“What? No. Just no. He hates my guts. He thinks I’m corrupting his brother.”
River stops the chair-dance. “Who’s his brother?”
“Tommy.”
“Wait, the kid you’re hooking up with is his brother?”
“Yes. No. Yes. No. Ugh.” I push my plate to the side and bang my head on the table.
She steals another fry. “What is it? Yes or no?”
I pull my plate back and shove a bunch of fries in my mouth before I lose them all. Chew harder than needed. Swallow. Take a drink from my water bottle.
“Yes, Tommy is his brother. And no, we’re not hooking up. We never did.”
“Whoa … hold the press. You’re not hooking up with this kid. Why?”
“No. We’re friends. I don’t fuck every guy I know.” I glare at her.
“I know that. I didn’t mean to imply you fuck everything with a dick. I meant, I could swear you said you were with him.”
“You assumed, River. I never said it.”
“Huh … well, that makes things easier, then. It would be too weird to be hooking up with two brothers.”
I lean into the table, lower my voice. “I’m not hooking up with either of them. Never happened. Never will.”
She goes for another fry. I smack her hand away.
She rubs her hand. “Famous last words, Becca. Famous last words.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ohhhh, you challenged the universe with that never. Now we have to figure out which brother you'll be with.”
“None. No one. Neither one of them. I’m taking a page of your book and going on a boy sabbatical too. No more dick for me.”
“Not even Professor Dick?”
“Specially not him.”
Chapter Fifteen
Best damn french fries I’ve ever had.
Chapter Sixteen
The web page blurs. I blink. The words line up again, making sense once more. My bed creaks when I shift. I’ve been sitting in the same position without moving for so long my whole body aches. I stretch my arms above my head, uncurl my back, circle my neck. Work off the stiffness that has settled into my muscles. Ease off the tension.
For twenty minutes I have been here. Sitting stiff as a log and telling myself to be brave and reach out again. Talk to him and be honest.
Therapist11
He’s available again tonight. The familiar pressure on my chest is there, but less than before. I’m not as anxious or nervous this time around.
I click on his name.
Call or chat?
“Be brave, Becca.”
The mouse hovers in the middle, between the two options. My hands shake, making the cursor oscillate between Call and Chat.
It’s easier to hide behind the Chat window. It gives me time to think. Easier to walk away.
“Be brave, Becca.” I whisper the mantra to myself again and place the cursor over the Call option. Squeeze my eyes shut. Click. The connection beeps, a dial tone follows, the sound loud in my ears. I scramble to grab my earbuds, plug them into the laptop and put them on just in time to hear the second ring coming through.
“Jesus! I’m a mess. Really didn’t think this through.”
I imagine his voice low, and maybe grouchy, like an old man. An old man with a big belly, long gray beard, and a mustache. I picture him as a cross of Freud and Santa Claus and smoking a pipe. A nervous laugh escapes my lips. He answers my call then, and that awkward laugh is the first thing he hears.
“Hello. I’m so glad you’re back.”
My laugh dies. His voice is neither low nor grouchy. He doesn’t sound like an old man at all. Even through my old and staticky earbuds, his voice is warm, soft, and welcoming. It makes me think of melted chocolate, and the notion is so bizarre that it triggers a nervous laugh.
“It’s good to hear you laugh.”
“Hi.” I sound timid and not like myself. I don’t speak with the assertiveness and edge of anger that usually coats my words. This is good. It wasn’t intentional, but I’ll keep this soft and timid voice. It’s another layer of protection. Not that I think whoever is on the other side of the line would ever know who I am. If I thought for a second that someone could find out, I would never have joined this program.
“Will you let me in on the joke?” I can hear the smile in his soothing voice, and I’m at a loss for what to say. I guess the truth will have to do.
“I was picturing you as a cross between Santa Claus and Freud, and it made me laugh.”
It’s his turn to laugh. The sound is melodious, masculine and welcoming. I like it. I like the sound of his voice, the timbre of his laugh. It’s friendly, happy. It makes me feel safe.
“Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t think I could pass as Freud or Santa.”
There’s an awkward silence then.
“How are you today?” He takes the lead.
“I’m okay.” For a change, the automatic response is not a lie.
“Yeah? Do you want to pick up where we left off or talk about something else?” He doesn’t mention the rather abrupt way I ended our last conversation, and I’m grateful for that.
“I don’t know. I don’t know how any of this works.” I curl into myself, let my shoulders drop, release some of the stiffness in my back.
“Think of me as your sounding board. I’m here to help and guide you, so you can understand your emotions, create better behaviors, and relate to your thoughts differently.”
The faint squeak of leather comes through the connection, and I imagine him getting more comfortable in his chair.
“Okay. And if I do all that, then what?” I can’t picture myself in any other way than what I am.
“Then you can live your life the way it was meant to. Live your life to your full potential. Not as a result of circumstances or whatever happened in the past.”
I snort at his words. The sound is rude even to my ears. “Yeah, I can’t see this happening anytime soon.”
