Not My Type by Melanie Jacobson

leaned his elbow on the table and propped his chin on his fist, giving me a long smile before he answered. “Maybe it’s not an emergency, but it’s way more important than anything I was doing. Is this about your interview today?”
    I nodded, and then despite myself, two rebellious tears squeezed out. I dashed them away before they could trickle down my cheeks. My dad fished a clean handkerchief out of his pocket. That’s the great thing about dads. They think of stuff like handkerchiefs. I dabbed at my eyes, not worried about getting anything on the cloth since I’d cried off all my eye makeup when I’d first come home.
    “I didn’t get the job,” I said.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “That must be really frustrating.”
    “More like humiliating,” I grumbled, and when his eyebrow rose in question, I spilled the details. His expression reflected sympathy over my aching feet and proper outrage at Tanner Graham’s jerkiness, but I caught him stifling a smile when I recounted my exit. “Dad! No laughing!”
    “I’m not laughing at you,” he reassured me. “But I love that you stopped and took your shoes off when anyone else would have kept limping. That’s so . . . you. And I adore it,” he added when he caught my grimace.
    “I guess I’m worried that all this craziness really is me now.” I crushed a Goldfish and then brushed his crumbled remains into my palm. “I kind of liked being in my funk better. At least I wasn’t losing my temper every five minutes over something.”
    He smiled. “Do you find all your emotions a little unsettling right now?”
    “Unsettling,” I said, testing out the word. “Yeah. Good word for it.”
    “Therapist or counselor?” he asked. It was shorthand in our house for whether we wanted him to listen or advise us.
    “Counselor, for sure.” I was so tired of being in my own head.
    “I think you went into an emotional cocoon after you and Landon broke up. It was your way of grieving the loss of the relationship and all the plans you’d had for your future. You’re coming out of the cocoon and realizing that the world can be pretty exciting but also risky. I think your anger comes from two things: at first you were mad at anyone who tried to drag you out of your cocoon, and now you’re reacting out of fear when you see risk in the world.”
    He sat back and studied my dubious expression then sighed. “Sorry, my last client was an eight-year-old. Let me try it again in adult terms. You liked being emotionally numb, but that can last only so long. You fought against joining the land of the living, hence some of your outbursts. Now you’re kind of excited about moving on with your life, but you’re reacting with fear when you sense obstacles. How does that sound?”
    “It sounds about right,” I admitted. “I don’t like the cocoon analogy because I know you’re going to follow it up with—”
    “With how you’re a beautiful butterfly ready to spread your wings? Nah,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “I know you better than that.”
    “Butterflies are nice and all, but I’m more of a . . .” I groped for the right metaphor.
    “Sparrow?” he offered.
    I wrinkled my brow. “What does that mean?”
    “I don’t know. Just seems right.”
    “Okay,” I said, dragging the word out. “Then what’s a sparrow to do? Suddenly, hiding in my room for months on end doesn’t sound so good anymore.”
    “Let’s eat and then talk about it,” he suggested.
    I climbed to my feet. “I’ll make you a sandwich.”
    He stood and waved me back down. “Let me make the sandwiches. Seems like you do enough of that as it is.”
    By the time we polished off some PB&J, I was impatient. “I want to hear your ideas because all mine are bad. Help, please?”
    He pushed his empty plate aside. “I’d love to. Let me ask you this. How did you feel today when you realized you weren’t going to get the job?”
    “Super bummed,” I answered without