My parents don’t know anything about it, which is just as well. My mom’s been making comments lately about how relieved she is that I’m not driving anymore. She says she doesn’t know how she’d survive it, seeing me get into another “metal deathtrap,” and all my dad ever asks me is if I’ve heard back from my business school applications.
I have, actually. I got into two of them. I could start in the fall, if I wanted to.
Which I don’t.
Amanda has become sort of a pillar in my life, as much as I hate to admit it. I see her three times a week now, which is beyond pathetic and yet somehow feels like too little, and I tell her about every single rejection. Part of me almost hopes that she’ll give up and admit I was right. But she never does. And on the third week of February, when I delete the final two F2 teams from my list and have a total fucking breakdown in her office, she listens to me curse and cry and then tells me to make a new list, for F3.
“I was also reading about Formula E,” she adds. “It’s all electric, which I expect some drivers won’t be interested in. That’s got to be easier to get into, surely.”
A few months ago, I would’ve snapped at her ignorance, but now it cheers me up a little.
“It’s not easier,” I say. “But thanks.”
She smiles. “How are you doing with your other homework?”
I grimace. “Do we have to talk about this today?”
“Yes,” she says evenly.
With effort, I resist the urge to sink down into the couch like a sulking child. A few weeks ago, after she spent twenty minutes asking probing questions about my relationship with Travis, which I did my level best not to answer, Amanda frowned and said, “You seem to have a complicated relationship with queerness.”
I grimaced at the word, then rolled my eyes and told her no, I didn’t. She proceeded to spend the next three sessions proving why, exactly, I was wrong.
Since then, she’s insisted on devoting a great deal of time to conversations that, more often than not, make me want to clawmy own skin off. Like when I first remember being attracted to a guy, and how Ifeltabout it, and why I never considered dating a guy before Travis. That was my homework from last week’s session, and if I’m honest, I haven’t tried to think about it at all.
“Well?” Amanda prompts me.
I sigh. “I don’t know. He’s not, like, some average guy, I guess. I mean, he’s famous and everything.”
“And you think that outweighed your internal resistance? That it’s ‘okay’?”—she frames the word with her fingertips—“to date a guy, as long as he’s rich and famous?”
“I didn’t say rich,” I say dryly. “And yeah. I guess so.”
“Hm.”
That’s her disagreeing sound. “What?” I complain. “It’s the truth.”
“Part of the truth, maybe. Dig deeper.”
I make a frustrated noise. “I don’t have anything ‘deeper.’?”
She gives me a flat look. “Yes, you do. Think, Jacob. What was it about Travis that made you willing to break your self-imposed rules?”
I look away from her. I cast my mind around for some bullshit answer to give her, because the real answer has risen up to my mind from out of nowhere, and I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.
“Jacob,” Amanda says.
I lick my lips and spit it out. “I was always in control.”
The words hang in the silence that follows, which stretches out long enough that my palms start to itch. I wait for Amanda to press me for more, but instead she puts down her notepad and nods.
“Good,” she says quietly. “Very good.”
At the end of the session, instead of heading home, I drive to a nearby park and go for a hike. It’s way too cold out, and I’m notdressed for it at all, but going back to my house right now would be impossible. My mind is too full of spinning thoughts.
I walk quickly to try to stay warm, keeping my eyes on the frozen ground. I know all the poisonous snakes in New Mexico hibernate in winter, but I’m still convinced I’ll step on one every time I hike here.
That’s what my mind feels like right now, actually. A huge pit full of snakes I don’t want to step on. I snort at the image, and the tense muscles in my shoulders relax just a little.
