Free Next to You (Life) by Claudia Y. Burgoa Page A

a—”
    “Daniel.” The man now has salt and paper hair color, wrinkles around his green eyes, and an attitude I don’t care much about. He sits on his old brown leather chair. “Take a seat. Care to tell me why the rage came back?” Then he chuckles at some internal joke, I guess. “Not that it ever left, you’re smart and knew where to hide it well. Is it old enemies? Your parents resurfaced? Or the need of control went on vacation?”
    “Is this legal?” I ask. “This sounds more like a discussion with an old family member. The deal usually goes as follows, I pay you, you listen, I move on.”
    “Boy, your case was pro-bono.” He turns on the old lamp and waves his hand to the chair opposite of his, insisting I sit. “Back then you didn’t know better. You thought we finished what we started, what happened after Harvard?”
    Clenching my jaw, I sit where he pointed at. “Yes I think we did finish. I had dealt with the issues at hand; changed, moved on and reinvented myself.” Of course I’m here because there’s this girl… one I fell in love with and got dumped by. Talking to the other counselor who is guiding me regarding her rape and other issues sounds illogical. What’s there to say, can you help me forget her too… then, what’s the point of going into counseling? Damn, another inconsistency, it’s essential to do something so I can regain my control—myself. “You cured me once, made me forget about my shitty past. I need the same, a second chance.”
    His expression remains neutral; the annoyance of his attitude grows stronger. Seconds before I stand up and leave his practice, he speaks, “Child/Teen practice.” He taps his chest lightly, then stands up, walking toward his desk and pulls out a business card. “That gave me the right to talk to you like an old uncle that thinks and knows that you still need help.” Then he hands me the name of a colleague. “Your case was a miracle, since it was so hard to work with you. With the attitude you gave me during each appointment… you’re strong and very intelligent.” He writes things on a pad, a useless movement since he’s not my doctor. “So smart that you like to manipulate anyone and everyone around you. Manipulation… you should know that only works like drugs and alcohol, a quick fix that won’t make you happy.
    “Moved on.” He taps the pen over his chin while thinking what to say next I guess. “I liked that, thrilled to know that indeed you forgot about that shitty past; your parents abandoning you, foster parents not caring much about you and your brother. The nights you had to sleep with one eye open so the older children wouldn’t steal the little that you had. Saving him from danger, making sure your brother didn’t fall into the bad crowd and kept a knife handy. Until that day when you tried to show those boys a lesson. Rough life, one I don’t see mentioned anywhere in the news. I admire your tenacity; the Brightmore name goes hand in hand with success. Yet, here you are, with that same anger. Wondering which part of your life should change to avoid my chair—again. Call Stewart. I think that’s what the doctor recommends.”
    “Shitty jokes.”
    “Same lack of vocabulary,” he answers. “How is it that you close deals with that mouth, boy?”
    I shrug, answering that I’m a manipulative asshole will prove his point.
    “You came for help.” He looks at the card I hold. “Take it. May I ask what happened?”
    “None of your business.” I stand up and head to the door. “Have a good rest of your day.”
    “Boy, for your own good,” he says when I open the door, “stop keeping others at arm’s length and give yourself a real chance. Pay my assistant for the unrequited chat on your way out.”
    *
    My office door opens, but I don’t look up until I type the last details of my next trip and save the final draft of the contract to finalize the merge with the Vancouver food packaging company. Lifting