“But I…” The words catch in my throat, like admitting them out loud means I’ve officially lost the control I worked so hard to get.
Pursing her lips, Donovan watches me for a moment, then says, “Try turning the boat. Push forward with your right oar, and we’ll go left. Forward with your left will turn us right.”
I try both oars, soaking in the way the raft is more responsive than I would have guessed. The blades aren’t wide, and they’re only a couple of feet long, but I’m slowly starting to get a feel for the physics of it all. The oars are long and far enough out from the boat that I don’t have to use a lot of effort to make a big change.
“It’s the opposite if you’re pulling back on the oar,” Donovan says, grabbing one of the handles again and pushing me into a backwards motion with the left oar. The boat swings left. “Play around with it a bit and get a sense of your level of control.”
My eyes jump to hers, and again I wonder if she’s talking about rowing or about me. Maybe that’s why I say, “It’s worse for me. Making mistakes. It’s called maladaptive perfectionism.”
She’s still holding the oar handle, like she forgot to let go as she studies me. “Big words.”
I swallow. “Ever since I was a kid, I’ve had this bone-deep need for things to be perfect. It became obsessive, and while it meant I excelled in school, it messed with my head. When I did things right, I was fine. If I messed up…”
“You would freeze.”
I nod.
Tilting her head to the side, she looks down and slowly pulls her hand from the oar, her eyebrows pulling low. “Was your perfectionism caused by something, or have you always dealt with it?”
I’ve already said more than I should, and even with the NDA she signed, I can’t shake the fear that talking about this is going to mean it’s out in the world for everyone to know. “Pass.”
Donovan’s lips twist up in amusement. “Something caused it,” she guesses. “That’s okay. You don’t have to tell me.” I believe her, which calms my racing heart, but of course she’s not done. “If this is something you’ve dealt with for a long time, why has no one ever brought it up?”
Chuckling with no real humor behind the laugh, I shrug and spin us in a full circle, then resume pushing forward on the oars. I want to get more familiar with the motion before I try going backward. “The problem is the solution,” I say with a sigh. “I have to be perfect, so that’s all anyone sees. No matter what’s happening behind the scenes.”
“You don’t actually have to be perfect, Derek. You know that, right?”
“Of course I know that,” I grumble, rolling my eyes. “I worked with a therapist who gave me the tools to manage my perfectionism. I’ve never tried to do less than my best, but for a long time, I was able to give myself grace when I needed to.” I frown. For a long time, I thought I was okay.
Donovan studies me again. For the first time, I don’t feel as exposed as I usually do around her, though I have no idea why. Maybe it’s because she hasn’t once given me the sense that she’s judging me. “What changed?” she asks.
That’s where things get muddy. “I don’t know,” I mutter, shaking my head as my chest grows tight again. There are few things I hate more than admitting I don’t know something. “For the last couple of years, I’ve had more and more moments like this morning, where I get trapped in an endless loop of where I messed up and can’t get myself out of the spiral. It’s worse when it affects other people.” My right oar slips, and I look over to see that the blade has turned again. I sigh, adjusting both oars.
But then I pause, looking from one oar to the other and wondering why the slip up doesn’t hit me like it should. I’ve already made this mistake multiple times, but it doesn’t feel like a mistake. It… Somehow, it just feels like learning.
“When we stop for lunch,” Donovan says, pulling my attention back to her, “you should look at Farah’s boat. She uses these things called oar rights because something about the way she rows tends to make her oars twist. The rights keep her oars in the correct position.”
Gaping at her, I try to figure out how she’s doing this. How she’s getting me to talk and saying all the right things, making this conversation so easy. It’s liberating in a way, talking about my struggles instead of pretending they don’t exist. “Do you give therapy to all your passengers?” I ask, unable to hold the question back.
Her smile is broad and warm, and with her messy ponytail shining copper in the sun, she reminds me of a sunset over the coast, when everything is bathed in gold and makes me feel like nothing can touch me. “Just the ones who need it,” she says and bites her lip, almost like she’s embarrassed.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For letting me row.” I gesture with my head to the oars. “And for listening. I haven’t…”
“You really never talk about this, do you?” she asks as her eyes roam my face.
I shake my head. “Never. Not even with Hunter. He’s seen enough to figure it all out for the most part, but I’ve never been able to admit what’s happening.”
“Admitting you’re struggling is admitting you’re not perfect.”
“Exactly.”
I’ve known Cole for almost a decade, and he was the first person I trusted enough to call a friend because he was so quick to share his own struggles with me and be vulnerable. He’s seen more of my flaws than any of my friends, and yet I haven’t said any of this to him. I haven’t even come close.
Maybe I worried that showing him my imperfections would make him realize that being my friend is more detrimental than beneficial, and he would walk away.
