Love Mia, Love Jimmy

Chapter Eleven

Jimmy's POV

"Jimmy! Nice to see you!" Dr. Francis Palmer greets me at the door to his office, hand extended.

"And to you, sir-"

"Frank, Jimmy. We talked about that last time."

"Of course." I take my chair I took a week ago. "Your shoes and glasses don't match today." He side smiles as he takes a seat. Today, he wears his red-rimmed glasses with green suede shoes.

I woke up this morning with a dark cloud around me. Well, I do that most mornings, but today it felt darker. I knew why, too.

"I didn't think it through. Next time, I'll remember." I watch him get settled into his chair, his ankles crossed like so. "So, tell me about your week. How's it been going?"

"What do you want me to start with?" I ask him.

"Work is fine."

"Work... is fine."

"Funny man."

"Work is good, you know. I am just having the time of my life there. I'm very thankful that I get to go to a job like that every day."

"I'm glad to hear that." A full sentence is written down.

"Can I ask what you write down?" Dr. Palmer tilts his head up slowly, his eyes crinkled in the corner.

"It's not much. It's just little notes that I use."

"Anything of any importance?"

"Not at the moment. But if anything comes up, I'll make sure to tell you." I feel my neck get hot. I don't really want to be here today. "How are the girls?"

"Winnie was writing sentences the other day when I got home. Fran was just scribbling."

"Anything Picasso worthy?"

"Honestly, no. I don't think she'll be an artist."

"It's a good thing you're their father, so you can crush their dreams instead of letting someone else do it, you know?"

"Very funny, Frank."

"What else has been going on, Jim?"

"Do you want me to dive in my wife? Or Mia, who you seem to think I have an infaturation with?"

"If that's what you want to do."

"Is that what you want me to do?"

"You know-" I watch him take his glasses off and clean them with the bottom of his tie before inspecting them and placing them back across the bridge of his nose. "You," He points to me, "pay me." He points to himself.

"Yes, I know. Whenever I look at my bank statement after a session." A small chuckle.

"I'm only here to listen to what you have to say and report my thoughts about them to you. You can talk about anything you want."

"Then let's talk about the pre-season of baseball or the latest episode of the Bachelor. Oh! What about the latest meme that's been going around-"

"May I speak bluntly, Jimmy?"

"You can."

"In the end, it's your life. What you choose or not choose to tell me is all up to you. I can't force the stories and the feelings out of you, I can't squeeze the words out like a stress ball, if you will." He leans back in his chair, his fingers entangled together, like a boy scout's knot. Intricate and puzzled.

"What if...it's hard?" My voice is above a whisper, but not by much.

"It's going to be hard. That's what grieving is."