“And yet you called. And yet you’re here talking to me. And yet, the first thing you said was ‘yeah.’” He calls me on my bullshit response, but his tone is kind, not accusatory.
“What?” My feeble response is a weak attempt at scrambling for some extra time to think about what he said.
“You said you can’t see this—this different version of you—happening anytime soon. But the first thing you said was ‘yeah.’ And that tells me that yes, you see that life for yourself, and more than seeing it, you want it.”
“I don’t think that’s how a sounding board works.” I shift in my bed.
“I’m also here to call you on your BS, when I see it.”
Crap on a cracker! It’s like he can read my thoughts. “Get out of my brain!” The words spill out before I can stop them. He rewards my impromptu honesty with a low chuckle.
“That’s what I’m here for.”
I suck in a deep breath and release with a loud sigh. “I guess it makes sense. In theory, at least.”
“Just in theory?”
I hear steps outside my door and lower my voice. “I can understand it on a rational level. But I haven’t internalized it yet.”
“Ah … yes. Assimilating a new point of view can take time.”
“But it’s more than just a new point of view, isn’t it?”
“It is. It’s a whole alternative way of thinking. And changing the way we view ourselves is far more difficult than changing the way we view others.”
That gives me pause. I have to run what he said through my mind. It resonates with me. “True. Yes. I can see that. But, why? Why is it easier to change the way we see others than the way we see ourselves?”
“Because we believe the lies others tell us about ourselves. And even worse, we believe the lies we tell ourselves too. We believe these made-up stories and proceed to make them real.”
This is also true. How many times was I called a slut growing up? Even before I ever kissed a boy. They shoved the word at m
e on a daily basis. And look at me now? Isn’t that what I am when I pick random guys to have sex with? I shake my head as if I could dispel the intruding thoughts. Get back to the call, Becca! “But how do we know they are lies?”
“You’re not asking the right question.”
“I don’t understand.” I get what he means about believing lies we tell ourselves. How often have I said I was okay and played the part of the happy and carefree girl? Too often. So often I sometimes fear I have lost my identity.
“The right question is not what are the lies.”
“No?”
“No, not at all.”
“Then, what is the right question?” My heart thunders in anticipation. Half of me believes he holds the key that will free me from my cell. The other half is too afraid to believe and is terrified of what will happen if I dare to step out.
“The right question is, what is the truth?”
“What’s the truth?” I repeat, letting the words wash over me like rain. One drop at a time.
“Yes, truth. Forget about the lies. Ask yourself, what is true?”
“And how do I know what is true?”
“The truth, my friend, is that which never changes.”
“What do you mean? Everything changes. Doesn’t everyone have his or her version of the truth? People have different perspectives of the same events.”
“That is not the truth, then. It’s the lies people tell themselves. Truth by nature cannot be two things, especially two opposing things at the same time. Truth, in its essence, is universal.”
My mind is racing with conflicting thoughts. I understand what he’s saying on a very primal level, but this is making my brain hurt. And how the heck did we get to this?
“I don’t know where you’re going with this. How any of these ideas of lies and truth can help me.” I can’t hide the annoyance in my voice. “I’m gonna need an example.”
“Hmm …” He hums, and I can almost see him leaning back in a leather chair and swiveling back and forth. Now that the Freud-Santa picture has been dismissed, his face is a blur in my imagination.
“Okay. Something simple. When we see a ripe strawberry, we can agree that its color is red, correct?”
“Yes.”
“So for us saying that a strawberry is red is true. But the strawberry is not always red, is it? It starts green, and then turns red, and eventually, if no one eats it, it will turn brown and black. All those colors are also true at any given moment in time.”
My mind is whirling, trying to keep up with him. “Which, then, by what you said before, it’s not true at all because the color is always changing.”
“Correct. The colors change. The outside changes, and the flavor changes too, but it is still a strawberry, despite all the changes. The changes are not the truth, the strawberry is. Now apply this to yourself, and that which remains the same is the truth.”
What? What the fuck does he mean by that? I’m no fucking strawberry. I rein in the irritation and press the heel of my hand into my forehead. Massage it for a second.
“But people are not strawberries. Something as simple as red or green can’t define us. And do people really change? Or do they make you think they can change?”
“Yes and no, it depends on the person, and how committed they are to change.”
I cut him off. “That’s a non-answer.”
And he continues as if I hadn’t interrupted him. “We grow, we mature, we evolve and sometimes we change. But our true nature, our true essence, it stays true throughout those changes. So what’s actually changing is not the essence of the person, but their perception and behavior. Much like the strawberry. It is still a strawberry, the colors may change—that’s our perception of it—but that doesn’t change the fact that, independent of its many color changes, it is still a strawberry.”
“I need a minute to mull this over.” I close my eyes and let what he said sink in. It’s all too much. I remember a PSY class in which we had to take two different stances and defend our findings. People can change versus people can’t change. I was in the “can’t” group. Have I been living my life under the assumption that I have no choice all this time?
