“Like—write it down?” I say warily.
“No. Just sit here and think about it. Five specific, concrete things that you liked about Travis, and five specific things that you didn’t. You don’t have to tell me what they are. And you can leave as soon as you’re done.”
“I’m paying you for the full hour, though, right?”
“Your parents’ insurance company is paying me for the full hour, yes,” she says sweetly.
It almost makes me laugh. Fair enough.
“You can book another appointment on your way out, if you’d like,” she says.
The door closes behind her, and I’m left alone.
I stare around the room. It’s nice enough, in a generic sort of way. Light gray walls. Squashy black chairs. A bookshelf on one wall filled with old books I’m sure no one’s ever read. Plants in every corner. A single window with an opaque curtain.
I heave a sigh. I should really just leave. This feels like homework. Really cheesy, stupid homework. Obviously, there was some stuff I liked about Travis. I wouldn’t have kept sleeping with him so long if there wasn’t. He was, like—
Nice. And hot.
Although I guess those aren’t really “specific” or “concrete.”
I shift in my chair. My stupid hip is twinging a bit.
It’s probably easier to start with the things I don’t like. Like that hetold my fucking parents we were dating, without even asking me first.
I mean... I guess I was unconscious, so he couldn’t really ask me. But he should’ve just stayed the fuck away until I was awake. It makes me feel all hot and cringey, just thinking about him at the hospital, sitting by my bed and, like, holding my fucking hand or some shit.
Although I guess he was probably pretty freaked out that I was going to die. I guess it was really bad for the first couple of weeks. The doctors here in Albuquerque kept saying what a miracle it was that I survived. Apparently my lungs were really messed up, and my kidneys.
And like, if Ihaddied, I guess it would’ve been really shit if Travis hadn’t been able to see me. I think I’d rather have died with him holding my hand instead of, like, having Lily praying over me and Paul doing his “favorite son holding the family together” act.
But Ididn’tdie, did I? And Travis should’ve... known that.
I frown.
Okay, that doesn’t quite make sense. Obviously he couldn’t haveknownif I was going to die or not.
I sit there frozen for a minute until the obvious solution hits me. He should’ve told my parents we were just friends. That way,he could have been there in the hospital, but without messing everything up.
Although he probably couldn’t have pulled that off. He’s completely shit at lying, Travis. Like on my birthday last year, when I asked if he cared if I went out with my friends instead of him. He said it was fine, but he had this hurt-puppy-dog look on his face afterward, and he was so obviously pleased when I came home a bit early.
God, we had the best sex that night. He blew me in the shower, and then we fucked on the carpet in the hall on the way to the bedroom. That’s how desperate we were, we literally couldn’t make it an extra twenty feet to the bed.
I guess that can go in the “things I liked” list. The sex was amazing. Like, embarrassingly good. I used to dig my fingernails into my palms, just to pull myself out of it a bit.
That’s probably why I stayed with him so long, really, even when there was so much about him I obviously didn’t like.
Like how he always made me feel guilty for shit. That sim he bought me for Christmas, for example. I got him a present, I’ll have you know. I told him I didn’t, but that was only because what I got him was so fucking stupid compared to his huge, expensive, basically-asking-me-to-move-in-with-him gift. I don’t know what he was thinking, buying it. Did he really think we were going to move in together? It’s like he lives on another planet, Travis. Like, F1 races in countries where it’s an actualcrimeto be gay. What was he planning to do, just skip half the races so he didn’t get stoned to death somewhere?
Probably. That would be just like him, if word had ever gotten out about us. He would’ve shown up at the F1 press conference with his impassive face and monosyllabic answers and everyone probably just would’ve accepted it. You can get away with shit,when you’re rich and successful and don’t have uptight parents and a judgmental sister and an arrogant asshole brother.
The door creaks open and I jump. Amanda looks surprised to see me sitting there.
“Sorry, Jacob. I do need the room for my next appointment.”
I glance at the clock. It’s been twenty minutes, somehow.
“Right.” I rise hastily. “Sorry.”
