Though I sort of wish there weren’t any ugly parts. Want to be bright and shiny all the time. Is that too much to ask?
When I finish, her eyes are glistening in her crimson face.
“Oh, god.” I pull the screen closer to study her expression. “You aren’t going to cry, are you?”
“No!” She sniffles. “Why w-would I do that?”
I laugh. Awkward and forced, but still a laugh to hide behind. Might die from humiliation any second. Does shepityme? My silly struggles have her in tears. “Why the fuck are you crying, J?”
“I’m just on my period or something. Shut up.” She wipes her face. “I don’t even know what to say other than that you’re wrong. You’re, like, so,sowrong. Like, wronger than those publishing houses who rejected Stephen King. Wronger than the people who believed in Y2K. Asher, you are more wrong than that guy who said theTitanicwas unsinkable.”
At this point, I’m scrunched into a corner of my couch, one hand covering my face while the other holds the phone.“I can’t believe I told you all that. Can we forget this and go to bed?”
“No. We absolutely will not do that.”
I chance a glance at her face, still wet. “I made you cry.”
“Shut up. I’m just a little leaky.”
“Why?”
“Because this is sad, Asher! I’m so sad you don’t know how special you are.”
“If byspecialyou mean pitiful,” I say in a teasing tone, fully embracing the self-mockery—my last remaining defense mechanism.
Can a wormhole open up right now and take me back in time? How about a black hole? Can I just cease to exist?
“You know, from the outside, no one would ever guess you think like this. Do you have any idea how confident you come across? I’m just... I’m shocked.”
“We’ve all got our secrets, Miss I-guard-my-emotions-like-a-gold-filled-chest.”
“I’m choosing to ignore that little dig on account of you’re fundamentally broken and I need to fix you.” She sets the phone on something and backs away, so I can see a little more of her. She’s sitting cross-legged on her bed, blanketed in an oversize T-shirt that says “I LIKE PEOPLE (under general anesthesia).” She puts her hands out, fingers splayed, allI’ve got a plan!“Okay. So here’s what you’re going to do. Every time a patient lets you help her through a difficult moment. Every time a resident says they love working with you. Every patient review that throws up five stars. You snapshot those moments in your mind and remind yourself that’s all that matters.”
That’s what my therapist said. Feels more reasonable coming from Joss, though. Less silly. Still, I’m not so sure. “I don’t think—”
“No! There are nobuts. You will do this, and you will like it. Every good thing that happens to you—snapshot. Okay?”
I’m very well trained, so I know the correct answer here is a simple, “Okay.”
She smiles.
See? Compliance. Pleases even the grumpiest of people.
“You are good enough just as you are,” she says. “And if someone isn’t taking you seriously, then you don’t need them in your life anyway, so good riddance.”
“Yeah. Bye, Felicia.”
She sets her fists on her hips. “You aren’t being serious on purpose.”
“To be honest, I’m doing my very best not to end this call right now, cancel our friendship out of self-preservation and never speak to you again. This is giving me a stress ulcer.”
She snorts. “Whatever. You clearly needed to get all that off your chest. Don’t get awkward now. Don’t you feel better?”
Yes. Sort of. Still dealing with this gnawing pain in my stomach.
Need Tums.
Should probably see a gastroenterologist.
