. Not really. I have plenty of acquaintances, but not many other friends. “I have family.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You visiting your grandmother much?”
“Sometimes,” I hedge.
“She ever recognize you?”
“Sometimes.”
He doesn’t push on that issue, because he knows it’s a tough one. For a moment I’m tempted to tell him about Trinity, the lovely and effective therapist who seems to haunt my every waking moment.
But what would I even say about her?
I met someone I can’t stop thinking about?
Her family needs help. I want to be the person to do it, but I don’t know how to offer her money.
Scratch that. I know if I offer her money, she’ll throw it back in my face and laugh while doing it. Knowing that she would never in a million years accept help from me is as frustrating as it is admirable.
I’ve been there. I know all too well what it’s like to need things you can’t afford.
I doubt Ian would understand that even if I tried to explain it. He’s not someone who needs anyone.
