“One moment I’m thinking a million things at once, and the next I’ve started a new bald spot.” I shrugged as if I told him I didn’t hand-wash my delicates (I did), or get my yearly checkup (bi-yearly, thank you very much). “Once I start on thespot, I have to at least pluck three strands. More means better luck… fewer means I’m asking for trouble. I need the luck so I don’t… fuck things up more than I already have.”
David nodded, understanding. My stomach was contending with a full-on storm as I tried to read his expression. Admitting fault had me ready to run for the door. I could hide in a closet for the rest of the semester and still want to throw up from how sick inadequacy made me.
“Is a therapist on the agenda?” he asked, gaze never leaving mine. I waited for the joke, the teasing. But all that existed was a sober curiosity.
“Is a therapist onyouragenda?” I shot back.
He blinked, unfazed by the hard retort. I’d snapped us back into place, away from this open and warm back and forth that almost felt nice. Could have felt nice if I weren’t so prone to ruining a good thing before it began.
“Here I was, thinking you were handling this so well.” David sighed, disappointed.
My fingers curled into a fist. “I am.”
“How convinced are you really?” he asked. “Are you the kind of person who tries to bring things into existence by sheer belief?”
“Are you asking if I believe in manifestation?”
“Sure, whatever you want to call it.”
I frowned, knowing this was a set-up, but stepping forward anyway. “Yes, I believe that the words we speak—most of all to ourselves— are powerful. You?”
He smiled. “Definitely.”
David’s response was cold water poured down my top in the dead of winter.
“Really?” I asked, confused about where this thread would lead. Surely not us agreeing for once in our lives.
“I’ve spent more than half my life trying to mold my body into a perfect machine for a sport that can and will leave mewith permanent brain damage,” he said. “Of course, I believe in positive self-talk. There’s no escaping the mind when it’s the only thing left to keep you company.”
“How astute,” I mused. “Why then? Why do you play a sport that kills the mind?”
He smiled and offered me a one-shoulder shrug. “It’s fun.”
“Fun?” I asked, unconvinced it could be so simple.
“Yes, have you tried that before?”
I sighed and reopened my laptop, typing out how he found the risk of football worth it because of “fun.”
“I think I have enough to convince my family we’re semi-involved,” I decided.
“You sure?” He tilted his head to the side. The softness of his eyes almost showed disappointment. Had he meant to get more out of me? Did he think he’d somehow coax my anxious tics out in the open to be dissected by his icy fingers?
“Positive.” I slipped my laptop into my bag. “Or, at least, for the first event next weekend. It’s dinner at my parents’ place. Business casual. Don’t wear gray.”
“What?”
“Business casual. Don’t wear gray,” I repeated. “My mom hates gray. It’s a bad omen in our house.”
David chuckled and shook his head. “God, what have I gotten myself into?”
16
“What are we looking at?”Anthony had one arm crossed over his chest and a hand rubbing the side of his face. Hana stood beside him, trying her best to maintain a smile.
I moved in front of them, briefly blocking the view of the rusty, rundown warehouse we’d walked twenty minutes to see. The smell of fish hung heavily in the air. Seagulls continued doing their business on the white-stained sidewalk. Old dinghies and center console boats swayed up and down on the dock behind us.
“I know it’s not what we envisioned–” I started.
