Love Lessons

Love Lessons
 Talia J. McCoy
 
 
 
 This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
 
 
 
 LOVE LESSONS
 
 
 First edition. January 11, 2023.
 Copyright © 2023 Talia J. McCoy.
 
 
 
 ISBN: 979-8985364019
 
 
 
 Written by Talia J. McCoy.
 
 
 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
 
 
 Table of Contents
 Title Page
 Copyright Page
 Lesson 1: Therapy
 Lesson 2: Tabitha
 Lesson 3: Tim & DeAndre’
 Lesson 4: Calvin
 Lesson 5: Shawn
 Lesson 6: Troy
 Lesson 7: Byron
 Lesson 8: Therapy
 Lesson 9: Reggie
 Lesson 10: Alex
 Lesson 11: Kevin
 Lesson 12: Therapy
 Lesson 13: Maurice vs.Charles
 Lesson 14: Therapy
 Lesson 15: Mike & Maurice
 Lesson 16: Therapy
 Lesson 17: Tabitha
 About the Author
 Lesson 1: Therapy
 It’s storming and I hate driving in the rain. I considered cancelling, but that would be a cop out. Therapy is non-negotiable, a commitment that I made to myself over a year ago. I realize that life is what I make it, and I want to make mine better. To do better. I realized a year ago that I couldn’t go it alone. There was work to be done, wounds to be healed and I didn’t know where to start. At a low moment thirteen months ago, by happenstance, a suicide prevention commercial caught my attention. I wasn’t suicidal, but could relate to the examples used to illustrate when it’s time to seek assistance. I felt hopeless. I felt stuck. I had a hard time defining purpose. I was so task focused that I wasn’t living. I was just moving through life. Checking off boxes on lists I created. So I made an appointment. I was reluctant at first. I didn’t understand the process. Was I to walk in and start talking? Would I be expected to word vomit my deep dark secrets to someone I’d just met? At what point do I admit my brokenness? How does this relationship work? I’m so glad I did it. So glad that I took the leap.
 My attention is pulled away by the buzz of my cell phone. I look down to see a text from Maurice, “You look really nice this evening!” Out of habit, I look around to see where he is and spot him almost immediately. He is ironically seated across the aisle from us, two tables away and his particular seat placement puts him behind Mike with a clear shot at me. This is some stalker type shit.
 At the abrupt sound of a blaring horn, my reflections are interrupted and I move slowly through the green light. I had slipped off in a recent memory and took a second too long taking the light. A right turn on Sheffield Lane and half a mile later, I arrive at Dr. Drea’s office. I don’t remember the drive over. The drive was automatic. Like muscle memory. My mind is filled with stuff. I’ve made great strides with the assistance of Dr. Drea. I’ve excelled in my profession. I’ve been more intentional with my friends and family. I feel more fulfilled in many areas, except my love life. That is in shambles. 
 The rain and overcast sky make the day seem later than is, but it is 4 p.m., my standing appointment every other Friday. I walk in, hang my raincoat and take notice of the song playing in Dr. Drea’s office. “Experience is a good teacher. It takes someone like me to know.” I smile, “Miki Howard,” I say to myself, making a mental note to add this song to my playlist.
 “I’m making coffee, would you like some?” Dr. Drea calls from the next room.
 “No thanks, just water please,” I say, walking over to the window and listening to the jazzy song.
 “The closed sign on my door, I had to tear it down. A new world of happiness turned me completely around.”
 The rain drops on the glass make the lights outside look like distorted painted dots. The closed sign on my door. These words cause a tinge of sadness that I don’t exactly understand. For some strange reason I feel shame. I feel confused. Is there a closed sign on my door? At that very moment, Dr. Drea returns with a mug of coffee and a bottled water. She sits both of them on the glass tabletop, breaking my trance. I move to the sofa across from her. We lock eyes and with a half-smile I feel the warm wetness of tears streaming down my cheeks. We sit in silence. Dr. Drea is patient with me, her gaze reassuring.
 “I don’t know what this is about,” I say, patting my face with the backs of my hands. There’s more silence. She gives me a chance to find the words unsolicited. Her therapy style is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Her warm and patient silence and reassuring look allow me the opportunity to gather my thoughts and find the words. 
 “I-I feel unsettled. I feel disorganized and confused,” more tears fall, but I can’t wipe them all so I give up. There is a box of Kleenex in an intricate golden cover with Amethyst stone detail. I focus in on the box but don’t reach for a Kleenex and Dr. Drea doesn’t offer one. She’s silently granting me permission to cry even though I haven’t fully grasped the reason for the tears. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I like this song. It’s a good song, but for some reason, it hits differently today.”
 Dr. Drea turns the music off, “Tabitha, what about the song hits differently today?”
 “I have a closed sign on my door, but I don’t know how or if I can tear mine down. I know that, ultimately, I want the love that she sings about. A love under new management. I just don’t know how to get there. It makes