by Holly Ryan
I reach him at the same time that he reaches me. I barely have the chance to say, “Hey,” before he takes me by the hand. The feel of his warm fingers meeting mine sends a chill over my arm and down my sides, and before I know it, he’s leading me away, in the opposite direction of Julia. I glance back over my shoulder. Mara’s still sitting at the table, watching me with that expression of shock and thrill. I smile and shrug at her.
Ethan pushes through a door and suddenly we’re outside the school, in the bright, sunny air of the parking lot. I look around. We’re not supposed to be here.
He stops and turns to me, his face full of purpose. “If she tries anything with you, I want you to tell me.”
Who, Julia? That little stick figure? I knit my brow. “Like what?”
“Anything. Just promise you’ll tell me.”
I want to laugh, but I hold myself back. “What’s with the drama?”
He takes both my arms, as though he wants to shake the message into me. “Avery, please take this seriously. I don’t want to see you hurt again.”
I let him hold me. I shrink into his grip and look up into his eyes. “You’re the first person to say that to me.”
“To say what?”
“That you don’t want to see me hurt again.”
He looks hurt just hearing that. “Well, it’s true.”
We can’t be out here much longer without getting in trouble. I lean in and wrap my arms around him. His body is large and dense with muscle, and I gently dig my fingers into the back of his shirt. This is the closest we’ve ever been, and everything about it feels so right. But the best part is that the way he’s hugging me back tells me he feels the same.
In the middle of our hug, I hear someone walk past the other side of the closed door, and a shadow approaches. I pull away from Ethan. But the figure passes and we’re alone once again.
“We’ve got to get in,” I tell him. I hold out my hand. I wish we had more time, but I think the bell is about to ring.
“So how’s it going, Avery? How’s everything been?”
The therapist’s office is surprisingly dark and gloomy, considering the message she’s supposed to be sending – that I’m not supposed to be feeling all dark and gloomy.
The room itself is small, so at least I got that part right. It fits only her big desk, which the therapist is sitting at now with full-sized notepad covering her lap and a pen in her hand, and there’s a red apartment sofa that’s built like a rock and didn’t give at all when I sat down. A miniature waterfall sits on the end table, and its cheap trickling is making me anxious. Isn’t it supposed to calm me down?
The therapist is an older lady. Her dark brown hair is in desperate need of a re-coloring (I can see her gray roots peeking through) and she’s dressed in a pair of black slacks and a light pink top that flows away from her body in some of the right places, but is almost see-through in others. A bulky, distracting necklace hangs across her chest and it jingles whenever she shifts around.
Today I was brave enough to wear a cute sundress that exposes my leg. It’s shorter than anything I’ve attempted so far, and I’m not sure I’d be willing to brave it to school, but this one little accomplishment feels good. I pull the fabric down a bit from my seat on the therapist’s sofa.
“It’s going okay.”
“Oh, good,” she says a little too enthusiastically.
Doesn’t she know it’s okay is one of my automatic replies? I better go along with this. I really do want to get the all clear so that I can be discharged from my treatment plan, but I’m not sure what she wants to hear.
“No more pain, really,” I say.
She sits back and crosses her legs. I feel even more analyzed right now than when the doctors were prodding me.
“And do you know why you’re here today?” she asks.
That tone, though. That professional, almost mocking tone.
“Not really.”
“The reason you’re here, Avery, isn’t so much because of your physical pain.” She reaches over to the desk and flips through a stack of papers, pulling out a file. “It looks like you told your doctors that was under control, correct?”
“Mm-hmm.” Yep. There are so many other places I’d rather be right now.
She slaps the file closed. “Yes. That’s your doctor’s area. So the reason we had you come here, Avery, is to make sure everything’s going well in every other way of the healing process. You know, how you’re adjusting, how your relationships are going, and how your mental health is doing. Those are the things I’m concerned about.”
I stare at her blankly.
“Why don’t you start by telling me how you’ve been coping?”
“With what?” I don’t get it. I really don’t. Healing from this, to me, isn’t something that I consciously think about. It’s somethingI turn over to my body and let it do on its own, and it seems to be doing a pretty okay job. I mean, there was that little episode on the stairs, but that’s to be expected.
“With everything you’ve been through. It sounds like you’ve been through quite a lot.”
I look down at my hands. “Am I going to have to do a lot of these sessions?” I wish she’d turn off that silly little waterfall.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Avery. We’ve found that this kind of evaluation is good for most people. Most people benefit from it. And to be honest, your mom is paying for this.” She scoots her chair forward on its wheels, closer to me. “So come on. What do you think? Is there something you want to talk about?” She smiles at me. “Anything at all.”
“Well…” There is something. But to be honest, I didn’t even know this was an issue until this very moment. “Sometimes I get these feelings, and I’m not sure where they come from.” I twiddle my fingers. “Does that mean something?”
“It might.” She writes something down, that necklace of hers jingling away as her arm hits her chest. “What’s happening when you get these feelings? Can you give me an example?”
