He picks up his bag and studies me. "This doesn't have to end here."
It should sound like an offer. Something about the way he says it makes it feel more like a door closing than opening.
He leaves without saying anything more.
I sit with the half-eaten sandwich and the silence. I wasn’t a secret, exactly. Just — omitted.
It feels worse.
I have class in twenty minutes. I should go too.
Instead, I stay a little longer, trying to understand what it means that the most honest conversation I've had about Cody since he went under happened with someone who barely knew him.
Or says he barely knew him.
I gather my things and walk out into the gray afternoon, and for the first time since I got here, I'm not just sad.
Chapter 11: Theo
MyparentsknowIdon't give a flying fuck about therapy, yet here I am, listening to my dad tell my mom they should hold off on further sessions.
My mom scoffs like he suggested something obscene. "After the third one? That's ridiculous, Scott."
Nessa sits beside me with one knee pulled up, staring at nothing. That's how I know she's deep in her own head.
Three sessions in, and all I feel is scraped open. The therapist has a way of asking questions that sound simple until you're answering them out loud and hearing yourself say things you didn't know you'd been thinking. Last week, she asked me when I first felt responsible for Nessa. I said I didn't know what she meant. She waited. I kept not answering until the session ended. I've been thinking about it since.
I hate that I've been thinking about it since.
"Why are we doing this?" I ask. "We're fine."
My mom turns to me, and I see myself in her expression. "We were functional," she says. "Therapy isn't about fixing something broken. It's preventative."
"Whatever you say, Doctor."
She looks at me like she's been tired of me for years.
I glare back.
I'm tired of me too.
My dad exhales and rubs his jaw. "How about dinner? We're all wrung out."
I lean toward Nessa. "Want to?"
She nods once, then slides her headphones over her ears. The music plays loud enough that I can hear it. She looks the other way.
I let her.
We sit at the same table we always take at the steakhouse. My parents order. The waiter disappears.
"Theo." My mom folds her hands. "How are you?"
"Was the session not enough?"
"Theo," my dad warns.
"I'm fine," I say. "We're playing UCLA this weekend. I'm looking forward to it."
