Page 75 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

“I’ve been to therapy,” Alex said. “Don’t make that face. I still go every now and again for a tune-up because the nuts and bolts get loose every now and then.”

That made me laugh again.

“Therapy.”

“Therapy.”

“Can’t I just tell you my problems?”

“Sure. If you want to stay crazy.”

“I’m not crazy, I’m—”

“Call it what you want,” he cut me off, “but therapy will help. Stop dicking around trying to define what it is and go get it fixed. You can sit around being gloomy and, well, fucking French, or you can take the first step. The sooner you take it, the sooner you can start fixing it. Or learning to cope with it.”

I sighed. “I know you’re right, but—”

“Great!” he said. “Then there’s no ‘but.’ Call your insurance, find a therapist who is covered, and start figuring your shit out.”

I hesitated. “Will you help me?”

Alex smiled. “That’s very brave of you, Frenchie. But you need to do this. I’m here for moral support, but you need to make those phone calls. You’re not helpless. You’re not weak. You’re not useless. You can find a therapist. You have to be a grown-up, right?”

With a groan, I said, “Why must you throw that back in my face?”

“You loaded the gun, I just pulled the trigger,” he said. “Call me back after you’ve called around.”

“Now?” I gasped.

“What else do you have going on? Aren’t you just sitting in your apartment, staring off into space and feeling sorry for yourself like a character in some Cocteau film?”

I laughed uproariously.

And Alex disappeared from my screen.

He wasn’t going to have pity on me, and he didn’t want me to have pity on myself.

So, I made some other phone calls.

Horses and Saddles

“I have a friend,” Sheila said at the end of our meeting. “Brandon. And he—”

“You told me about him last time,” I chuckled, not really looking at my computer screen, where Sheila’s face was front and center, as I shuffled papers. “You do not give up.”

Sheila was unbothered. “He’s fresh out of a relationship. You’re…well, I don’t know what you are. But you could stand to get back in the game.”

“I’m still married,” I said.

“Separated. All’s fair in love and war.”

I laughed. I should have been angry with Sheila, one of my teammates at Source Language, Inc., for always trying to set me up on dates with her gay male friends. Everyone who had tried to set me up on dates since I had moved into my own apartment should have drawn my ire. Two things stopped me from being angry with them. One, it was nice that so many people were trying to be my friend. Since I’d moved out of Paloma’s and into my apartment, there had been several Friday nights where new friends would gather for conversation, food, and drinks. I was making more friends each day. Maybe not close friendships, but friends.

Two, Peter and I had been separated for months. It wasn’t as if anyone was trying to ruin any current relationship I was in. I suppose I also refused to get angry at the incessant suggestions that I try dating because it showed people were concerned for me. They wanted me to be happy. It’s hard to be mad at people who simply want you to be happy.

“This sounds wonderful,” I said. “Two heartbroken men using each other to get over other people, but—”

“It’s just a date,” Sheila said. “You don’t have to commit to anything else.”