Heavy Love(7)

And he does, saying, "Mrs. Amy is a biological anthropologist."

"Wh-What?" Right now I don't hear shit. I opened the door to Orlando so I  could get out some much needed frustration while playing hoops. Then  I'm bogarted by Edward's latest antics. My manager wants to chat, fuck  that.

"Franco," Orlando cuts in, "my man, we're here to chat. Talk shit out." He voices every single thing that I'm against.

"Hell no, mi amigo."

"Boy you've been crying every … "

I glare as he tries to lighten the mood by joking. We often take comical-jabs while tossing around the ball. Not today.

Orlando shrugs. "C'mon, Franco, you ain't exercising your eye ducts each  night. Keep it real, your ex is fine as fuck. I'd cry if I were you,  too."

Ever the mediator, Edward reiterates, "Franco, Mrs. Amy is trying to help the situation."

"Agh, you have cajones? no seas gilipollas." My teeth bear as I laugh at  him. Then my voice booms. "Don't talk down to me, cabrón!"

"Now Mr. de León, your friends have invited me here because they care."

"Compadres?" I scoff. "This one is in it for the money," I point at Ed,  then at Orlando and there are no words. Fuck, I'm lying on all accounts.  It took years, but I trust Edward with my life. He really is here for  me, and Orlando, too. But I've already begun making a fool of myself.  All over her. Ever since she took this love I have for her to the  fucking graveyard. Why stop now? So I think of another bonehead response  for Orlando.

"Man, you know I have your back!" Orlando cuts in, fist hitting his  chest. He then says, "you got a problem bro. You're uh... Uh... Vasser  Vaseline?"

At the "bail me out" glance from Orlando, the only brains in the room,  the therapist with her silky little voice says, "Mr. De León, what  Orlando is trying to say is that you've operating on a neurochemical  called vasopressin."

"Yeah, that's it. What she said," Orlando points to her. "We don't do  enough talking, Franco. That's just it. You gotta let that shit out.  You're emotionally homeless."

"Homeless? What the fuck!" I shout.

Edward says, "Mrs. Amy explains it, that the male species, when in  crisis, don't have the same emotional chemical. Vasopressin helps chicks  talk it out. Us guys, well, we keep it all in."

Now Orlando takes the metaphoric relay-race baton. He says, "Bro, you gotta let it all out."

She gives them a grin and nod as if this intervention is right on track.

"Listen, Mrs..." I say, her name evades me. "I am done for the moment.  All I wanna do is whatever the day leads. As a child, retiring before  forty seemed like a good idea. Far as I see it, shit, I'm well ahead of  time."         

     



 

"Franco, buddy, c'mon. You can't let L-" Edward chokes on her name – my  ex –  as his female counterpart makes the statement that they're here for  me.

"I'm headed out people, lock my place up when you leave."

"Well before you go, the network is forcing us to do the last three  segments. Sixteen episodes signed for, and damn it, sixteen is what  we've gotta give ‘em."

I rub the back of my neck. "Understood. We'll do them back to back to back. They can stagger the episodes as usual."

"You'll be exhausted, Franco."

"First thing tomorrow morning."

He nods, knowing that this decision is final.





Chapter 5


Angelique



OPRAH'S CHAI TEA at Starbucks – with skim milk – became my go to this  morning while dealing with my clients' relationship woes. With the  corner office, and ceiling to floor windows, I have the view of the  Aquarium of the Pacific parking structure. But what makes my view so  frigging fantastic, I watch a family with two toddlers and a stroller  head out of the parking structure, ready for a fun-filled day. So I sip  my tea, then place it on the glossy counter of the desk. Donning a navy  blue dress that accentuates the best curves I have, my hips, I swivel  around in my chair, to do one of my favorite pastimes, people watch.

Melody keeps texting me "Tonight we are Jung" as if the old ass psych  joke will get me to go out with her. Something stops me from telling her  ass, tonight you need to go out with your husband. Then I hear a loud,  familiar voice travelling down the hall.

Hannah Pruitt is all of five feet tall, yet everything else about her  speaks volumes from a fiery red hair to a boisterous voice. She yells,  "Hank, hurry up!"