Sure I can. But I’d rather not. I’m afraid if I talk about it, it’ll bring the feelings back. I take a deep breath and uncross my legs. I have to do this.
“It’s hard to explain. Sometimes I’ll see something that sort of reminds me of what happened that night, but I have no idea why it reminds me of that night.”
“That makes perfect sense to me.”
“It does?”
“Sure.” She sets the notepad and pen down on her desk. “Avery, you’ve been through a major trauma. It looks like your body has healed just fine, but you’ll need to give your mind some time to heal, too. Do you understand?”
“I think so.”
“Can you tell me what you feel in your body when these feelings come up?”
And I tell her. I tell her what I think she wants to know, and the exact answers to all her questions. But I also tell her the truth. Because really … she seems okay. This seems okay. And someone’s got to hear it. This counseling thing may not be what I expected, but hey – at least there’s the possibility that I could get something out of it.
“That’s all normal,” she assures me as she listens.
At the end of the session, she’s finishing up her notes and I’m just sitting here waiting to be done. Then, without thinking, I speak out of nowhere, asking the question that’s been invisibly on my mind.
“Do you think it’s alright if I get back into a relationship?”
She looks at me briefly, then turns back to her writing. She must be waiting for me to continue.
“So soon, I mean?”
This time, she doesn’t stop writing. “A romantic relationship? Where did you meet this gentleman?”
“Through school.”
She nods. “And how does it make you feel, Avery?”
“How does what make me feel?” Apparently I’m still not very good at this.
“Well, how does he make you feel?”
I don’t answer.
“
Does he make you feel good or bad?”
“Good. He makes me feel good.” I add, “And safe.”
She smiles. “Safe is good. Safe is very good. Just listen to those feelings, okay?”
“Okay.”
I’ve just walked inside and thrown my purse and key down on the kitchen table. The sun is shining through the windows, but the house itself sounds completely empty.
Suddenly, my mom appears from the backyard. She’s holding a tall glass in one hand, full of a drink and clinking ice cubes, and slides the door closed behind her.
“How’d it go?” she asks.
I envy the fact that she was able to enjoy the sun while I was stuck in that grim, tiny office. I’m glad at least one of us was able to relax today.
“It went okay.”
She sets down her glass. “How do you think you did?”
I stick my head into the fridge, fishing for something to eat. “What do you mean?”
“I mean did you learn anything useful? Like we talked about?”
I stand, having found some pre-cut watermelon squares to snack on. “I think so.” I sit down at the table and toss one in my mouth. “I mean, she was nice.”
My mom sneaks a chunk out of the bowl. She hands me a napkin and then sits down across from me. “Did you happen to mention you-know-who?”
“His name is Ethan. And yes, I did. In so many words.”
“‘In so many words’? Okay, now it’s my turn – what does that mean?” She’s peering at me over the top of the piece of watermelon she’s holding in front of her face.
I know exactly what she’s trying to do here. Her and I have already talked about Ethan and now she’s expecting updates. I walk to the garbage and throw away the remainder of my piece. “She said I should follow my heart.” At least, that’s my cheesy, romanticized version of our conversation.
“Avery, sit. Please.”
I do.
My mom’s still eating, but she talks anyway. “She said you should follow you heart, huh? That’s certainly an interesting take on the situation.”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “It sure makes sense to me.”
She stops eating and wipes the corners of her mouth with a napkin. Then she sits back in her chair and crosses her legs. “I’m proud of you, Avie. You know that? Just seeing you walk down those stairs every day makes me proud.”
I blush. I don’t tell her about how I almost fell down those stairs the other day.
“And you deserve to be happy.” She sighs. “So if you’re going to be with this boy, it’s on one condition.”
I hold my breath.
“I want you to let me meet him first. How does that sound?”
She’s being reasonable, so I’m not going to put up a fight. I crack a smile. “I can do that.”
Ethan
“Hi,” she says.
She’s standing close to me, a smile beaming across her face. She’s happy today. I love that.
“I have a surprise for you.”
I shut my locker and twist the padlock. “A surprise, huh? What’s that?”
She rolls up on the balls of her feet. For a moment I think she’s about to kiss me, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. But I’m wrong; she’s just excited, and my heart sinks at the loss of the prospect of her closeness.
She doesn’t notice my disappointment. Her feet come back to earth and she says, “Come to my house tonight? Around six.”
I can’t think of anything except our last dinner; all I can do is give her a dumbfounded smile in return. But I can’t let her catch onto that. I playfully touch her jawline. “I’ll be there.”
Immediately, as though synchronized to our conversation, the bell rings. And before I know it, she’s flown away from me like a bird, gone to her next class. Alone again and not caring about the prospect of being late to class, I lean back against my locker and bring my clenched fist down against the metal with a bang.
I take a deep breath and rub my palms together. I can do this. This won’t be like dinner at the Kramer’s. I’ll make sure of that.
