Thirty Days: Part One (A SwipeDate Novella Book 1)

by BT Urruela

  “Now, doc, I’ve been seeing you every week for a year. I think you could say how I’ve been feeling about as well as I could.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re not paying me to talk the whole time. So, I’ll ask again…” Her voice trails as a light smirk crosses her lips. “How have you been, Gavin?”

  “It’s been a weird week.”

  “How so?”

  “I went on my first date since Joanne,” I say, and as expected, her eyes go wide, her mouth gaping.

  “You did what now?” She laughs, nudging the horn-rimmed glasses back up her nose.

  “I know. Hard to believe, right? Bobby challenged me. I’ve been on three dates already this week, actually… And I have thirty more to do over the next month. I do that and twenty-five thousand dollars is mine.”

  She lowers her head, her lips pursed. “I mean, Gavin, I know the money could help you and your grandmother a lot, but I don’t know if that’s a great reason to be dating.” She puts a hand up. “Now, don’t get me wrong, I think anything that gets you out and about is a good thing. I just worry about these girls. I can only assume they don’t know these dates are a part of some challenge or contest… thirty dates are quite a lot. Don’t you think more than a few will develop feelings?”

  “After one date?” I ask, scrunching my brow.

  “Yes, Gavin, after one date. Women are different. We process things differently. You know this. You’re an author, for Pete’s sake.”

  “Okay, okay. Well, so far, it’s been fine. I don’t make any romantic gestures or use any confusing language when I’m out with them. I keep it basic, and as brief as possible, and so far, they’re quite alright with just one date.” I chuckle and flash her a wide smile as she analyzes me again. Letting her eyes do the talking for her. “Hey, I pay at least,” I continue, and she rolls her eyes.

  “Okay, Gavin. Well, we will surely be back to this over the next month. How are you otherwise? Depression? Anxiety?”

  “I mean, all of the above. You know it comes in waves.”

  “Still based around Joanne? Or is it something else? Your grandmother? Parents?”

  “Again… all of the above. I always worry about Grandma, but she’s not doing too bad… considering. My parents, well, that just is what it is. As for Joanne…” My eyes flit around the room, my mind trying to formulate how I feel when I think about her… about how it’s felt since I lost her… and how the hole that’s left seems impossible to fill. I take a deep breath, clenching each armrest tightly with my hands. “Yeah, just the usual.”

  She narrows her eyes and tilts her head. “Gavin.”

  “I just miss what we had… that’s all. It’s just ridiculous because I should be over her. I shouldn’t still feel this way… but I do.”

  “Love is hard. It’s lasting and relentless. But you’ll get past it, Gavin. Look how far you’ve come already.”

  “Still… I feel like a fool for still feeling the way I do.”

  “I know you hate this question, but I have to ask… have you had any suicidal thoughts over the past week?”

  “I told you, doc. I like to call it suicidal curiosity. And no, I’m still going strong.”

  “I would consider suicidal thoughts and suicidal curiosity to be in the same ballfield, if not on the same base path, but I won’t split hairs with you, Gavin.” She smiles, knowing me well enough by now to know I love to tease. It seems I surround myself with people just like her who can give it right back. “I’m glad to hear you’re still going strong. Do you still think about that night often?”

  “Think about it? Not so much lately… but I dream about it a lot.”

  “And how do you feel when you wake from these dreams?” she asks, snatching a legal pad and pen from her desktop.

  “I’m usually sweating… my heart is pounding. It takes a moment for me to realize I’m in my bed and that it was just a dream.”

  “So more like nightmares, then?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “I know you spoke about these before, but I can’t remember which session you brought them up. About how frequent do they come… when did they start?”

  “They started a little after the whole thing happened. Shortly after getting out of inpatient. I get them maybe every couple of weeks. Once a month or so.”

  “I’m glad they aren’t more frequent. There is some new PTSD sleep medication out there being heavily researched and backed by the military if you’re interested.”

  I shake my head immediately, putting a hand up to stop her.

