Forgetting August (Lost & Found) by J. L. Berg Page B

stepping out into the fresh air. I took a deep breath, closing the door behind me, and found myself face to face with the brass knocker.
    A&E
    I fled before the tears found their way to the pavement.

Chapter Ten
    August
    I tried to give away several million dollars to a woman the other day,” I blurted out, severing the tense silence we’d been sitting in for over half an hour. This was my third visit with the mute counselor and barely a word had been said since the first day. It was getting damn frustrating, and I think he knew this.
    He knew that eventually I’d crack.
    And crack I had. Like a damned nut.
    One dark grey eyebrow rose slightly in amusement…intrigue, maybe…as he chose his words.
    “Well, that was generous.”
    A sort of snorted laugh escaped my throat. “You would think. But, she turned me down. Cold. Basically threw the damned check back in my face.”
    Now I was pacing the room like a caged tiger.
    When had I gotten up?
    “And this makes you feel agitated?” he asked.
    I turned to him in shock.
    “Ah ha! I knew you were one of those!” I pointed my finger accusingly.
    “One of those?” he questioned, looking mildly entertained.
    “You play it all cool, with your passive–aggressive attitude and the crazy sound machine, but I knew deep down there was a normal, predictable psycho-therapist in there just waiting to get out.”
    He sighed in what I assumed was defeat, and I waited in silence for his confession. Everything he’d done to this point had been just a hoax—a thin veil to make me feel comfortable. And I’d almost fallen for it, but he was no different from Dr. HappyFeelGood at the hospital. They all wrote in their little notebooks, judging their clients on all their faults, only to go home to their own little fucked up world.
    We were all head cases—some of us just a little more so than others.
    “You want to go out for a beer?” he finally said, as my eyes flew up to his.
    “What?”
    “Well, I figured we’re probably done here, and I could really use a beer and a big plate of nachos. There’s a place down the street that has the best nachos in town. You in?”
    This guy was nutters.
    “You paying?” I asked.
    “Nope, you are. Seems you’re loaded.”
    I burst into laughter, agreeing to his lunatic proposal.
    Maybe a crazy loon was what I needed after all.
    *  *  *
    “So what’s your story, Dr. Abrams?” I asked the shrink as we settled into a quiet booth in the corner of what could only be considered the smallest restaurant I’d ever seen.
    At least as far as I knew.
    God, my life sucked. Every thought, every comment that ran through my mind, I was constantly second-guessing. Was this the smallest restaurant I’d ever been in?
    Fuck if I knew.
    Had I ever been out of the country? I had no idea. Did I like chocolate or vanilla better? No idea.
    “Brick—call me Brick,” he replied, avoiding my vague question altogether.
    “Okay—Brick, what’s your story?” I asked again.
    “Not much to tell,” Dr. Abrams fired back, taking a long gulp of the microbrew he’d ordered. “Midwestern boy who fell in love with old surfing movies.”
    “Like Gidget and Beach Party ?”
    His eyebrow rose in surprise.
    “I’ve had problems sleeping,” I admitted, before he let out a laugh. “So I’ve been watching a lot of bad old movies.”
    “More like Endless Summer and Morning of the Earth ,” he replied. “Seeing films like that changed me—made me see something far greater than our tiny farm. I begged my dad for a surfboard when I was ten, not caring that the closest ocean was fifteen hundred miles away. He wasn’t so keen on the idea. When it came to applying to college, I picked schools in Florida and California, although I ended up taking a slight detour before I actually got to classes.”
    “The waves were calling you,” I interrupted, grinning.
    “Yeah, something like that. An unbridled hatred for snow didn’t hurt either.”
    We both chuckled as