He chuckles, playing with his food. “No offense taken.” He gives me another loaded look before speaking again. “So it’s a date then.”
He words it as a statement, but I can still hear the question in his tone.
I smile warmly, feeling my cheeks getting warmer before I answer him. “It’s a date.”
The comfortable silence returns as we take a few bites of our respective food. But I have another burning question sizzling on my tongue, and I don’t know if I’ll last much longer without blurting it out.
“So,” I tentatively start, trying to sound as casual as possible. “How are you liking therapy?”
He harrumphs, and the sound makes me think he’s immediately dismissing my question. When he answers, I hide my surprise by stuffing a bunch of noodles into my mouth.
“It’s okay,” he sighs. “I’ve only been to a few sessions. But she’s a little woo-woo.” Huxley lifts his gaze and smirks. “Kind of like you.”
I snort. “Okay, what does that even mean?”
Placing his takeout container on the small table next to him, he leans back onto the couch. He folds his arms upward so that the back of his head is resting against his palms. The movement makes his shirt lift, and a sliver of skin appears just above his jeans. My gaze darts down and then back up before he notices my distraction.
“She says that I have a bad case of negative self-talk.” He rolls his eyes as if that statement is ridiculous. “And that I should practice gratitude and recite positive affirmations in the mirror or some shit.”
I conceal my laugh in my hand. “I’m sure that was just a suggestion. Positive affirmations don’t have to be so corny.”
“Oh, because you’re an expert on gratitude and positive affirmations?” he says from his sprawled-out pose on the couch.
I chuckle. “Well yeah, Ididlive in LA for years, where do you think I picked up all that woo-woo shit.” I lift an arrogant brow. “As you like to call it.”
He snickers under his breath but doesn’t add anything to the conversation, and I realize he’s waiting for me to continue. I think about what I should say for a few seconds, and an idea pops into my head when I spot his pack of cigarettes.
“Pass me those, please,” I say, pointing at them.
“Why?” he says suspiciously. “You only smoke when you drink.”
“Can you just —Please.”
My stare is steadfast as I hold out my palm, hoping he’ll stop being so stubborn. Eventually, he lets out a long exhale before grabbing the pack and throwing it at me from the couch. I catch it and grin, opening the pack and dumping all the cigarettes on my desk.
“I bought that pack today,” he grumbles. “Besides, I’m not sure what this has to do with what we were just talking about in the first place.”
“You’ll see,” I say with some exasperation. “I’ll give them back to you. Promise.”
After placing the cigarettes into a neat line, I look up at an inquisitive Huxley who’s now perched on the edge of the couch, his forearms against his thighs.
“So the trick is to make it as painless as possible, especially for someone who thinks everything is cringe.” He flashes me an unimpressed look, and I laugh, tonguing my cheek. I grab a cigarette and a pen. “You’re a smoker, so why not incorporate it into something you already do daily? So tell me one thing you’re grateful for?”
Huxley’s face turns comically blank as if I asked him to tell me the meaning of life. “I don’t know,” he mutters with an indecisive shrug.
“Well, that’s your problem, isn’t it?” I say teasingly. “You have to stop taking it so seriously, it’s pretty simple, really. For example,”—I point to the takeout— “I’m grateful for this Pad Thai, I’m grateful for Jamie, I’m grateful for my health. You see where I’m going with this? Whatever brings you joy, however small.” He slowly nods as if too busy thinking to be fully present. “Now your turn.”
“I’m grateful for DK,” he finally says.
“DK? What’s that?” I ask, but still write it down on one of his cigarettes.
The Surgeon General probably frowns at people inhaling ink, but he’s already a smoker—I’m sure a few words on his cigarettes won’t kill him. He chuckles softly and rubs a hand over his buzzed head as if slightly embarrassed.
“It’s short for Dumpster Kitty. He’s my cat. I rescued him from a dumpster over the holidays.”
I blink, a nauseating warmth blooming inside of me at the visual he just painted. Luckily, my head is still down, and I can conceal my reaction before looking up.
“And you called him Dumpster Kitty?” I scoff with a smirk.