  “You know I hate sleeping pills, doc. Just can’t do them.”

  “Well, if it becomes more frequent or disruptive to your life, please do remember the option is out there. How are you sleeping otherwise?”

  I shrug. “About the same. After smoking a little, I usually don’t have too much trouble getting to sleep. It’s staying asleep that’s the problem.”

  “Are you only using marijuana before bed?”

  I grin, my brows lifting and a look of guilt taking up my face. “Not quite.”

  “Do you think you’re abusing it again?”

  “When did I stop?” I joke, laughing, but her expression doesn’t change. Her features are still soft, understanding.

  “How often?”

  “A few times a day.”

  “And how does it make you feel?”

  “Well… I don’t think about my parents anymore. I don’t think about Joanne anymore. I don’t think about the nosedive my career took anymore…” My voice trails as she tilts her head.

  “Until…”

  “Until it wears off.”

  “Exactly,” she says, tapping her pen against the legal pad, her lips scrunched to the side as if she’s thinking. “I do think there’s medicinal value to marijuana, and New York did just pass the law legalizing it for those purposes, but I worry that you may be using it for reasons other than medicinal.”

  “How so? I mean, I completely agree… I’m just curious.”

  “I think what you’re doing is suppressing feelings through the act of getting high. That is not of a medicinal nature. Those are feelings you need to let out. That’s why you’re here.”

  “And I think I’ve shared quite a bit from this chair, Dr. Thresher,” I say flatly.

  “I know you have. Hence why you’ve made such progress. But if you’re still getting high to not think about the things that are bothering you, then you’re abusing it. And we have more work to do.”

  “I just need to get back in writing mode again. Once I start writing, the depression and all that will subside.”

  “Have you tried?”

  “Of course! I try every single day.”

  “And?”

  “And it’s all just a big pile of steaming shit.”

  “Through whose eyes? Just your own?”

  “Yeah, and that’s as far as it needs to go, doc.”

  “How do you know you’re not being over-critical?”

  “This isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve been writing since I was a kid. I know writer’s block. And though I could push through that block enough for decent grades when getting my degree, when you’re talking about published work… shit, hopefully, work thousands of people will be reading? No way.”

  “You must’ve written something in our time together that you felt was worth saving.”

  I shake my head. “Not a single paragraph.”

  “And you’re still not working anywhere else?”

  “Nope. Though I’m likely going to have to take a teaching position here soon. The Honest Ones was doing well for a long time… a really long time. But this year’s numbers have dropped more than ever before. At some point, very soon, it won’t be enough to get by on.”

  “It might be good for you to get back in the working field. Get out of the house a bit more.”

  “I know, I know. I thought I’d be writing these past three months. It’s why I committed myself full-time to it. I’m just… empty.
The well is dry. Screw it, maybe I’ll just stick with teaching and count myself as a one-hit wonder.”

  “You know, Gavin… had I not read The Honest Ones, and your other book, for that matter, I may support that thought. But you have an incredible talent. You just need to get out of your own way.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “I’m not saying it isn’t. I’m just saying… I see a lot of people in that very seat you’re sitting in who will spend a lifetime battling disorders detrimental to their quality of life. I just don’t think that’s you. I think you hold a lot in. You carry a lot around with you and you’re not very interested in letting it out. Not right now, anyway. I’ve been married to a stubborn mule for thirty years… trust me, I get it.” She smiles and I can’t help but smile too, as my eyes drift from picture to picture of the two of them on her desktop. In each one, some sort of iconic landmark is positioned just behind their smiling faces.

  She waits for me to look back toward her before she continues. “You’re in a good spot, Gavin. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, a great talent, and a big heart. Just give yourself a chance to feel. I mean, to really feel. Being guarded is okay, but being closed off entirely is not. Work on it. As homework, okay?” She points the pencil at me and tilts her head, an eyebrow raised.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Anything you’d like to share about your parents? Your childhood? It’s been almost a year, Gavin. I’ve been patient and understanding, but at some point, you know we need to discuss it.”

