We were finally back in Malibu.
As great as London had been—bridal escapes, awkward dinners, Friends episodes, and luxury hotel suites—nothing beat the comfort of being home. The ocean breeze was familiar again, and so was the sight of Charlie passed out on the patio chair with sunglasses still on.
School was wrapping up for the year, and it was smooth sailing for me. Final grades were coming in, and I'd aced everything. Straight A's. Not that it was surprising, considering most of the material felt like a review from a previous life.
At dinner, I brought it up casually.
"I was thinking," I said, between bites of grilled chicken, "maybe I could skip a few grades."
Alan nearly dropped his fork. "What?" His face froze in surprise, like he had misheard me.
Charlie leaned back in his chair, amused. "Well, he is smarter than you already. Might as well fast-forward."
Evelyn sipped her wine and nodded. "It would be a waste to keep him bored with children who think long division is advanced."
Alan blinked a few more times, then slowly nodded. "Ohh... that actually makes sense. Sometimes I forget you're still in sixth grade. You just don't talk like a kid."
"I've already talked with the school counselor," I said. "They want me to take some tests, just to make sure."
Alan rubbed his forehead, still adjusting. "But... skipping grades? That's a big leap. Socially, emotionally—"
"I'll manage," I said. "Honestly, I'm wasting time where I am now. Might as well push forward."
Charlie raised his glass. "Here's to our little prodigy!"
Gramma gave me a rare approving look. "At least one Harper is doing something right."
I smirked. "Thanks. I'll keep the family average up."
The next day, the school called again. They said part of the process for skipping grades required a psychological evaluation—not just to check if I was intellectually ready, but to see if I could handle it emotionally and socially.
Judith had actually wanted me to see a therapist before, back when she and Dad were separating. She was worried the whole thing might be affecting me more than I let on. Of course, Dad was against it. "Therapy? For what? He's fine."
They never brought it up directly. I remembered seeing a therapist a few times in my past life, and it had actually been kind of nice. I'd completely forgotten how much I appreciated the calm.
"Actually," I said, thinking aloud to Alan, "can you ask them to book the whole day for the evaluation?"
Alan frowned. "The whole day?"
"Yeah. I want to talk properly. No rush."
The school gave a name: Dr. Linda Freeman.
"According to Mom, she's pretty well-regarded," I added.
Alan nodded slowly. "Yeah, well... she better be. She charges $175 an hour."
I shrugged. "I'd pay ten times that if it's worth it."
Charlie, walking by with a drink, smirked. "I've paid ten times that per hour." Then, leaning closer to Alan, he murmured, "But not to a therapist."
Alan didn't even blink. "You are a pig."
Dr. Linda Freeman's office was tucked into a quiet building overlooking the Pacific. Her waiting room was calm and minimal—soft gray walls, sunlight filtering through large windows, the scent of eucalyptus in the air. The kind of place designed to make you breathe slower.
She opened the door herself. "Jake?"
I stood up and offered a polite nod. "Nice to meet you."
She smiled warmly. "Come on in."
Her office was cozy, not overly clinical. Bookshelves, a comfortable couch, a few abstract paintings on the wall. She gestured for me to take a seat.
"I read your school file," she began as she settled into her chair. "Impressive scores. Sounds like you've had quite the year."
"You have no idea," I said. "Calling it 'quite a year' doesn't even begin to cover it."
She raised an eyebrow, amused. "You booked me for the whole day. We've got until 5 p.m."
I glanced at the clock—just after 9 a.m. I hadn't even had breakfast. That gave us nearly seven hours, not counting lunch.
"And I get the feeling," she continued, "you didn't come here just to talk about skipping grades or your parents' divorce."
"Glad to know you're sharp. I'm paying three grand for this," I said with a half-smirk.
Her eyebrows lifted slightly.
"And when I say 'I,' I mean it literally came out of my pocket. I know you charge $175 an hour, which makes $1,225 for seven hours, and I paid nearly two and a half times that to clear your day."
"Okay," she said, clearly intrigued now. Not every day a ten-year-old talks like a lawyer.
"Well then, let's start with what brought you here. We'll get into emotional readiness as we go. Let's begin with the divorce."
"There's not much to say. Would I prefer them together? Sure. Do I think it's realistic? Not really. They don't work as a couple, and honestly, I don't think it would be good for either of them."
"Why not?" Dr. Freeman asked.
"For starters, my mom might be gay. She's not completely sure yet, and considering she's nearly forty, that says something. My dad? He's... difficult. Just as flawed as she is."
"Do you hate them?" she asked, slightly concerned by my blunt tone.
"No. I love them, in my own way. There was a time when I resented them. I still think they're deeply flawed people. Maybe even below average in a lot of ways." I paused. "My mom walks around like the world owes her something. She can act like a Karen sometimes. She's not particularly good at anything and doesn't seem interested in improving. She doesn't have many real friendships. Honestly, if she died tomorrow, I'm not sure many people would miss her."
Dr. Freeman blinked but didn't speak.
"My dad? He's stingy. Hypocritical, pretentious, sometimes manipulative. He sometimes avoids taking responsibility and blames someone else."
"But despite all that, they love me. They care deeply. And sometimes I feel ashamed or guilty because I struggle to return that love the way they deserve."
"'Honor your father and mother.' Exodus 20:12," I added. I wasn't a religious person in my past life. But when you get reborn, you have to rethink a few things.
"Sometimes, I think it's because I see myself as superior. Better than them. Vanitas vanitatum, et omnia vanitas—'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.' In the end, I'm not so different. I just hide my flaws better."
Dr. Freeman leaned forward slightly, her expression thoughtful now instead of shocked. "That's a lot of insight for someone your age. And even more honesty than most adults can manage."
I didn't say anything. I just waited.
"You talk about love as something that needs to be earned or deserved," she continued. "But you also recognize the gap between how much they love you and how much you feel capable of giving back. That's not cold. That's self-awareness."
She paused. "You don't lack empathy, Jake. If anything, you feel too much. You just don't know where to place it yet."
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