“Because everyone’s always mad at me.”
Her lips purse. “Do you ever get mad?”
Is this lady serious?I feel anger rising through my chest, steam threatening to explode out of my ears. “Of course I do,” I bite out.
“Why?”
“Because I can’t do or say anything right!” I stand at the confession, chest heaving. It’s like she’s purposefully trying to goad me into being the bad guy here—show just how evil I can be. I feel trapped, cornered, and I refuse to pay her any more to make me feel worse. “I’m leaving.”
I turn toward the door, ready to flee.
“Could it be the people you look up to make you feel inadequate? Not that you are, but that you’ve been conditioned to feel less than so you’ll continue to do whatever they ask?”
Her question feels like an arrow through the heart—deadly and true.
“But why? Why did he want to control me so badly?” My voice trembles, and I remain facing the door. As soon as I have the answer, I’m leaving and never returning.
“Why do you want control so badly?”
Tears prick my eyes. This is fucking ridiculous. All I want is an answer so I can get out of here and start making things right with every person I’ve wronged. I want to be better.
“Why don’t you sit down, and we can talk about it. Wanting control isn’t a bad thing, Valentina; it’s a trauma response to having none. It’s not a weakness, or an act of villainy—it’s a coping mechanism. You’re not broken, you’re just hurt.”
I slowly turn. “Is that why he hurt me?”
She smiles softly, motioning toward the couch. She waits for me to sit down, before crossing her legs. “Unfortunately, we can never know why people hurt us, but I’m happy to help you explore why you are hurting, why you might hurt other people. First, we need to tackle this pesky but very real feeling ofinadequacy. Making mistakes is human, Valentina, and you are a beautiful human, flaws and all.”
I lean back into the couch again, but this time, I get comfy.
My body feels sore and tired, the same feeling I get after a good workout, as I walk into the house. It’s quiet, and I note that Rafael’s car is gone. Pulling out my phone, I shoot him a text.
ME: Did you decide to leave after all?
It’s a joke,kind of.After today, I know I say and think those kinds of things as a way of coping with the very real, very crippling fear of being alone.
Almost instantly, Rafael responds.
RAFAEL: You’ll have to try a lot harder than that to get rid of me. I’ll be back soon.
I smile despite myself and move farther into the house. Entering the kitchen, I contemplate getting a drink—or better yet, a joint, but part of me wants to soak in this new feeling of self-awareness. Not everything has to be numbed with booze or blunts, especially now that I realize when I do numb myself, I’m more likely to lash out and hurt those around me.I don’t want to hurt anyone.
I’ve a lot of work to do—more than I’m comfortable even admitting, but it feels good to have started. It’s like I’ve finally ripped off the Band-Aid, and now, the real healing can begin.
I don’t realize I’m staring into the fridge until a hand begins to push the door closed. Jumping, I step back.
“Sorry; hard day?” McCrae’s eyes are soft, kind even. I don’t know what to make of it. So, I nod. He nods back, pulling the corner of his mustache into his mouth to chew on it. His fingers are still wrapped around the corner of the fridge door, and then he drops his hold, stepping back.
It’s awkward between us, for the first time since I’ve known him. I don’t like it—it feels wrong and unnatural, and even if it hurts, I’m determined to turn a page with him.
“So, I want to apologize?—”
He waves me off. “I don’t want you to. Not to me. Never to me. I understand you, V, better than anyone. You’re like a sister to me. Someone I trust and care about deeply.”
A year ago, his words would’ve destroyed me. Today, I feel only peace.
I smile at him. “We’re pretty fucked up, aren’t we?”
He barks a laugh at that. “The most.”
