I hum out a reply and take another bite of my food, hoping to avoid talking about this anymore. Luckily for me, Will seems to pick up on my hesitancy to continue down this line of conversation and switches the topic to his hockey schedule. Miranda replies with her golf schedule, and I spend the next thirty minutes putting in game dates and golf tournament locations in my calendar.
After lunch we go our separate ways and I head back to my apartment. I spend the rest of the night thinking about Will and Miranda’s words. About how I need to practice putting myself out there again, force myself to feel uncomfortable. I understand the concept, a little like exposure therapy in some ways. I’ll do things that feel scary and then eventually they won’t feel scary anymore and I won’t be counting the number of people in a room that I think have seen my naked pictures. I’ll be able to just enjoy myself and have fun. The problem here is I’m scared. I’m not even trying to deny the fact that it’s scary. I’m scared about what people are thinking about me, what they see whenthey look at me. Do they see Kennedy or do they see my naked tits?
I try to watch TV to distract myself from the thoughts circling through my mind. It doesn’t work. I try to read a book. It doesn’t work. I take a shower, and then try to read again and then eat a bowl of cereal. But literally nothing I do distracts me from the fact that right now I’m stuck and I don’t want to be.
I want to feel like my old self, to get my mojo back, if you will.
After one more attempt at reality TV, I kick off the blankets wrapped around my legs and walk over to my backpack and pull out my laptop. I take it to my little love seat and sit crosslegged with my laptop resting in the cradle of my legs.
I start scrolling through all the pictures I have saved to my cloud and looking at everything I used to do.
I looked so happy. I was happy.
The knot in my chest is too tight. Looking at old pictures of myself is causing tears to threaten to spill over.
I almost have to close my laptop and stop. But I don't. I force myself to take a few big breathes through my nose and continue. I have to do this. I know it deep in my bones that if I ever want to feel like Carter didn't permanently ruin my life, I have to take back control of my life. I have to do things even if they're scary, even if people might know me or recognize me. I have to do it anyway.
It takes me a good portion of an hour to figure out exactly what kind of things I want to try and force myself to do again. Things I know I love. Things that make me terrified to try again. Things that feel raw and vulnerable in a way I don’t really know how to articulate. But things that I think will simultaneously help me find myself again while also helping me shed the power those pictures have over me.
I save the list I created to my notes before putting my laptop away and getting back into bed. Under the covers with thelights turned off, I reread the list on my phone over and over; a strange sensation in my chest as I go down the list.
1. Go on a date
2. Be in a bathing suit in front of others (during the day)
3. Go to a hockey game (and not let Carter ruin it)
4. Go dancing at SixtyForty
5. Re-join book club
Chapter Four
Will
Part of being on a sports team means following rules that don't apply to anyone else. Coach forces us to go to the library at least five hours a week, every week school is in session. He makes us fill out a library log with the time we arrive, the time we leave, and what we worked on while there. We even have to sign an honesty agreement at the bottom swearing that we’re telling the truth.
I’ve only completed two of my five hours this week, and it's Thursday. So the rest of my night looks like it's dedicated to the library. I know I could lie and fudge the study log, but I also know it's the only reason I’ve maintained my GPA the past three years.
Bramwood’s library is in a huge six story building. The higher up you go, the quieter it gets. Floors five and six are considered silent floors. Not the floors for me. I prefer floors three and four. A good balance of focus and whispers, better for people watching.
My legs are sore from practice, and my knee is bothering me today so I take the elevator up instead of the stairs. Thedoors open to a very full third floor, I don't see a single open table. I walk along the perimeter of the floor hoping to find an open study desk tucked in between some book shelves. Nothing. I weave in and around the shelves to discover every single spot on this floor is taken.
I debate taking the elevator up to the fourth floor and decide that even though I'm sore and my knee hurts, stairs will be faster. I jog up the stairs, taking two at a time and forcing myself to ignore the twinge in my left leg and walk without limping.
The stairwell opens up to a considerably less filled floor of the library. Right away I spot at least four or five open seats. When I’m actually studying and working, I like to find a seat that faces the wall and stops me from people watching. If I face the room, I get distracted with all the movement in my peripheral vision. I like seeing people do weird shit, I think it's funny. I also like seeing what someone will do in public when they think no one’s watching them.
I find a study desk in the back corner of the floor and pull out my laptop, setting it along with my textbook on the desk before me. I open my study playlist and scroll through my socials for about ten minutes before I log into the physical therapist centralized application system. The required materials screen taunts me withpersonal statement: incomplete.I have everything else uploaded and ready to go. I got my verified GRE scores back last week, a 157 in verbal and 166 in quantitative—hell yeah. With these scores, I have a good shot of getting into all of the programs I’m interested in. My GPA is a 3.6 and I have three letters of recommendation already submitted on my behalf from two professors and Coach. I just need to write this damn personal statement and pass the interview process.
I lean back in my chair and glance around the floor hoping to maybe get some inspiration that's not “my experiencewith my own injuries being treated by a physical therapist is what inspires me to want to be a physical therapist”bullshit.
I shift in my chair, away from the wall. So much for forcing myself to work and not people watch. I’m running my eyes from person to person looking for someone doing anything interesting when I spot what looks to be a familiar head of red wavy hair leaning over an open text book with a pen in her mouth. Kennedy.
Will:Look to your right.
From here I can see her grab her phone and look at the message. She looks up, phone still in her hand and starts slowly turning her head in my direction. I watch her eyes lock onto every person and over every desk before she locks onto mine and smiles at me across the room. She looks down at her phone, thumbs tapping on the screen.
Kennedy:Are you stalking me?
