“Maybe.”
“I want to breathe clean air,” I murmur. “I want to put in the work. I need to get better—Iwantto get better, Sasha. I’m tired of losing things and people and myself. Tell me how, please.”
“This,” she says, “is a good place to start.”
For the rest of our session, I hold on to the hope that one day I will have stitched myself up and remember that the pain was temporary after all.
#
I get Rowan’s text after my second therapy session of the week.Itwas getting bad again but I was finding so much comfort in my melancholy. In addition to everything else, I’ve been missing my dads tragically. I’ve been so disassociated from everything for so long while putting a smile on my face like nothing was wrong, and I hated myself for it.
I get into my car and buckle my seatbelt before I read the messages and reply.
Rowan: Can you meet me at the restaurant tonight? After closing?
Natalia: Why?
Rowan: Say yes
Natalia: Why?
Rowan: Please?
Natalia: Fine
I’d like to pretend that my “fine” was a reluctant one, even if I typed it with a smile on my face, but I’d be lying to myself and that is something I’m working on. No more lying to myself, and no more lying to him.
It’s part of the healing, right? To allow things in or something?
I keep thinking about broken bones. Bones break, they can shatter and fracture and you’ll need a cast. You won’t be able to walk on it or use it the way you used to, but it’s because it’s putting itself back together. It’shealing.
Open wounds need stitches.
Broken bones need casts.
And some injuries need surgery.
This one needs some love.
#
It’s just after closing when I push the door of Beetlejuice open and the warmth encompasses me, instantly warming my freezing body.
Incoherent mumbles and beats come from behind the kitchen door, music obviously playing on the other side where Rowan is waiting for me.
“Sweetheart,” he breathes, a boyish grin stretching his lips.
He comes to me immediately, wrapping an arm around me and lifting me off the ground. He kisses my head and locks the restaurant doors before he sets me back down.
“I missed you,” he whispers before pressing a kiss to my lips—a quick peck.
“I—I miss you too,” I whisper back.
“What’s wrong?”
“I… You…” Am I an idiot if I say I want a proper hello kiss?
“Ahh.” He smiles and takes my face between his hands, and his lips are on mine. It’s the most salacious, deepest, slowest, meaningful kiss of my life. I don’t have enough adjectives in my vocabulary to describe it.
