“You need some friends your own age. Or therapy,” Lance says tiredly as he massages his temples behind the bar. “I’ve seen a therapist biweekly for eight years, Lance, and I have friends.” “Then why aren’t you going to them with this Gossip Girl shit? I’m tired, Meyer. I’m sixty-three. I can’t pretend to give a shit,” he groans. “I thought you being older and wiser might offer some insight here.” Also, I don’t know that I can admit this entire thing to my therapist yet. Dr. Dale would have a field day.
