My boundaries are usually pretty solid, and even when I find someone attractive, I’ve had no issue finding something wrong with them.
But for some reason, with Benny, I can’t. Which isnota good thing. I can’t catch feelings for myboss.
Dinner? Did he have a date?Not that it matters, Eleanor.
Ending the conversation with Benny, I stare out the window and take in the view. The tapestry of green and yellow leaves hovering over the side of the house, a slight crispness in the air. Fall really is a magical time—a season of transition. This time of year was always a positive one at the clinic, witnessing substantial progress with a client and their healing journey before the gloomy winter hits. Seasonal changes have such a profound impact on our brains.
But unfortunately, during this particular season at Glendale, the progress was minimal. It's understandable, these students don’t know me and they’re aware I won’t be here long.
I remind myself of the potential job openings back in New York, open my phone, and start scrolling. Some viable options pop-up and I email myself the link so I can look at them later. Checking for the email from myself, I scroll through my inbox to start deleting junk mail when I see one from a recognizable user . . .
A hot rage boils in my chest and without even thinking I chuck my phone across the kitchen, watching it hit the side of a cabinet, before shattering, and falling to the floor in multiple pieces. I drop myself to the floor, feeling like gravity has pulled me down by my shoulders. I stare at the mess, internally screaming every profanity I can think of.
“Is everything alright?” Steven comes rushing into the kitchen. “I heard something.”
He walks towards me, stepping on phone pieces as he kneels so he’s eye level with me.
“Ellie, what’s wrong?” He hands me a napkin and in that moment I realize I’m crying. For the first time in almost a year, my body is creating a physical response to emotional stimuli that isn’tonlybreaking something. My tears are faint at first, then realization washes over me and I start to sob—uncontrollable, body heaving, sobs. I’ve been highly aware of my lack of emotional response lately and the inability to cry has been concerning. I have done everything I can think of to have a good cry, I even watchedMarley and Meand. . .nothing. Crying is a safety valve, and mine has been broken. Not only does it alleviate stress, it maintains homeostasis and, based on my constant doodling and breaking stuff, my homeostasis is out of whack. Crying is an essential coping mechanism and I’m actually doing it.
I sob for a few more minutes, and gradually start to slow down my thoughts.
Why am I crying?Because I’m mad.
Why am I mad?Because Liam emailed me.
Why did he email me?I don’t know, my phone is broken.
I work through the question train I use with my clients, timed breathing on each answer. My sobs slow back down and I compose myself enough to speak.
“Liam . . .” I quiver. “Emailed me.”
“Oh.” Steven sits on the ground beside me. “What did he say?”
“I don’t know . . .”Sniff.“I threw my phone.”
“I see.” He wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes once.
“Have you talked to him?” I wipe my nose and hide the snot rag in my hand.
“Not in a few weeks, no.”
Emma walks in, noting the massacre to my phone and the dent it left in her cabinet. “What’s going on?” she asks, her eyebrows furrowing at the mess.
“Liam emailed Ellie,” Steven says solemnly, patting my back as he hands me another tissue.
“What! Why? What did he say?” She rushes to my side and pulls me in for a hug.
“I don’t know, I threw my phone before opening it,” I say, hugging her back.
“Are you alright?”
“I am. Had myself a good cry about it,” I say, giving Steven a smile.
He smiles back, with a hint of sadness in his eyes. I chalk that up to the damage I have caused to his precious oak cabinet and refuse to think it’s because he feels bad for me.Don’t pity me. I am handling all of this fine.
“I see. Well, let’s refrain from breaking anything else, alright? That’s what the art is for.”
