"You said you could love me." I mocked Quincy over coffee and croissants.

"You said it first." He retorted prior to taking a lengthy sip from his cup.

"I wasn't talking to you, though."

"Yeah, well, I overheard it, so you might as well have been."

"Would you have told me how you feel if you hadn't?"

"Maybe." He replied as he flashed a mischievous grin.

"I don't believe you. I think you've been in love with me since you tricked me into letting you sit with me at the bar."

"You think a lot of yourself don't you." He declared with a chuckle.

I leaned forward, then demanded. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"I will only admit that after spending time with you that night, I had an immense amount of "like" for you."

"Well, if that's how you act for a "like" what will you do for love?"

"Die for it."

He answered without hesitation and with profundity that vibrated within my soul. I was speechless.

"Cat got your tongue?" He chuckled, then leaned forward to pull a half consumed croissant from my gaped mouth.

I couldn't explain it, but in that moment, that one phrase sent a pulse of energy through me. So much so that I short circuited for a minute. I mean, I had just showed out with a whole meltdown about another man, and this one seemed completely unfazed.

"So, you don't find it strange or off putting  that I talk to my deceased fiance', and after almost three years just removed his pictures from my walls?"

"What's strange about loving someone?"

"But he's not here, and he's not you."

"And he's no longer your fiancé, but that's how your heart and mind deals with the love you have for him. This is your process, and why should it be so "strange'' to believe that love, especially linked to that type of loss, doesn't simply go away and deserves space in your life?"

"But what about you and the fact that I admitted I could love you too? Me still carrying a torch for Michael doesn't bother you?'

"Your feelings aren't a competition, Dana."

"I don't get it." I wiped my hands, folded my arms across my chest, then steeped in confusion, stared at him from across the kitchen island.

"That's fair, and I don't expect you to always understand my logic."

"Well, maybe this all happened too fast. Just maybe it's not love that I feel, but pressure to feel "something" for you because you're so damn nice."

He tilted his head to the left, then furrowed his brows.

"Are you searching for a way to sabotage the moment we just shared?"

"No, what I'm searching for is the real, human, Quincy Winters."

"He's standing fully clothed and reeking of yesterday in your kitchen."

I narrowed my eyes, studying him as I glared down the bridge of my nose. "Uhh, huh."

"This," he pivoted his hand within the space between us, "isn't about love, who said it first or it's capacity in your life. It's about your emotion of guilt for feeling something for me at all. It seems right, yet wrong and that's uncomfortable for you. I get it."

"So, now you're my therapist." I stood so fast, the barstool flipped onto its side.

Quincy remained silent after the raucous of my action subsided.

"Well, since you know so much, why not tell me why you pretend it's all good that we haven't had sex, yet?"

He smirked, placed his empty cup and plate in the dishwasher, then grabbed his keys. As he strolled around the island, he walked up to me, kissed me on the forehead, then replied solemnly. "I'm leaving now. Would you like help with your boxes before I go?"

"So, I didn't just say a damn thing, huh?"

"Okay, that's a no. I'll give you some time to work through what you're feeling. I love you, Dana."

And just like that, he was gone.

________________________________________

"Fuck!"

I kicked the last box, trying to get it to fit into the guest room closet, and the pain that followed made me bawl as I collapsed to the floor to nurse on my left foot. 

"Shit," was the only thing I chanted for the next few minutes. The discomfort in my toe dissipated after the first, but it was the outcome of my conversation with Quincy that gave life to the litany of shit's that followed. I had no idea how the turn of events at breakfast happened so fast, or why Quincy was so calm about it all. Catching the time from the bedside clock, I got up from the floor and decided my therapist would earn her money that day by providing me with answers.

"You're the only one who can answer those questions."

My therapist looked me dead in my face, and after all the money she gets paid basically told me, "You're the one who's fucked up. So,  figure it out."

Annoyed, I asked, "Then why do I come here every month?"

"Dana." She replied with my mother's reprimanding tone. "I haven't seen you in six."

"Well, I've been busy."

"You're here now. So, let's talk."

"Let's, as in let 'us.' When it's only me who runs my mouth, and you stare at me for an hour." I crossed my legs and huffed in an attempt to simmer my rising frustration with the whole 'Black people need to go to therapy' charade.