Hannah waves her raspberry colored Prada bag as she steps inside. "Angelique, thank God, that dimwit wanted me to wait."

"Really Hannah? It takes all of two seconds for the receptionist to send  us in, like everybody else?" Hank chides, "But you're unlike everyone – "

Hannah snaps, "Don't talk over me."

Hank glances sideways at her, the writing is all over his face that she  just cut him off, and he hadn't talked over her. He's rather handsome,  late fifties with a few silver sprinkles in his thick brown hair. Hank  walks toward the window in his tailored suit, fingertips at the lapel of  his blazer. His behavior indicates that he'd rather be chatting on his  cell phone which is in his inside left pocket, or at the very least have  his Bluetooth in his ear like Carlton.

The silk accent pillow clings to Hannah's chest as she complains about  Hank putting the sugar back into the cupboard without turning the label  the correct way. She alternates from sitting on the cream-colored  leather sofa, to stalking back and forth in front of my desk.

Every once in a while, I nod, summarize or validate her need. Hank, who  has taken on my favorite people-watching pastime and fronts the hefty  bill, gives a wry glance at the woman he loves. Fingertips' pinching the  bridge of his nose, Hank calculates when to slip in for his defense.  "For the last time, Hannah, I did not place the sugar into the cabinet; I  don't take the sugar out, either. Evelyn does. Therefore, your issues  are with the maid."

"Hank, all I'd like for you to do," Hannah begins. My eyes brighten,  occasionally she uses a strategy I've taught in order to not point  fingers. "Just acknowledge that I'm a help in our home."

He huffs, head to the ceiling, "The darn place is almost 20,000 square feet, Hannah. Of course you help."

"No," she says; voice breaking, eyes instantly watering.

I reach forward on my desk, and pull out a few pieces of ultra-soft  Kleenex. Hank steps over, having learned the ability to become engaged  during times of her crying. The tears use to be hysterical, he used to  not understand, but I suppose this is one of the few gestures that  they're both improving on. He purses his lips, nodding his thanks and  takes it to his wife.

"All right, Hannah, Hank," I utilize a soothing voice, "Let's take a moment to regress."

Just on time, Melody is texting me three question marks since I haven't responded to her proposal of a few after work drinks.

There's quiet whispering between the two as I silently pick up my cell phone.

"Girl, aren't you teaching class." I text back, then take a glance at  the Pruitts, who've settled down on the couch. Hank is caressing a few  effervescent tresses behind Hannah's hair.

The silent vibration of my iPhone within my palm makes me glance at it once more. Melody has responded.         

     



 

"Testing. Calculus. These suckers won't be irking me until the bell  rings. LOL. How about those drinks? My students hate me for not grading  on a curve. But I don't mind grading these formulas after a few  appletinis. Jelly, help out your fellow Bruins."

I stifle a snicker. My fellow Bruins, which is our mascot for Long Beach  Wilson, the high school we went to and where she currently works at.  Before I can text back, a bubbly giggle erupts from Hannah.

"All right, you two," I smile genuinely for the first time today, while  picking up the waste basket beneath the desk. "Hannah that was a very  good release you just completed. Tears are very important," I tell them  while stepping around the table, my gaze never leaves hers. Those glossy  emerald's shine with interest. She's gotten accustom to these therapy  sessions, and I'm only a few years in the practice. And I enable Hannah  because beneath it all, I genuinely know that theirs is a good love …





Chapter 6


Franco





"ALL RIGHT, students." My tone carries far. Yet the tiny speaker clipped  to the collar of my polo shirt, amplifies the sound, cutting through  forty students. Each teenager with their own slide-in Viking range  stove, and state of the art appliances down seven aisles. If there's  anything in the world that can hype up a room, it's teens. The Rise  & GRIND auditorium was built with a slight curve in order for the  area to magnify sound.

These are underprivileged youth with more passion in their pinkie finger  than I have in my entire fucking body right now. The giggling and  puffed up talk begins to simmer down as I wait. There's a smile on my  face, I know good and well it will be flat by the time I walk out of  this auditorium, but for now, I'm cheesing with the best of them. I  decided that besides this quick dish before I raise the ‘white' flag and  retreat to Spain, I will also provide them with a lesson.