“Well, yeah. No one can please everyone.”
I sigh. He doesn’t understand what it’s like to work so hard at something andstillbe found wanting.
“Your whole life, people have loved you from the second they meet you, Asher. You got Dad’s charm, and you’re damn lucky you did. But maybe you’re so used to people loving you, that the few who don’t bother you more than they should.”
That rings true, but it doesn’t ease the ache that’s taken up residence in my chest, screamingYou’re not good enough and everyone knows it.
“I’ll think about it,” I say. “Thanks for the advice.”
“Anytime, little bro. Talk later?”
“Yeah. Later.”
Jocelyn:I can’t FaceTime you. My face is bright red.
I don’t care what your face looks like
How dare you.
Rolling my eyes, I video chat her anyway. When her face pops into view on the screen, it’s indeed fire-engine red.
“Holy shit, cupcake. Did you let them douse you in acid?”
“Don’t look at me,” she fake screeches. “I’m hideous!”
“Does it hurt?” I perch on the armrest of my sofa.
The screen jostles, and suddenly she’s in her bed, snuggled up with a million pillows. “Nah. Looks worse than it is. So hey, did you reach a sudden epiphany about your greatness after our chat today?”
“Not exactly.”
She squints at the screen, probably reading my thoughts through a ticker visible only to her. Not sure how she does that.
“What’s that mean?” she asks.
I slide down the armrest onto my couch while tension gnaws into my chest wall. “It’s... nothing.”
“No, it isn’t. Talk to me, Foley! I’m a great listener. I gasp in all the right places.” She raises her eyebrows, expectant and waiting for me to spill.
Temptation drags against my spine. What would happen if I divulged all these ridiculous thoughts? Would she laugh in my face? Invalidate my feelings? Get all awkward and push me off the phone?
Or would she listen? Understand? Make it better?
She’s trustworthy. She’s here. Shewantsto talk about this.
Sweet, wonderful woman.
In a great rush, everything pours out of me. All the self-doubt. The unguarded vulnerability. The disgusting lack of confidence. The desire to be taken seriously. Work. Women. Life. I lay it all on the line. I tear her idealized version of me—the one that doesn’t exist—to the ground and piss all over it. Because she’s mistaken, right? I’m a total fraud. Ormaybe I’m just hoping she’ll prove me wrong, that she’ll have some magical combination of words that will erase these insecurities.
I really don’t mean for it to happen. Years of growing angst has finally overflowed, and she’s the sieve beneath, sifting out the anxiety. Some of these thoughts I’ve never spoken aloud, not even to my therapist, but they gush out of me now, and shelistens.
Wholeheartedly.
Empathetically.
Like she truly cares.
Joss is always so unapologetically herself, ugly parts and all. After so many years, it’s about time I trust her with my ugly parts, too.
