He’s tall, probably six feet, maybe six two. His shoulders and biceps pull against the threadbare cotton of his about-to-fall-apart shirt that probably costs three hundred dollars. His waist is narrow, causing his pants to sag ever so slightly off his hips, and his black Converse have seen better days. And then there’s his tattoo. Inked on his right forearm just below his elbow are three solid black rings that wrap around his arm like bracelets.

But that’s not the worst of it.

Nope, it’s the lip ring.

On the right corner of his mouth is a small black ring that wraps around his lip. I zeroed in on it the moment he started tugging on it with his teeth. The movement made me feel embarrassingly weak in the knees. It’s a lip ring, yet here I am, panting and bouncing my leg up and down.

These are all things Mika should have conveyed when suggesting his brother.

I could have handled the bored, uninterested brother.

I could have worked with the hipster vibe.

But the lip ring? What the hell am I supposed to do with that?

The elevator dings as the doors part, opening up to a serene office space: white walls, white furniture, calming music, and plants everywhere. It feels like we’re walking into a couples massage rather than couples counseling.

“You must be Scottie,” the receptionist says as she stands from her desk. “We’re ready for you.”

“Oh, uh, great,” I say as I move forward.

“Can I get you anything to drink before you enter your session?”

“Water would be great,” I say.

“Do you have any Coke Zero?” Wilder asks.

“We do.”

“I would love one. Thank you.”

“Of course. Let me show you into Sanders’s office, and then I’ll bring you your drinks.”

“Thank you,” I say as we follow her down to the end of a hallway.

She knocks on the door three times and then pushes it open, revealing…

What the hell is this?

“Please take a seat on the leather couch. Sanders will be right in.”

We both shuffle past stacks and stacks of boxes, across a brown rug, right to a brown leather couch that is worn and torn in every manner. Tears in the seat. Tears in the couch arms. Even in the back cushions. Above the couch is a framed Knicks jersey, signed by who knows, as well as a Mets pin-striped jersey.

Mets, really?

You live in New York City, and you’re going to be a Mets fan when the Yankees are the clear option? Not sure Sanders can be trusted.