Mika walks off to help another customer while I contemplate the blow-up doll situation. I mean, at least if I say things don’t work out, Sanders will understand, but then again, I run the risk of him thinking I’m a nut job…

“How strict do you think the patient-therapist relationship is? Think Sanders will tell his wife that her employee brought in a blow-up doll to a therapy session?”

Denise thinks on it for a second. “You know, that’s a good point. I don’t think he can say anything to your boss, which means, if you’re brave enough, you could take the doll and maybe make up a story about how he’s afraid you might pop him and that’s why the marriage is on the rocks.”

I mean, there’s some meat to that story. Consider me crazy, but I’m sort of considering it.

“Over my dead body will my friend pretend to be married to a plastic fuck hole,” Mika says as he rejoins the conversation.

Well, tell it like it is.

“That fuck hole is her husband.” Denise pounds her fist to the bar top, mirth written all over her face. “Don’t talk about him that way.”

“That fuck hole is not going to work.”

“Fine, but the idea had merit,” Denise says, sitting taller. “Hey, wait a second. Take Mika. He can pretend to be your husband.”

“Ooo, that’s a good idea,” I say, turning to my friend, feeling an ounce of hope.

“You might not have known I’m gay,” Mika says, “but your therapist sure will. The minute my mouth opens, he’ll know.”

“That’s okay. It’ll be obvious as to why it’s not working out between the two of you,” Denise says.

“Yeah, that’s such a good idea.”

We both lean on the bar counter, staring down Mika, who lets out a deep breath and says, “What time?”

I clap my hands and say, “Nine. Tomorrow morning.”

“Ooo, this will be so perfect. Can I come and watch? I want to see how this plays out,” Denise says.

“You have a wedding to prep for,” I remind her.

“Oh right.” She winces. “Jesus, one friend emergency, and I’m already forgetting my responsibilities. Yikes.”

“I can’t do it,” Mika says, looking at his phone.

“What? Why?” I ask.

“I have an appointment with my actual therapist tomorrow morning at nine.”

“Nooooo,” I drag out. “I mean, good for you, happy you’re making a healthy routine with your mental health, but noooooo.”

Denise taps her chin. “Maybe I can wear a mustache, pretend to be the man in your life.”

“That won’t be obvious at all, almost as bad an idea as the inflatable love companion,” I say on a groan. “Ugh, I don’t want you to move your appointment, and I don’t want to ask, but do you think…”