I’ve just arrived at Avery’s house. Lights are shining through all the windows, and there’s movement behind some of the pulled curtains. I should go in right about now; it’s ten to six.
A shadow whips past a downstairs window, and I see the doorknob turn.
I tense, hoping it’s not her mother.
The door opens, and through a crack is Avery, poking her head out as though she knew I was there all along. And when I see her, all hesitation is erased. Her beaming face is all that matters, and that smile of hers that illuminates the night around me. I wave and give her a sloppy grin.
She ushers me over and mouths, “Come here.”
I meet her at the door. I reach my hand to her waist and lean forward to kiss her on the cheek. The skin of her face is warm.
Together, we step inside. Avery’s home is clean, with a whiteness of walls that screams I’m freshly done up. Someone may not give a shit about anything else, but someone definitely cares about me. The foyer is compact and leads to a short hallway, which invites you into what looks to be the home’s kitchen. From there, I see no movement and hear no sound.
That is, until Avery says, “Here. Let me take your coat.”
I wore a light coat tonight (it’s the one that’s always stored hastily on the back seat of my truck), though I don’t know why. I don’t even remember grabbing it. It’s just a comfort thing, I guess, for times of uncertainty.
“That’s okay,” I reply. I take the coat off and hold it draped over my arm. “Where should I put it?”
To our left, she opens a closet so compact it could pass for hidden.
“There you go.” She watches me hang it up and stick it inside amongst her family’s things. She closes the closet door, then turns to me and whispers, “And relax, Ethan. Believe me, this isn’t a big deal.”
Relax. The word flutters out of her mouth as though it’s the easiest thing in the world to do. If only she knew. If only she knew the truth of what hides within me, what I have to keep from her.
I give her a small nod, then I glance nervously further into the house.
She takes my hand and leads me down the hall. “Don’t worry. My mom won’t be here for a while. There’s a few things she needed to pick up after work.” When we reach the kitchen, she spins around. “But … I thought while she’s gone, we can get dinner ready.”
My eyes widen. “You cook?”
The kitchen is dim, but I can see an array of utensils surrounding us. There’s a large knife block flush against the corner of the marble counter top and a pair of double ovens near the fridge. The area is impeccably clean, except for some dirty dishes piled in the sink. Someone here knows how to cook.
“I’ve dabbled.”
I walk to the counter and pull open a few of the drawers closest to me.
Avery fumbles with the countertop before leaning against it. “Do you like to cook?”
I’m holding a wooden spoon from the drawer, one that’s almost entirely the length of my forearm. “A little. I used to more than I do now.”
“Why’s that?”
I set it back in its place. “I’m not sure.”
Despite the tension of the moment, I’m reassured by both the environment of the kitchen and Avery’s presence. We lock eyes. Her soul comforts me, and I can relax in her.
She breaks away from my gaze. “Dinner,” she says. She moves toward the stove. “We’re having burgers. Is that okay?”
I lean back. “Sounds great.” The hamburger meat has already been laid out to thaw on the cutting board. Avery goes to the fridge and pulls open the drawer, stuffing her arms with various ingredients and toppings.
“My mom likes tomato,” she says, setting one down in front of us. “Do you?”
I shrug. “It’s okay.” And when she doesn’t react to my answer, I ask, “Do you?”
“Not really.”
Honesty. I like that. I’m afrai
d she was worried about offending me with her answer, but without even knowing, she’s done quite the opposite; that raw honesty of hers is one of her best qualities, and the most precious thing about her.
She slips the largest chef’s knife out of its slot in the knife block and hands it to me handle side forward. I pause a moment before wrapping my fingers around the handle of the massive blade. A feeling of guilt sweeps through me, and it’s such an overcoming sensation that my fingers almost tremble.
How long can I keep this up? If Avery knew the truth, the idea of a knife in my hand would terrify her. Indeed, I know the truth – I know whose hands these are – and it scares even me.
“Well, Ethan,” she says with a careless smile, totally naive, “put yourself to use.”
The knife slides through the skin of the tomato with barely any pressure on my part. The motions of the knife rocking against the cutting board bring me back to the familiarity of all of this, back to the time before chaos.
Avery finishes setting her ingredients out on individual plates, organizing each one delicately and with care. When she notices me watching, she looks up from her work and exhales a laugh. “I like my food neat, okay?”
“I’m not complaining.”
And she resumes her pointless organization. Her fingers move intricately, pushing and re-doing her previous attempts at perfection. I watch them work, and take in the delicate creaminess of the skin of those fingers, and I’m struck with the realization that in her hunt for perfection she’s overlooked the perfect way in which she works.
She lifts her body up, examining her work. “There.” She takes two plates in her hands and walks them to the dining room table.
I pick up the remaining ones and follow close behind. “Your mom will be happy,” I say.
“She doesn’t usually notice this kind of stuff.”
I set the plates down, taking my cue from Avery. “She’ll notice me, right?”
