Shameless (The Therapist #2)

let out an exasperated breath before speaking.
“I don't have to ask her anything,” Brandon says. “I can tell from the look on her face that she’s somewhere else in her head, and that’s fine with me, because I can go somewhere else in mine.”
Now it’s my turn to sigh. When I do, both men in the room turn their eyes to me. I’ve been quiet throughout the entire session today, choosing instead to let Brandon get out whatever bullshit he wants to say. Maybe I’d feel compelled to speak up if I felt like Dr. Colson believed a single word slithering out of Brandon’s mouth, but I can tell he doesn't. He looks disinterested, which is the mirror reflection of how I feel.
However, everybody has a tipping point. Usually, when Brandon starts off on one of his long venting sessions, I just let him vent. My mother taught me not to say anything when I don't have anything positive to add to the conversation, but that is getting to be too much of a task, because not only am I tired, I’m fed up.
“Tessa, is there something you'd like to add?” Dr. Colson asks. Those green eyes of his glare at me, telling me that the therapist has given me an in, and that I should take advantage of the opportunity.
I turn to Brandon and shake my head. “That was a joke, right?”
Brandon frowns. “What?”
“What you just said about going somewhere else in your head,” I continue. “Brandon, you don't need to go somewhere else in your head, because you literally leave all the time. You're always out doing something else. That’s what brought us here in the first place. You don't touch me anymore, and that’s because you're always gone.”
“You're mad that I don't touch you?” Brandon tries to strike back. “That’s so dumb, Tessa. How do you expect me to touch you when I’m out trying to make something of myself? I’m out there trying to make it big, while you're content being a veterinary assistant, working at your father’s clinic. You might be okay with a normal, boring life, but I’m not. I’m out there trying to become somebody in this world.
“And if we’re being honest, when we do get to spend time together, you don't even seem happy to be with me. Maybe I’m physically distant, but you're mentally distant. It’s like you’re constantly thinking about whether or not you even want to be with me anymore. You're never satisfied. Like, when we have sex, you look dispassionate and detached. When I ask you what you want me to do, you tell me you don't know, but you act mad that I don't know either. What am I supposed to do with that? How am I supposed to satisfy you when you don't even know what you want?”
I steal a glance at Dr. Colson, who’s writing furiously on his yellow legal pad, and I’m dying to know what he thinks about all of this. When he’s done writing, though, he doesn't speak. Dr. Colson is all about open communication. He’s been harping on it from the moment we walked into his office, so when Brandon and I get into verbal spats, Dr. Colson seals his lips and picks up his pen, but he rarely interjects. He lets us work it out, unless he sees that we can't work it out on our own.
“Don't get mad at me for being driven, Tessa,” Brandon continues, annoyance walking hand in hand with his every word. “I don't have a family-owned business to attach myself to. My father doesn't have a clinic for me to work at. I have to make it on my own. Nobody handed my skills to me. I became a music producer on my own.”
“Oh, God. Here we go again,” I spit out with a huff.
“Oh, fuck you,” Brandon snaps. “Yes, I’m proud of the fact that I’m a music producer, and I’m proud of the fact that a band I produce and manage has booked a gig in D.C. this weekend. You can act like it’s no big deal all you want, but this band is about to go sing songs that I produced the music to, playing a gig that I booked for them. That’s a big deal to me, and it should be to you, too. You're just jealous that I’m about to become rich and famous, and you're going to be stuck working at Milton Animal Clinic under the shadow of your parents your entire fucking life, because I swear I’ll leave you behind if you don't shape up. That's right. If you don't figure yourself out really quickly, you're going to lose out on me.”
“God, you're a fucking asshole,” I blurt, as I snap my head toward Brandon. “Nobody gives a fuck about that band. American Armpits is the dumbest band name I've ever heard, and they'll never amount to anything more than they are now. Attach yourself to those losers at your own peril, Brandon.”
“Goddamn it, when did you become such a bitch?” Brandon barks.
“All right, all right, I think we need to reel it in,” Dr. Colson speaks up with his hand in the air like a boxing referee. “You guys know I’m all about communication, and I can appreciate both of you opening up, but we need to try to keep it civil. We have to express our emotions without reverting to name-calling or putting words into each other’s mouths. It’s okay to be emotional, but you have to keep it from becoming hostile. If you two can't do that, then this road we’re traveling on will become much more difficult to navigate. When you can't express yourselves without resorting to insults, and intentionally trying to bring each other down and hurt each other’s feelings, that's a sign of a much deeper issue. When all you have left for each other is contempt and outrage, you have to ask yourselves an essential question. Do you even like each