Five Things
Christmas is horrible. Lily and her boyfriend are awful, Paul is obnoxious, my mother is clingy, and my father barely says a word to me beyond asking if I’ve finished my business school applications.
I have to create an account with the application system when I finally sit down to do them, which means logging into my e-mail for the first time in months. I try to click in and out of my inbox without seeing anything, but my eyes snag on an e-mail from my old F2 team boss, Carl. It’s weeks old, and tells me that Estefan Ribiero has signed with them for the next two years. He adds that things might have been different “if I’d kept in closer contact” and that they might be open to re-engaging with me down the road, “depending on the results of my recovery.” The tone is polite, but the meaning couldn’t be clearer. I’ve been replaced. They don’t want me anymore.
The rest of the holiday passes by in a haze of misery, each day a little more miserable than the last. I don’t sleep. I barely eat. There’s a constant tightness in my chest, like a string being pulledtighter and tighter, and if I don’t talk to someone who isn’t in my immediate family, I think I’m going to snap.
At nine a.m. on January fifth, the first business day after the holidays and my fourth day running on two hours of sleep, I pick up the phone and make an appointment with Amanda.
She looks a bit cautious as I sit down on her couch the following day. “I was surprised to get your call,” she says.
I nod stiffly. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“You don’t have to thank me, Jacob. I’m here to help.”
I make a vague noise. “Yeah, well. I’ve been a dick to you.”
“Well, yes,” she agrees. “But you’ve been through a lot.”
I force a thin smile.
“So?” she says. “What made you book an appointment?”
I pick at my thumbnail. I’m already half regretting the decision. “I don’t know. I had a shitty break.”
“How so?”
I shift on the couch. “You just want me to jump right into it?”
Amanda leans forward. “Jacob,” she says. “Look at me.” Reluctantly, I meet her eyes. Her stupid smile is gone, and her gaze is even. “I am not your friend or your family member. We don’t need to exchange social niceties. You are here for therapy. You made this appointment for a reason. Didn’t you?”
I look away from her, give a tiny nod.
“So?” she says. “What was it?”
I shift again. I feel like I’m sitting under a spotlight. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
I glare at her. “I don’t know, alright? I couldn’t sleep, I guess.”
“Why couldn’t you sleep?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be here, would I?” I snap.
She doesn’t say anything in response, just raises an eyebrow like she knows that I’m lying.
Which... I guess I am.
“I am not your friend,” she says again. “I am not your family. Pardon my language, but I don’t give a damn what you tell me. Within these four walls, you can say anything you’d like. But we’ll be a lot more productive if you stop arguing and start being honest.”
I open my mouth instinctively on another argument, then reluctantly shut it again.
I guess she has a point.
Still, I have to swallow a few times before I can push the words out. “My ex won the F1 championship,” I mutter.
“Your ex,” she repeats. Then, with a faint air of surprise, “An ex-boyfriend, you mean?”
