by BT Urruela
“You’re an ass.”
“And you were with me for how many years? What does that make you?” I ask with a smile, though she isn’t amused.
“Stupid,” she replies sharply.
“Ouch. Take it down a notch, champ. I’m just playing around.”
“Well, stop being a smartass.”
“You mean stop being me,” I muse, just as the waitress returns with Joanne’s plate. She hesitates for a moment, waiting for Joanne to take a bite.
“Is that better?” the waitress asks, and Joanne just nods. Her eyes trail back to me as if the server isn’t still there and continues with our conversation.
“You should definitely try it out sometime. It might do you some good,” she spits, but my focus is on the confused waitress who stands idly by for a moment before backing away slowly.
I look back toward Joanne.
“Man, you’re a fucking delight today.”
“Oh shush. If you can give it, you should be able to take it, too,” she says, forking eggs into her mouth in the dainty manner in which she always eats. She didn’t grow up rich, but by her lifestyle and actions, it’s hard to tell otherwise.
I cut into my Benedict, letting the yolk spread over the smoked salmon and English muffin in all its glory. Taking a bite, I catch Joanne’s eyes studying me as I chew. I swallow and ask, “What?”
She makes a gagging expression, sticking out her tongue, before digging back into her own food. “I don’t know how you eat that shit.”
“You just worry about your Denver-less scramble, mmkay?”
“You know, as much as I hate you sometimes for your smartassery, I do miss this…” Her voice trails, her eyes still on mine, but there’s a new nervousness in them. “I miss us.”
I don’t say anything at first, passing her a look of suspicion and clearing my throat.
“And how much of this is because you just broke up with your dude?”
“None at all. I’ve always felt this way.”
“My ass, you have! Joanne, when’s the last time you picked up the phone to text me before this? To see how I was doing?”
“You could have, too!” she responds and I roll my eyes, letting out a heavy sigh.
“You have got to be kidding me. I have! I stopped because you’d take days to respond. Or you just never would. How am I supposed to feel after that happens so many times?”
“You just don’t get it,” she says, shaking her head, her focus shifting out the plate glass window.
“What don’t I get, Joanne? That I became a second-rate citizen in your life from the moment you packed your bags? That you haven’t shown an ounce of interest in my life since that same day? Because I know all about that.”
“You don’t get that I needed time. You—your disorder—it was a lot to deal with. I needed to get away. To rediscover those feelings.”
I drop my head in my hands, rubbing stiff thumbs into my temples.
“I don’t even know how to process this right now. It’s just crazy you’re trying to rationalize all this.”
“Don’t call me crazy,” she barks, her eyes shooting back to mine.
“Listen to my words, Joanne. I didn’t call you crazy. I said you trying to rationalize your behavior is crazy. You could have left. You didn’t have to do it the way you did.”
“You didn’t make it easy to leave. I didn’t want to hurt you.”
I scoff, my lips curling in disgust.
“You didn’t want to hurt me, so you found old boy to give you a good fucking before you left me?”
“Don’t you even, Gavin. Don’t you even put that all on me. You and I hadn’t been together in months. You stopped caring.”
“I hated myself. Do you get that? I know I should have done things differently. I know I should’ve gotten help sooner, but Christ, can you even comprehend what it means to be at the end of your rope? I’m not talking cold eggs and department store drama here; I’m talking rock fucking bottom. I’m talking wanting to end your own life. Do you get that? Do you get how that could maybe affect other aspects of my life? I didn’t want to be that man. I just didn’t know how not to be.”
“Calm down, please,” she says, in a softer tone, but she knows I hate those words. They do anything but calm me.
“I’m calm, Joanne. I’m just trying to help you see things from my perspective a little. I was at the absolute bottom of the pit, helpless, and you shit all over me. You betrayed me. I’ll never forget that.”
“Well, can you try and see things from my perspective, too? A woman wants to be loved. She wants to be told she’s beautiful. She wants to know her man cares and needs her. When she doesn’t get that, she can find herself in the position of wandering. It’s not on purpose. It just happens.”
“Okay, well, beyond that being complete BS, as a human, and speaking on behalf of all humans, both men and women, we humans like to be treated with respect, compassion, and understanding, especially at our lowest point. Opening your legs up for your store manager doesn’t fall under that category.”
“Fuck you, Gavin,” she bites out, throwing her napkin atop her plate and folding her arms.
“Don’t get an attitude because I’m speaking bluntly. You’ve known me a long time, and you started this conversation. I’m not going to hold back how I feel. And I feel like you’re copping out here. Big time,” I say, pushing my plate away and finishing off the rest of my coffee. “Now, it’s been a nice trip down memory lane, but if this is gonna be the outcome, I think it’s best we part ways here.”
“I’d have to agree,” she says, looking away from me with contempt.
“I’ll take care of the check if you want to take off.” The second my last word is out, she stands and walks briskly toward the front door.
“Bye, Joanne,” I call out, and she flips me off as she makes her way outside.
“One more Baileys and coffee, please?” I ask the passing waitress, and she nods as I settle into the booth, stretching my legs out, crossing my arms, and smiling at the absurdity of it all.
