“Hey,” Sam said, and elbowed her. Drishti raised her palms: Sorry, sorry.
“But even though a certain sponsor should bequiet, she’s not wrong,” said Sam. “I do tend to get dickmatized. That means,” she said to the Russian, “when you’re in the early stages of a relationship, in the sex and love haze, and you can’t see anything wrong.”
The Russian nodded somberly. “I, too, have been dickmatized.”
“Happens to the best of us,” said Sam. “But I’ve always been ashamed of it, how easily I get tractor-beamed in by some guy and don’t see red flags. Or I see them and overlook them. It’s classic Unreliable Narrator.”
This was the only literary term Sam had taught her group that stuck because it was so useful. It meant selective perception of one’s own life. Of course, everyone was a U.N., because people could see things only from their own points of view. But in Sam’s case, whole chapters had been blanked out, memories missing until somebody said,Hey, remember that time when... ?And then she did. It was the psyche’s response to trauma, Sam knew. Mostly she was used to it; it was just a minor annoyance. But it also made her susceptible to bad decisions, which was why Drishti and the group were so helpful.
“I’m the girl in the movie who you’d be yelling at,Don’t open that door!and I do it anyway,” she finished. “So this time, I’m trying to be honest and accountable, open yet grounded. That’s why I’m here. Thank you.”
She handed the stopwatch to the Russian as KK silent-clapped and Drishti gave Sam theI’m watching youforked fingers. Sam gave it back. The Russian sat holding the stopwatch, thinking, then clicked the fob.
“Okay,” she announced. “I am Svetlana, and I need to know how to keep focus on self while living with husband who I think is just nice manwhen we meet on internet but now is wet-brain alcoholic. He is crazy, even the doctor says this. For instance, last night he comes in the kitchen and he says, Svetlana, make me eggs, and he is so drunk and wearing only socks, like Christmas cartoon man, how do you call him, the Grinch. And I say, It is one in the a.m., I am getting warm milk, I am not making eggs, and he says, If you do not make eggs I will call government to deport you and also I will beat you, and I tell him, If you beat me, I will use this frying pan and make eggs with your alcoholic wet brain, and do you know what he does? His eyes roll up in his head and he passes out, BOOM! on the floor. I want to go to my sister, but she is telling me he is my husband and I should lie in my bed. Thank you. You are very nice women.”
She handed the stopwatch to KK and looked at her expectantly.
“Well!” said KK after a pause. “Thank you, Svetlana. If you want to chat, I have some hotline and counselor numbers I can give you. Everyone else, good shares.”
While they were laboriously getting up from the tiny seats, Drishti said to Sam, “Wanna grab a beer?”
“Sure,” said Sam. One of her favorite things about group was the drinking afterward. The first time she’d attended this meeting, newly divorced and parched from years of abstinence around Hank, she’d asked,Doesanyone want to go get a cocktail?There had been a terrible needle-scratch silence while Sam wondered if she’d committed the world’s biggest faux pas—and then a dark-haired woman so weirdly gorgeous Sam couldn’t believe she was an actual person as opposed to a movie star playing a nurse had said,Hell yes, I do!That was Drishti.
“You’re buying, right?” said Sam.
“Hell no, sponsor never buys,” said Drishti. “But I’ll be a cheap date, since my ballgown’s in the shop,” and she gestured to her Crocs and scrubs.
“Favorite place?” said Sam.
“Yup,” said Drishti. “LFG.”
Chapter 11
The World According To Drishti
Their favorite place in summer months was the beer garden in the Esplanade, the greenway that ran the length of the Charles River. On a gorgeous August evening like this one, it was mobbed. Bostonians strolled, dog-walked, jogged, roller-bladed, skateboarded, and biked the paths. People picnicked on the grass, perched in the trees with takeout and beer, swayed in jewel-toned hammocks like caterpillars in cocoons. Sailboats swarmed the river, gondoliers glided along the canals, and a haze of pot and good nature hung over everything. The buildings of MIT and Harvard glittered gold across the water in the descending sun.
Sam and Drishti got beers from the truck and carried them to one of the docks. It was as covered with people as a hive with bees, but they found space at the very edge and sat dangling their feet over the water.
“Good job back there,” Drishti said, toasting Sam.
“Thanks,” said Sam, touching her red cup to Drishti’s.
“I take it you’re well and truly dickmatized.”
“Drishti.”
“C’mon, kid. Gimme the deets. I gotta live through you.” Drishti had been engaged for almost ten years to a large, practically mute man named Franz. Once, when Sam had inquired about wedding plans, Drishti had said,Don’t fix what ain’t broken. Sam had not asked again.
“Spill,” Drishti said, kicking Sam’s ankle lightly.
“No way,” Sam said, and smirked at the water.
“Oh boy. Never even fucking mind. You areSuper-dickmatized. I can tell.”
Sam smiled into her beer. Could you be dickmatized if you hadn’t experienced the appendage in question? After the fort, where Sam had come so many times William literally had to hold her up, he’d simply gotten to his feet and led her back to his car. Was it a control thing? Was he one of those guys who had to give the woman fifteen orgasms before he had even one? Or could William, as Tabby had speculated, not get it up? Sam considered sharing this with Drishti, then decided not to. There were some things even a sponsor didn’t need to know.
“No red flags?” said Drishti. “You going U.N. on me?”
