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“Yeah?” I ask, eager for specifics. “Where?”
His eyes drop to the steamy surface of his coffee for a minute, before coming back to me. We’re still across the table from one another, but there’s a great distance in his gaze as he says, “Michigan. I worked as a set designer and electrical engineer at a theater there.”
Something tells me there’s more to the story than that. Maybe he got fired? Maybe he started a relationship with an actress and it went wrong so he moved to California to start over? Though there are theater and production companies everywhere, not just California. Hmm.
I don’t peel and poke his answer, but instead, move on. The way he did with me moments ago.
“That sounds fun. And you do that at Crave, too, so you must really like what you do.” I take another bite of bear claw and nod to the open box next to me. After I swallow I say, “You don’t want one?”
He shakes his head. “They’re for you.”
“Thanks,” I reply, feeling my cheeks go rosy again. I take a sip of the coffee, wishing I could fan myself. Cohen isn’t dirty talking, yet something that flutters in my belly reappears at his words. “You like it at Crave then, I take it, since it’s been four years.”
He nods. “I do. Do you?”
I pluck a piece of slivered almond from the pastry. “I do. It’s so different from Jizzabelle,” I reply, braving the topic only slightly, trying not to come off astantrumyas before. “And there are so many great perks. I love having a quality therapist. Though I think I need a few actors to not use her to balance out just how much I see her.” Laughing a little awkwardly, I meet his eyes. They’re soft but serious and that does something to my stomach, too. Why do I keep bringing up the fact that I have a therapist?
“That is a nice perk.” He looks at the surface of his coffee then back to me. “I see a therapist but I’d already started seeing him before I started at Crave, so I’ve stayed with him.”
Comfort washes over me at his words. I was worried he’d think I was… damaged? God that sounds stupid, I know that sounds stupid. But Iwasworried.
Pete always said therapy is for people who want to wallow in their issues. While I know that’s asinine and untrue, still, it surfaces in my brain on days where I feel like a hopeless wreck. There’s comfort in knowing Cohen goes too. That he understands the value and importance of recognizing you can’t always handle your own shit. Sometimes you need a professional.
“I have to admit,” I say, feeling like the truth feels so much different with Cohen than any other man I’ve met. Even Augustus, who is arguably one of the nicest men I’ve met. Still, Cohen looks at me like he’d accept and understand anything I have to say. “I didn’t expect you to be in therapy.”
He takes another drink of coffee and I try not to look at the way his Adam’s apple bobs, at the tiny triangle of chest exposed at the top of his button up, at his huge hand cupping his drink. I lock my ankles together under the table.
“Most people need therapy, they just don’t realize it,” he deadpans, giving me a tiny little smile. Small and fleeting, but his smile radiates through me, leaving possibility simmering in its wake.
“I agree wholeheartedly,” I laugh, because I really do. “I like that the therapist at Crave is on location, too. Everything about being here is better for me. My apartment isn’t too far, either, so that’s nice.”
He nods, stroking a hand through his hair. For a moment, I feel his hand resting on the small of my back all over again. I shift in my seat, trying to get comfortable. “I’m not too far away either.”
“Where’s your place?” I ask, finishing the bear claw in three ambitious bites. Once I hit that marzipan filling, I can’t be stopped. I take a drink of my coffee.
“Near the Painted Ladies, not far from where you’re at, actually.”
I quirk a brow. “Wow, you were able to get into that area? Most people who own homes over there hang onto them forever, or rent them out.”
He lifts a finger as if to say that’s me. “I rent.”
“I think when you work in show business, it makes sense to rent. You never know where the job is going to take you.”
Something about the way his expression grows serious for a moment before volleying back to casual has me intrigued.
“I rent a room. In one of those big houses, I rent a room. I just have some clothes and books, so I couldn’t justify renting a place in the city.” The way he looks around the coffee shop, emotionally diverting from the topic, hits me. I do that—I know I do because Dr. Evans calls me out on it all the time.
I don’t call him out, I only want to know more.
“That makes sense. Who are your roommates?”
He laughs. It’s deep, with a low timbre. His laugh brings a smile to my face, and I even laugh a little too. It’s a beautiful laugh. “I wouldn’t call them roommates,” he says, pulling a hand down his jaw as he settles forward over the table, getting comfortable. I like the hair on his forearms, and how his sleeves are rolled up just a little. I like that he’s getting comfortable. “It’s actually a family. They rent me their downstairs room. Their children are in high school and I think they’re saving my rent money for college funds.”
He lives with a family. In a room. By himself.
“You’ve rented that room for the last four years?” Surely not. Surely he had a place of his own then downsized or something.
“Yes.”
