“I see that you were diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder at fourteen. Can you remember the events that led up to that diagnosis?”
“I’m sure it’s all in the notes: explosive anger, lack of impulse control, unstable personal relationships, all that good stuff.”
“I don’t have enough information to support the diagnosis. That’s why I asked you about it.”
“My mom never bought into it either. Thing is, no one ever took the time to ask me what was wrong.”
“Was something wrong?” I questioned.
“Probably. I was a young child running wild. I liked to fight. I liked to make sure people knew I wasn’t to be fucked with. I liked being left the fuck alone. Still do.”
“Is that why you were angry? People wouldn’t leave you alone?” I questioned.
“Expressinganger was a good way togetthem to leave me alone.”
“Interesting,” I said, jotting down a few notes to make sure I didn’t miss anything.
“Enough about me. Are you seeing someone?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
“It’s funny that you should say that because aside from the uncertainty of if I was going back to prison, you’re the only thing I’ve been concerned about since I came home. Hell even before I came home.”
“Well you don’t have to concern yourself with me. I’m a big girl.”
“Is my big girl dating? I know some fool broke your heart back then. I just want to make sure you’re not wasting time crying over that nigga. It’s OK to move on.”
“Do you have a family history of mental health issues?” I asked to redirect the conversation.
“I already answered your question. Now answer mine. Are you dating? I’m sure you have been over the years. It’s just that your eyes still look as sad as they did the night we met. If you’re going to be sad, do it with another man in your life who’s willing to help cure that sadness, Iyla. You deserve to smile.”
“I appreciate that.”
“It’s true. I think at some point in your life you knew that. Don’t let that clown make you forget how desirable you are,” he said, using my own words against me.
I didn’t know if I should be alarmed or impressed that he remembered what I’d said that night after all this time. My cheeks flushed. Something in my chest compelled me to answer his question.
“I’ve gone on a couple of dates.”
“You having sex on a regular basis? A woman like you deserves to have multiple orgasms . . . and often.”
Knowing I had to regain control of the situation, I cleared my throat and adjusted in my seat before responding.
“It’s your turn to answer a question, Mr. Glover.”
“No mental health issues that I know of. My dad died when I was eight, but from what I remember he was a stand-up guy. Nobody in my family is like me. My oldest brother is close, but he was a Marine and his wife was murdered. He has the right to be angry. I don’t.”
“Don’t negate your feelings. Just because you don’t express them in an appropriate way doesn’t invalidate them.”
“I like that, Moon. That was pretty good.” He nodded.
“Good. Don’t forget it.”
“How’s your sex life? That nigga you seeing make you cum like me?” he quizzed.
“That’s not up for discussion.”
He chuckled. “So that’s a no.”
