“Oh, for sure.” Camden bobs his head. “Anxiety is this irrational thing that seems rational because it’s, like, your brain replaying information that you needed in the past. But it can only allow you to prepare for things you’ve already experienced, right? She’s probably applying old survival skills to a situation, and still has to figure out that she doesn’t need them anymore.”
I stare at Camden, open-mouthed.
He aims finger guns at me. “Guess who has two thumbs and a biweekly therapy appointment? This guy.” He uses the aforementioned thumbs to point to himself.
“You’re in therapy?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, I’m just…” I blink a few times. “Should I be in therapy?”
“Everyone should be in therapy, my man. But one thing at a time.”
I text myself the link to the Reddit post, then pass Camden’s phone back. “Okay. Wow. This has been surprisingly helpful.”
“No need to sound so surprised. I’m here if you need anything, okay?” Camden holds up his empty beer bottle. “Speaking of which, you want a fresh brewskie?”
I consider the dregs of my bottle. “Nope, I’m actually going to head out. I told Min I’d grab dinner, and I have something else I’d like to do on the way.”
My brain is spinning five steps ahead of me the whole time. I keep remembering moments when Min stared down at her plate while talking herself down. How she flinches when men raise their voices or get in her personal space. How she’s quick to apologize, but slow to ask for anything.
Maybe Camden’s right, and she’ll come to me when she wants help. I don’t want her to think that I’m trying to fix her, either. But what if I gave her an opportunity to tell me what she wants? What she needs?
What if I could gather data points on how to make her happy?
Because I know one thing deep down. I don’t want her to leave me.
Not now. Not ever.
* * *
The aroma of fresh bread hits my nostrils when I return with takeout. Minerva’s seated at the table with the heel of the loaf, skimming her laptop as usual. I wonder what she’s looking at. Apartment listings, maybe? I sure as hell hope not.
“I know what you said earlier about takeout,” I tell her. “But I do have something I’d like to do with our free time. I want to propose an experiment.”
Minerva’s whole face lights up with interest. “Okay, I’m listening.”
“Gimme one sec.” I run back out to the car and return with the other things I picked up while I was out: dry-erase markers,an enormous whiteboard, and drywall screws. I toss the screws on the table for later and peel open the marker pack.
Minerva leans forward. “Ooh, I do love a whiteboard.”
“I thought you would. And I got the biggest pack of markers they had, so that you can color-coordinate all you want. Now.” I open the black marker with a flourish. At the top, I write the words:MIN’S WORLD: What You Like, What You Don’t, What Helps.
“I’d like you to fill this out whenever you have time. No rush, and you don’t have to do it all at once. Whenever you think of something you like, or something you want to avoid. Snacks. What makes you feel better when you’re spiraling. Things you want to try. Whatever you can think of.”
“Oh.” Minerva bites her lip. “Okay, I can do that.”
“And I think you should stick around for a little while, until we can gather a representative data set.”
Minerva’s lips twitch. “You want me to stay for science?”
“You know how I feel about science.” I cap the marker. “Sound good?”
“I don’t want to leave you with incomplete data. I’ll stick around, for now. For science.”
I’m a bit jealous of her dedication to science, but for now, I’ll take whatever I’m given. As long as she isn’t planning to move out tomorrow, I have time to figure some things out.
If science is the excuse she needs, I’ll take it. As long as she keeps choosing this home—choosing me—one data point at a time.
