She came around the counter, settling into the armchair adjacent to the couch. I watched her warily. “We’ve been friends for what…five years? I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve heard you talk about your mom, likereallytalk about her. I’ve heard you mention your dad even less. But fun stuff? That’s never a problem for you. You’re one of the most fun people to be with and I adore that about you, Bee, but Knox was right. I think you’re so afraid of becoming your dad that you refuse to acknowledge your big feelings.”
I crossed my arms and stared at her, my eyes narrowing.
“Yeah, I knew this was going to piss you off,” she said with a sigh. “But I can’t just sit here and watch you be miserable like this. I’ve enabled you enough by not pushing you to leave Americana.”
“I like working at Americana.”
“Oh, please. You said yourself it’s a dead-end job. It’s not even a decent job for anyone whowantsto wait tables or tend bar, and you know it. You have a fucking master’s degree—use it! Get a curator job! You know that’s what you really want to do with your life.”
I shook my head, trying to form the right retort.
She cut me off before any words had even escaped from my lips. “I know. I know it’s scary,” she said, her tone softening. “It’s terrifying to send out your resume and put yourself out there and hope someone likes you enough to give you a chance, but you have to try, Birdie. You have to give yourself a chance.”
I swallowed thickly, blinking back tears. I grabbed one of the couch’s throw pillows and fiddled with the edge.
“And you need to tell Knox how you really feel.”
My head shot up, tears starting to fall. “What?”
Sam stood up, coming to sit beside me. She put her arm around me. “Remember how I’ve known you for five years? I know you, bitch. I know you love him, even if you don’t.”
I sagged into her arms, finally letting out the torrent of tears and emotions that I had been holding back for days, weeks, years. I sobbed for my mom, for the years lost with her. I sobbed for my dad, who loved so hard that he couldn’t pick himself back up when that love was lost. I sobbed for teenage Birdie, who had to cook dinners for her little brother and make sure he got to school on time.
But most of all, I sobbed for Knox, the only man I had ever truly loved and had lost as a result of my own inaction.
“He doesn’t want to speak to me,” I finally said through my tears, my voice muffled by the linen of Sam’s favorite blouse.
“I don’t think that’s as true as you believe it to be,” she said gently, rubbing my back as I continued to cry.
“I was awful to him. And then I was awful to his best friend in the whole world. And then I left without saying goodbye to anyone. I don’t think I’m exactly his favorite person.” I took a shaky breath, wiping my eyes. “Besides, he deserves so much more than a mess like me.”
“Do you love him?” Sam asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, look at that. That’s progress, right? None of us are our best selves in the span of a day—that stuff takes a lifetime of work. But if you’re willing to put in the work and be real and honest with him, I think you might just find that it changes everything.” She kissed my head, gave me one last squeeze, then stood up. “I need to get changed; I have the firm’s holiday party tonight and I probably shouldn’t wear a shirt with your snot all over it,” she said, picking up her wine from the kitchen as she made her way to her bedroom. “And take a shower, you reek.”
After the longest and most satisfying shower of my life, I spent the evening making a plan for the rest of the week. I wasn't sure if I would ever have a chance to repair things with Knox, but I could at least start by repairing myself.
When I woke up the next morning, I texted several of my friends to ask for therapist recommendations. If I was going to start feeling my feelings, I knew I would need some help along the way. Knox had spoken so highly of his therapy experiences that it made me less afraid to take that leap for myself. Even if we never spoke again, I knew I could always thank him for that gift.
I spent the rest of the morning updating my resume and researching art curator jobs. By noon, I had bookmarked a handful of promising-sounding internships and entry-level positions to apply for after the holidays.
That afternoon was spent Googling the therapists’ names I had gotten from my friends, trying to decide from their online profiles if any of them might be a good fit. A few of them seemed stuffy, but one of them—Lisa Andrews, LCSW—seemed promising and was in network with my self-pay insurance. Even better, she offered virtual sessions.
My hand shaking, I submitted an online form booking a consultation with her.
Step by step, Birdie. You can do this.
I woke up the morning of December 23 knowing what my next move had to be. I had to step away from my comfortzone if I was going to follow through on any of what I’d done so far.
“Hey, Chad,” I said as I walked into the back office at Americana.
Chad looked up from his desk where he was working on payroll. “Birdie. What the hell are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be off in London or something?”
I smiled wryly. Nice to see that some things never changed. “Wexstone, but yes. There was a change of plans, and I came home a bit early.”
Chad grunted. “Mmph. Well, guess you probably want to get back on the schedule, huh? I might be able to get you on for Christmas Eve if you’re looking to pick up a shift.”