There’s a stillness in the air as Dr. Thresher makes sense of the complicated situation I just threw upon her.
“This is what I was afraid of,” she finally says, a look of concern in her eyes. “You are still working your way through this, making great progress, and it’s certainly a positive that you are meeting people, but I’m still worried how all this will play out.”
“I was genuinely fine until Joanne popped her head into the picture. Megan…I should’ve told her what was going on, I really should have, but my interest lies one hundred percent in Sami. There’s just this strong physical attraction to Megan.”
“In a way, you’re leading her on, Gavin. That’s not good.”
“I know. I know.”
“So, tell her. That should be part of your homework. It’s only right, if your feelings are as strong as you say they are for this Sami girl. As for your ex-girlfriend…” She lowers her brows and her lips curl in concern. “I worry. I don’t think she’s good for you. And I don’t think rehashing some of those things you felt for her back then is a good thing. Do you agree?”
“I do and I don’t. It was nice to tell her how I really feel. To be blunt with her, and tell her what she did was wrong. It’s just hard. For the longest time, she was it for me. I saw her walking down the aisle toward me. For a long time, it was all I ever wanted. As much as I know she’s not right for me, as much as I see that now, it doesn’t erase the lingering feelings of love I had for her.”
“And that’s okay. We all remember our first true loves. It’s not a feeling that just goes away. But I think it is healthy to move on from it. To find the one who really is meant for you and not let the past come along and disrupt that.”
My eyes trail along the carpet, picking out the loose threads one by one as my mind sifts through the confusing bits of this scenario.
“Gavin,” she says, drawing my eyes to hers. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
I shrug, rubbing my scruff and my eyes roam the ceiling in thought.
“It’s just…it’s hard not to remember the good times with Joanne. And to think, if maybe I had met her at a different time. After getting better, maybe things could’ve worked. Or maybe if I had gotten help, like she asked. I don’t know. I’m not much for regret, but it’s hard not to with all this.”
“I can imagine. But you know as well as I do that it’s natural to feel that way. At least a little bit. But when I hear you talk about Joanne, about how she acts and your interactions, I’m not so sure you’re still in love with her, as much as it is you love the idea of you and her. You bought a house with her. You created a life together. I’d be worried if you didn’t have some residual sadness when you think about what could have been, but speaking frankly, it’s different when you talk about this other woman—Sami. You light up more than I can honestly say I’ve ever seen from you. There’s a new excitement in you that radiates. And I think that’s a good sign. It’s something worth looking into.”
“I know. And I am. I’m seeing her tonight, in fact.”
“Have you discussed this challenge business with her yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t you think you should?”
“Of course. I feel bad, but I don’t know how in the world I’d explain this situation to her. Or how she could ever be cool with it.”
“Just be honest. It’s out there, but if you’re honest, and you don’t wait until it’s too late, I’m sure she will understand. But if you’re dating all these people while you’re getting to know her, dating or what have you, that’s a different story.”
“Easier said than done.” I smirk, but her face remains the same, a concerned wrinkle in her brow.
“The longer you wait, the bigger a problem it will be. And the harder the repercussions will be to overcome. I’m a woman, Gavin. Trust me when I say the longer you wait, the worse it’s going to get.”
“I’ll think about it,” I reply, and she purses her lips, narrowing her eyes on mine.
“Fine. We will be back to this, though.”
“How did I know you were going to say that?”
“It may have something to do with the year you’ve been sitting in that seat. I think I know just a little bit about you,” she chides, and I nod my head, impressed by her uncommon smartassery. “Now, tell me how you felt after your first ART session. Did you feel any different? Think any different?”
“It’s weird. I can’t say it was some drastic change, but it did allow me to see a few things in a different light.”
“How so?” she asks, eyeing me over the top of her glasses.
“Well, I don’t know… I’ve spent my whole life blaming myself for how my parents treated me. Hating myself a little bit for it as well. And just envisioning myself talking to younger me, telling him it was gonna be okay, that it wasn’t my fault. It—It did a lot. I just, I don’t know, I liked that aspect of it.”
“And the rest of it?”
“Weird…but gratifying. You know I hate to share every little detail. It’s nice to do a lot of it internally.”
“Well, I’m glad you’ve been open to it,” she says, studying me a bit with her eyes before standing. She walks over to the twin chair beside me and takes a seat. “I take it that means you’re ready for round two?”
I shrug, scooting my chair back a little for space, and crossing one leg over the other, my foot bobbing feverishly.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
She puts her hand up to eye level and says, “Alright, here we go. Just like last time. Follow my hand with your eyes. Focus on clearing your mind.” I do as instructed, following her hand with my vision and focusing on popping every bubbling thought that comes up in my mind.
“I want you to think about your daily stressors in life. The things that give you the greatest anxiety. Don’t say them out loud, but list them in your mind.”
I formulate the list in my head, and of course Grandma’s health takes the top spot, and my persistent writer’s block coming after it. This challenge, Joanne, Sami and Megan, and the looming possibility of a class full of eighteen-year-old dumbasses follow close behind.