  “Next week?” I ask with a smile.

  “You say that every week,” she responds, her arms crossing.

  “Yeah, but this time I mean it.” I try to keep a straight face, but it’s nearly impossible. She just smiles and shakes her head.

  “Okay, Gavin, well, looks like our time is about up anyway. I’ll see you next week and we will talk about your childhood. At least a little bit.”

  “I look forward to it,” I say, standing and giving her a facetious two-finger salute.

  As I turn to leave, she says, “And Gavin…”

  I face her and smile, knowing full well she’s got a last little piece of guidance for me to chew on, as she does with every session.

  “Don’t mistreat or hurt these ladies you’re going on dates with. Do what you have to with that challenge business, but don’t break hearts in the process.”

  “Oh, Dr. Thresher, if you only knew how unlovable I am at the moment.”

  “Oh, Mr. Mazzarelli, I know you far better than you think I do. Just be kind. Put yourself in their shoes. Now, get out of my office,” she says with a smile, but her hand shoos me away.

  “Until next time, doc.”

  Maria, 23, from Woodlawn, and I have had the usual first date banter, but I find my mind freely moving in and out of the conversation. I don’t think much of what she says or what comes out of my mouth because I keep thinking back to my appointment with Dr. Thresher; her words are still vivid in my mind. I know I’ve improved, I’ve felt it for a while now, but I did think fulfillment would come much faster. I thought a steady diet of antidepressants and spilling my guts to a professional would be the fast track to feeling better. Yet here I am, a year and a half later, still feeling strangled, desperate for something new, something different. Do I think about Joanne less? Absolutely. Do the deeds of my parents upon my brother and me cross my mind less frequently? Of course. But I never thought I’d still feel the raw, relentless pain that I do. The creeping darkness that makes itself known at any sign of daylight. The negative continuously outweighs the positive, and I don’t know how to fucking reverse it.

  “Do you date a lot?” Maria asks, disrupting my wandering thoughts, her nervous eyes flitting around the restaurant.

  “Honestly? Not at all. My first date in about a year and a half was last week, actually.”

  “Really?” She tries her best to stifle the mix of shock and doubt in her voice, but it comes through regardless.

  “No bullshit. I’m terrible at this stuff.”

  “You seem okay,” she says with a meek smile.

  I laugh politely, and shrug. “Well, thank you. I guess this is the point where I throw your question right back at you. Do you date a lot?”

  “I’m in the restaurant industry and work long hours with two kids, so dating for me is an on and off thing,” she says before cutting into her steak and taking a bite. I admire, once more, the fact that she ordered a steak and baked potato. Still chewing, she continues. “So SwipeDate is kinda my only option.”

  “Have you had any luck?”

  She shrugs, swallowing the rest of her bite before dabbing her face with the cloth napkin. I find myself scanning her face, admiring the lack of make-up and beauty she possesses, but also curious about the look of mystery in her eye, like she holds a past she’s trying to keep secret. “A few good dates. A few creepers. Nothing lasting.”

  “Okay,” I say, leaning in, the giddiness in my voice apparent. “You have to tell me about one of your bad app dates.”

  She laughs nervously, dabbing at her mouth again with the napkin. “Why?” she asks.

  “I just love hearing stuff like that. I am a writer after all.”

  “Do you have one of your own to share?” she responds with a smirk.

  I think for a moment, recalling all the bad dates I’ve had in my lifetime and finding that none of them really involve the opposite party. “Honestly, I have a few bad ones involving myself,” I say. “Not sure if I want to share them though.”

  “I’ll share one of mine if you share one of yours,” she says, brushing the amber strands of hair from her face behind her ear. She has these deep-set, chocolate eyes that seem to bounce from one end of the restaurant to the other on a continuous loop.

  “Okay, I guess I can do that. But since I asked first, you have to start. Deal?”

  “Deal,” she responds, digging back into her steak and I take the opportunity to eat some of my own.

