Page 6 of Dreamscape Therapies

Bracing my hands against two boards that look marginally less likely to kill me, I haul myself upright. My soaked foot squelches as I pull it free from the porch’s new glory hole.

What the fuck was that? That spark?

I swipe dirt from my jeans and try to get my heart rate under control. The stranger adjusts his glasses. Then, as if deciding we haven’t had enough awkwardness for one morning, he wipes his hand against his ugly sweater vest and offers it to me again.

“Sorry about the, um, less-than-ideal location. I just bought the place. The contractors don’t start for another couple of days,” he explains apologetically.

His shoulders hunch, and his eyes look huge behind those ridiculous glasses.

Fuck, he’s adorable.

Which is a thought I should not be having about my potential dream therapist.

“Wait,” I start, shaking his hand quickly. The tingling is still there, but this time I’m prepared for it. “My appointment is at your house?”

He flushes a deep pink color. “Well, eventually, I’ll have a proper office space separate from my home, but for now…” he gestures vaguely around us. “We’ll have to work in the living room.” His gaze drops to my feet. “Oh, and um…”

Right. Shoes off.

I follow him inside, and despite the decrepit state of the place, I can easily see the potential. High ceilings. Original hardwood floors peeking out from beneath decades of grimy linoleum. A curving staircase that probably looked stunning once upon a time.

We pass the sketchy-looking stairs and go through a set of French doors that are missing most of their glass into a living room that is barely furnished.

Boxes are stacked along one wall. There’s a couch, a wingback chair, and a small side table. An ornate rug covers most of the floor, and a massic fireplace covered in globs of white paint provides the only real source of heat.

I must make some kind of noise, because Dr. Kim glances back at me with a chagrined look on his face. “I know it’s not much,” he smiles sheepishly. “I moved in last week. I wanted to create a space where clients could feel comfortable, but…” He exhales, and something changes in his expression. His nervousness fades, replaced by something more serious and confident. “You sounded like you needed help now, Mr. Klein. Not in three months when the renovations are finished. You need help. I can help you, but you have to let me.”

I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing.

He drops into the yellow-green wingback chair, tucking his legs beneath him like a kid settling in for story time. He grabs a legal pad and peen from the side table, clicking the top several times before looking at me expectantly.

“How old are you?” I blurt rudely.

“I recently turned twenty-six.” He smiles, bright and genuine.

Twenty-six years old.

He’s a fucking kid.

My therapist is a beta child who probably still gets carded when buying beer. I cover my face with both hands and drop onto the couch with a groan that comes from somewhere deep in my soul. The cushions are softer than they look, almost pulling me down as I sink into them.

“How is someone over a decade younger than me supposed to fix me?” I whine.

“Uh, I can’t fix you.”

I drop my hands and stare at him incredulously. “I’m sorry. What?”

“I can’t fix you,” he repeats, tilting his head. “I’m not here to fix anyone. I’m here to help you figure out what’s wrong with your sleep cycles and give you the tools to address the problem yourself. I teach you to fish, not give you a fish, or however that saying goes.”

“I’m leaving,” I say abruptly, standing up.

“Please don’t leave.” He scrambles out of his chair and nearly trips over his own feet.

“Why shouldn’t I?” I’m already heading for the door, even though every exhausted cell in my body is screaming at me to stay. To try. To do something.

“Because you just told me you have a problem!” The words tumble out of him in a rush. “And I can help. I know I look young, and I know this place is a disaster zone, and I know you probably think I’m some kind of fraud, but I’m good at this, Mr. Klein.” He steps in front of me. For such a small guy, he manages to block the doorway fairly well. “I’m really, really good at this. Just give me one chance. One session. If you don’t think it’s worth the effort afterward, you never have to come back.”

I take a moment to fully take him in. Those ridiculous glasses and huge, earnest eyes. The way he’s looking at me like he truly wants to help. Like he genuinely gives a shit.