"Yes, let's, and could you start with what's on your mind today?"

"I come here to get help, to heal and all you do is turn everything around back on me. It's been nearly three damn years since Michael died, and you're still asking me how the hell I feel."

"Dana, I'm pleased that you're here because this is your choice and also so is your healing. Easing emotional pain and psychological trauma aren't things that a verbal blanket or approving conversation can assuage. Each time we meet, it is you who digs deep into your belief system, experiences and have ability to formulate your reality. It is you who chooses when and how you heal and to compartmentalize your circumstances so they may either elevate or stagnate your thought processes, mindset and therefore your perception of life."

"So, if all of this bullshit is on me, why the hell am I wasting time sitting here with you?"

She calmly responded. "What is the waste."

Paula placed her hands in her lap and waited for a response.  Between her hypnotic tone, dimmed lighting, soft music and lavender aroma circulating through the air, I swiftly reached my universal anger threshold, then began drifting back to Earth. My shallow breathing soon matched Paula's deep, methodical breaths. She did this shit to me every time.

"I don't know. I'm just on a hamster wheel, and becoming exhausted."

"What is one thing you've done that is outside of the wheel?"

Leaning back onto the soft, cool leather seat, I thought hard before my eyes began to tear. Paula waited.

"I met someone new."

It was a privilege to witness one of her  genuine smiles as she replied. "That's great news."

"It should be. I mean, it is, but part of it still feels... wrong, like I'm betraying Michael. Last night, I found his grooming kit and lost my shit. Marley helped me to pack it along with me and Michaels picture wall. Hell, this morning, I even removed his pic from beside my bed, but there's a piece of me that's not okay with any of this, moving forward with my life, feeling love for another man, choosing happiness.  And Quincy, he has flooded my life with glorious moments of sheer compassion and understanding. I've had a tough time letting my guard down and he just adjusts. Nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing phases him, and for some reason, today, that shit just got under my skin."

Paula chimed in. "It became real."

"What, exactly?"

"The fantasy of what life could be without Micheal has become real. You've taken great strides to maintain your devotion to him these past years, and now, feeling a connection with someone else, removing Michael's photos has made you feel as though you're beginning to love him less. You're questioning your faithfulness to a man who passed on while giving his to you."

Yup, she did that shit every single time, just snuck into my soul and purged all of my deepest secrets. I snatched tissues from the box next to me to dab my eyes, while I tried to swallow the expanding lump in my throat.

"You're right where you are supposed to be, Dana. This is your process, your wheel so to speak,  and it will advance upon the timeline you create. Love and pain plant deep seeds within us and our soul matches that energy, along with the depth of emotions we begin to rely upon to live with them. You've normalized your grief, and now, now that you're choosing to allow other feelings in, you're out of balance as you move further from the comfort you have found in your pain."

"I hate it. I hate myself."

"You're experiencing discomfort with change... growth and yes, healing. There's a difference between hate and malaise."

"What am I supposed to do? I'm so confused. Like why bother healing if this shit's going to feel like this."

"How do you feel about your life, family, friends?"

"I love them."

"That word, Dana. That one word is why healing is worth it, love."

Shedding a few tears, I confessed to Paula. "I told Michael that I could love Quincy."

"Is that what you feel?"

"Yes." Rolling the dampened tissue in my fingers, I fidgeted in my seat, cringing at the thought of how I spoke to him at breakfast.

"Then, with love, continue to do what feels right for you, to you, even when it hurts and until it feels comfortable." Paula glanced towards the clock over my head, then added. "I have room on my schedule to see you in two weeks."

"I think that'll be good, and Paula, I apologize for how I've acted. You don't deserve this type of treatment."

With only a smile, she reached behind her, onto her desk, positioned a mirror for me to view my own reflection, then announced. "This is the only person who deserves that grace and those words."

Got-dammit, Paula!

When I left, I paid my bill at checkout and had to admit to myself, time with my therapist wasn't wasted. She was worth every cent.  Ready to explain my behavior, once I made it to the car, I called Quincy. The phone went straight to voicemail. Was he avoiding me? I didn't know, for damn sure wasn't happy about it, so with time to kill, I decided to stop by his office to find out.