“Now, I want you to study those stressors. What do you do to mitigate them? What can you do?”
I think about Grandma first, her newly found good spirits and clearer mind, and I think about the reasons why—the jazz club, the normalcy of being out with people again, the interaction with others beyond just me and the nurses. I think about the writing I’ve done this past week, and the reason for it…Sami. And then Sami’s beautiful smile comes into view, her kindness and vulnerability, her intelligence and humor. I can’t help but feel the added stress my feelings for her have brought though, too. I had every intention of making it through this challenge without developing feelings, as painlessly as possible, and without hurting anyone in the process. As all that has gone to shit fast, I hold a lot of guilt for how the situation is unfolding.
And lastly, I think about those mouthy little punks in their blue plastic chairs, their pens tapping against the attached decks, annoyance on their faces. My heart sinks at the thought. I can’t be back there again, under the sputtering fluorescent lights, teaching kids about writing who couldn’t give a fuck at all.
“Are there things you can do that you haven’t to relieve these stressors? You can tell me that out loud.”
“It’s about half and half,” I mutter.
“Is there something holding you back from taking the next step? From figuring out ways to handle all stressors?”
“Self-doubt,” I say immediately, without any thought. “A little bit of self-hatred.”
“Ok, so trace that, in your mind. I want you to think about where it stems from.”
It doesn’t take long. Every bit of insecurity I have can be traced right back to my parents. It went beyond the physical abuse, beyond their role in the sexual abuse. It’s the mental and verbal abuse that really did me in. Nothing was ever good enough. Nothing I did was ever right. I’d try and try and try, but nothing would win their love. And as I’ve grown older, and a little wiser, I have certainly been able to discover that I was playing a game I just couldn’t win…but it doesn’t mean there aren’t residual effects. When we are children, we are sponges. Regardless of whether what we experience is positive or negative, we hold onto it, all of it, and the scars tell the story.
“Did it lead to your parents?”
“Yes,” I murmur in response, feeling lost in the rhythm of her passing hand.
“Can you see yourself clearly, as a child, and the way you felt in those situations?”
“Yes.”
“Think about what you could have done differently. Is there anything?”
“No, nothing.”
“Exactly.” She drops her hand to her lap, and gazes compassionately at me. “See, Gavin, these things you’re feeling, they aren’t you. They’re a product of your environment. They’re tumors left over from the pain. And as with any tumor, it needs to be destroyed and done away with. We must clear the toxins from your mind. And that’s just what they are—toxins.”
“Is it ever really possible to get rid of it all?” I ask suspiciously, a quirk in my brow.
“There is a big difference between being aware of your past and being influenced by it.”
“Touché,” I respond, and she doesn’t speak for a moment. She just observes me. “Hey Doc, we aren’t done yet, are we?”
“Just about. Why?”
“Can we at least do that bridge-fire pit thing again?”
Her lips curve into a smile as she nods her head.
“Yes, Gavin. We can do that,” she says, bringing her hand back up to my sightline.
I have to laugh as I’m nearly strolling to my date with Sami. I spent the afternoon, post-therapy session, writing. In a way I haven’t really ever written before…even in the best of times. I blindly foraged into the forest of
my imagination and got lost for hours, pouring words onto paper that are, for the first time in forever, relevant and meaningful.
I nearly wrote right through the time I was to meet up with Sami. I had to splash water on my face, quickly brush my teeth, and change before catching a cab, and still ended up being ten minutes late. Considering today’s date was my choice, it would’ve been nice to show up on time. Regardless, by the time the cab drops me off at Rockefeller Center, she has a beaming smile on her face as she rises from the park bench.
“Hey, Gavin,” she says sweetly, wrapping her arms around me in a hug. I give her an extra squeeze for good measure before letting her go. She looks beautiful this evening in her tight jeans, billowy North Face jacket, and a beanie pulled to her brows, not that that’s anything out of the ordinary. She could pop a garbage bag on and rock a runway to a standing ovation. This girl has it—whatever the fuck ‘it’ is.
“Hey you, sorry I’m late. I had another good little writing episode this afternoon.”
She smiles and looks away with a hint bashfulness in her features. I assume it’s because she remembers our conversation the last time…and her position as my muse.
“Well, that’s totally acceptable then,” she says, smiling, but her eyes gaze at the concrete.
“You ready to get this thing going?” I ask, and she looks hesitant as I lead us toward the skate rental station.
“I could never be ready for something like this,” she responds, a nervous edge to her voice. “I shouldn’t have let you pick without some sort of knowledge beforehand.”
“Do you wanna do something else?” I ask, sincerely, as I motion back the way we came.
She puts a hand up and shakes her head.
“No, not at all. I’m not going to wuss out. You just need to make sure I don’t die,” she says, laughing, and brushes the wind-gusted hair from her face.
“Not a chance. If you go down, we go down together.”
She narrows her eyes at me.
“It’s a nice sentiment, but maybe we’ll revisit this after spending an adequate amount of time on our backs. I have a feeling you won’t be so giving afterward,” she says, laughing again as we approach the skate counter.