“I don’t know that I agree with this idea. My mind is twirling.”
“And you don’t have to agree. But I want you to think about it. How does this relate to you and the choices you made up to this point?”
“Me? How does this apply to me?”
“Because the things that happened to you are not you. You are not a result of whatever brought you here. You’re a reaction to it.”
“What?” His words shake me. I’m tittering on a precipice.
“Last time we talked, you said you date guys you feel are safe to be with, and you can have a certain amount of control over, correct?”
I said I hook up with them, have meaningless sex with them, but I’m grateful for the more generous description he gives me.
“Yes.”
“And you said you do this to get a piece of yourself back.”
I nod. Hearing my own words repeated back to me have a weight of their own, and they feel heavier somehow.
“Are you still with me?” His voice is even gentler now.
“I’m still here.”
“Why do you think you pick these guys? The real reason this time. The truth of it, not the perception.”
I drag in a long breath, forcing my lungs to expand until it hurts. The urge to hang up and end the call makes my fingers twitch. But instead I curl them into my palms and squeeze my hands into fists. My lips tremble as I try to form words. “I-I do it to punish myself. I do it because I don’t think I deserve more or better.”
“And why is that?” he asks almost in a whisper.
I blink away the tears that come uninvited, suck in another breath and push it out. My whole body trembles. “That’s all I know. That’s all I’ve ever had.”
“But that’s not the truth, is it? That’s the story you were told. That’s the story you’re telling yourself still.”
Oh my God. The sound that escapes me is half cry and half gasp. The sound of a wounded animal. Perhaps that’s all I am. Perhaps when we strip all that makes us civilized, all that’s left is animal sounds.
“I want you to do something for me. Will you? Please?”
“Okay.” I don’t know how I manage to speak.
“I want you to think about the story you’ve been telling yourself. Break it apart. Find when it first started. And then find the real you in the middle of it all. Find the you that never changes. Your essence. Take a day or two to think about it, and call me back, please.”
He waits for a response, and I don’t know if I can answer him. I’m folding into myself, becoming smaller and smaller.
“Can you do that? Please?” There’s so much kindness in his voice, it draws me out again.
“Yes.”
Chapter Seventeen
Thursday night football games bring a lot more customers to the bar. Even my boss, Gus, is out front tonight, talking shit with our locals and ribbing the lone Stealers fan sitting at the end of the counter. The New England Pats are ahead by ten points, and the beer is flowing. Everyone is happy. Except the Stealers fan. It doesn’t look good for his team.
With their attention on the game and Gus helping, I have less to do and my mind is working on overtime. I haven’t been able to think of anything else since the call with the therapist. When did my story start? When did I start believing in the lies I was told? And why is it that, even though I know the stories are lies, I still believe them?
My mind flashes through a Rolodex of time and memories. Little flashbacks spark here and there as I search for the real me in the dark corners of my mind.
The one who stays constant, he said. I think I found her—the real me.
The little girl buried under all the bullshit I was fed my whole life.
The teenager who was broken beyond all hope.
The young woman who ne
ver believed she was worthy of love and kept on punishing herself again and again. Who gave her body as if it was all she was—a thing to be consumed and easily forgotten.
“Becca?” my boss calls to me.
“Yeah?”
He takes a few steps closer, a benign smile on his face. “I think that spot is clean enough.”
“What?” I follow his line of gaze to the rag in my hand and the spot I have been scrubbing for the last couple of minutes.
He ducks, trying to catch my eyes. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, fine. Just thinking. School and stuff. You know.”
Gus looks at me for a moment longer, nods, and goes back to the other side of the bar. Laughs greet him. Save for Pittsburgh guy. He’s not laughing at all.
I push the thoughts away and concentrate on work and all the distractions it provides. I check the game on the TV. Pats are up by seventeen now. I don’t really care for football. Or any sport. The sheer size and strength of those athletes alone can send me into a panic. I avoid them at all cost.
It’s halftime now, and the bar clears a bit, some people heading to the bathroom to make room for more beer, others leaving to catch the second half at home. The bell over the door chimes with each exit, a barely audible ding over the sounds of the bar, now a lot quieter without the game going.
The sharp screech of a barstool being dragged hurts my ear. I have a new customer.
“Be right with you.” I close the cash register and give Pittsburgh guy his change. He’s had enough teasing for tonight. He pushes a five back into my direction.
I smile. “Thanks! You never know, they could come back.”
He touches his cap. “Maybe.”
I pocket the money and turn to my new customer, still smiling. My feet stop so suddenly, I almost pitch forward.
Professor Dick. What the heck is he doing here? I look over his shoulder and back toward the door, and then again in the restrooms’ direction.
“No, Tommy is not here. It’s just me, Miss Jones.” He taps the scratched wood top, answering my unasked question.
Because of Dylan: A forbidden student teacher slow burn romance (Riggins U Book 3) Page 9
