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“So,” Donna said after she had closed the blinds and lit some incense, her usual method of starting therapy. “Your brother is gone on his honeymoon. I sense grief coming from you.”
“There’s no grief,” I said, taking a bite. The cake was vanilla, buttery, and—I could admit it to myself—delicious.
“There is definitely grief,” Donna said. “It’s coming off you as an aura. Deep blue.”
“That’s just my usual misery,” I said. “My grief is burgundy.”
She shook her head. The problem with Donna was that it was nearly impossible to tease her. “No, your deep blue is definitely grief. Your brother was very important to you. He was your connection to the outside world.”
“Is,” I corrected her. “He is my connection, not was.”
“But he’s married now,” she pointed out. “He’s found his union with another. That leaves you alone. The honeymoon only outlines what you know deep down is true.”
“Is this supposed to be helpful?” I stabbed my fork into my cake.
“When you approach enlightenment, you approach joy,” Donna said.
I shrugged. “I have Effexor for that.”
Her lips pressed together. “Pharmaceuticals are not the answer.”
“Yes, they are. Believe me, they are.”
Donna looked at me for a moment, then leaned back in her chair. “I placed some healing crystals around your house last time, but I don’t think they’ve taken effect. I may have to introduce herbs.”
I took another bite of cake and watched her think it over. “Why do you bother with me?” I asked after a minute. “I know my mother pays your fee, but that can’t be the only reason.”
“You’re a difficult case, but you’re not an impossible one. The spiritual journey is not an easy one, Andrew. It’s especially difficult after physical trauma like you’ve had, which dissociates the body and the spirit. If you wish to commune wholly with yourself, you must make a supreme effort.”
“I commune wholly with myself every day in the shower.”
Donna waved her hands, jangling her bracelets. “Hostility. Couched in sexual jokes, no less. That means your sexual energies are blocked.”
Well, she was dead on about that one. I put down my empty plate. “Maybe,” I said.
“So you admit your sexual energies are frustrated.” She sat forward.
Seven years. It had been seven fucking years. “A little.”
“We are sexual beings, Andrew. Sexuality is part of the wholeness of existence. It must be embraced if we wish our souls to be healthy. As I say, your physical trauma has dissociated that.” She waved her hands again, jangling her bracelets. “Close your eyes.”
I sighed. I had Lightning Man comics to draw. “Donna, you’re a nice lady, but you’re not my type.”
“Hush. Close your eyes.”
I leaned back and reluctantly closed my eyes. “Now what?”
“Picture the man you were before your accident. Remember what his sex life was like.”
Jesus. I never thought about this, but I remembered it so easily.
Before the accident, I was twenty-three, good-looking, athletic, rich, and smart. Witty. Friendly. I was every girl’s dream, and I got dates whenever I wanted. Girlfriends. Any woman I set my eye on, I got.
I wasn’t a player; I was one of those serial-relationship guys. Every few months I’d have a new girlfriend, each one more gorgeous and perfect than the last. And we’d have sex. Lots and lots of great, healthy, energetic sex—in every place, every position. The Andrew Mason before the accident had the best kind of sex there is, and tons of it.
Then I made one bad decision, and it all ended. That guy died, and the girlfriends disappeared. I wasn’t the kind of guy any woman would look at anymore.
“Andrew?” Donna said.