  In the middle of chewing again, something I can’t help but notice, she continues, “I had this guy I FaceTimed with once. I usually like to do that if something feels off.” She swallows and then takes a drink of her chardonnay.

  “Does that happen often?” I ask and she nods.

  “Yeah… you can’t help but wonder with catfishing and all that these days. With profiles like yours, it’s linked to your Facebook, so it’s a little easier.”

  “I’m new to all this, so I appreciate the insight,” I say, smirking.

  She nods, and then continues. “So we FaceTime, and yeah, he pretty much looks like the pictures in his profile, but he was super weird, and just… I don’t know.”

  “What?” I ask. “Now, I’m intrigued.”

  She pauses for a moment, looking as if she’s debating it before she digs into her purse and pulls out her phone. She focuses on the screen, tapping and scrolling before turning it to face me. I narrow my gaze and see that there is a screen full of one-sided texts. She takes the pointer on her free hand and scrolls up on the screen to show an endless stream of messages, all of them apparently from him. After scrolling a bit more, showing more of the same, she locks the phone and stows it back in her purse.

  “It’s been like that since June,” she says, shaking her head.

  “Jesus,” I mutter. “What all does he say?”

  “Pretty much this cycle of ‘hey, how have you been? Haven’t heard from you in a while,’ to ‘You don’t respond anymore. You suck,’ to ‘Fine. Fuck it. You’re obviously too good for me,’ and then back around again.”

  “Can’t you just block his number?”

  She looks confused for a moment, as if she’s never thought about that before, at least not seriously, and then she says, “Yeah, I guess so. Your turn.”

  “Well, I don’t know if FaceTiming counts as a date or not, but I guess I’ll let it slide.” I take a drink of my beer, my eyes scanning the ceiling and trying to figure out if brutal honesty is accepta
ble here. I have no intention of a second date with any of these people. Maybe I’ll make a few friends, but I surely won’t be falling in love, so why not be honest. What’s the difference between this and walking into a psychiatrist’s office for the first time?

  “In high school, after about a year of working my way in,” I say, “I got a date with my dream girl. We went to the movies. I dressed to the nines, paid for the tickets, sodas and popcorns, and let her choose the seats. Everything was perfect. That is, until about twenty minutes into The Ring, when my stomach began its revolt against me. Twisting and turning. Mouth dry. It was bad. Something I ate earlier that day, I think.” I take a long sip of beer before continuing. “So, I excuse myself, make it to about the bottom step before it happens.”

  I pause, watching her lean in and hanging on to my last word.

  “Did you shit yourself?” she blurts, and I bust out laughing.

  “Dear God, no. Not saying what I did do was much better, but, no… thankfully, I didn’t shit myself. I ended up throwing up. Right there at the bottom of the stairs, and at once, all eyes were off the screen and on me, sixteen years old and puking up breakfast, lunch, and dinner in front of, not only a full theater, but my biggest crush too.”

  “So, what happened?” she asks, her attention all mine.

  “Well, I worked my way out of the theater and to the bathroom with throw up all over my hands. Cleaned myself up after getting rid of a bit more and then I waited outside the theater for her to meet me.” I hesitate for a bit, wondering whether to continue because even to this day I’m embarrassed by it. It’s one of those stupid little things you hold on to forever. It passes through your mind without warning here and there, and reminds you of that one time you felt like a complete ass. Or, in my case, the many times I’ve felt like a complete ass. “She never came out,” I continue, shrugging, and my focus shifting away from her and to the commotion around us. “And… uh… I mean, I went back in the theater maybe a half hour later because I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want to leave her there. I drove and all. And I also didn’t want to just be waiting outside for everyone in the theater to see me when they were piling out. I fucking panicked.” I laugh, shaking my head and feeling all those same feelings I did back then. Those suffocating, disruptive feelings of youthful love and heartbreak that are never quite topped, thank God. When you’re young and in love, it’s so new, and fresh, and incomparable. You try your best to recreate those feelings the rest of your life, but you never really get there. You’re left permanently jaded… guarded. You’re never quite the same after your first heartbreak.