Matteo tilts his head slightly, curiosity lighting behind his eyes. “What suggestion might that be?”
I bite the inside of my cheek and exhale silently. “She thought you might like to visit instead. Not any time soon,” I quickly add. “But maybe you’d want to come eventually…I think she mostly just wants to meet you. I told her you might get bored just hanging around the house, since I don’t really go anywhere?—”
He cuts off my rambling with three words. “I’d love to.”
“You would?” I ask, blinking at him in surprise.
“Of course,” he agrees. “It makes sense. Traveling isn’t your jam, and I’ve been riding around on private jets with my brothers since I was a baby. I like seeing new places as it is. And I doubt I could be bored hanging around your house. You’d be there.”
You’d be there.
He says those words like they’re the most obvious thing in the world. Like he couldn’t possibly imagine boredom as long as we’re together.
“Okay,” I say. “Some day, then.”
“Some day,” he agrees, smiling.
Maybe sooner than I know.
Chapter Sixteen
Anya
One Week Later
It’s been eight days since Matteo and I talked about the possibility of him coming to the west coast to see me. Eight whole days, one hundred and ninety-two hours, half of which I’ve spent thinking about that conversation.
I’ve been able to hide my wandering mind by keeping up with my routine, mostly. Dad hasn’t noticed anything amiss, and I think it’s likely because I’m not overly stressed. It makes me nervous, thinking about it. But it doesn’t send me into a panic.
I’ve been dreaming about it, actually. Daydreaming a mix of scenarios, playing them out in my head while I lie in bed with my eyes closed to paint vivid pictures behind my lids. Every time I do, I expect to feel my heart rate skyrocket, or nervous sweat to begin forming in the back of my hairline, but it never does.
I find myself feeling an excited but anticipatory sort of emotion. Like I can’t wait and almost wish it would just happen already. Ripping the Band-Aid off and facing the task head on. But Matteo coming to visit shouldn’t be atask.
It’s frustrating that I can’t figure out what I really think, or what I want. I’m annoyed with myself that I can’t predict how I would handle the situation. Which is why I’ve finally decided to speak to someone about it. To get an outside perspective, and to hear from a person who might know my mind better than I do myself.
“Well,” my therapist, Tiffany, says, clearing her throat shortly and shifting in her seat. “That was a lot of honesty in only a few breaths. Would you like a sip of water before we continue?”
No,I almost yell.Can’t you see that I’m at my wits’ end, waiting for you to solve my problem?
I’d only been in our designated office for three minutes, participating in our usual small talk before I started word vomiting everything. My growing friendship with Matteo, his willingness to come and see me, and my thoughts on the matter. Which are mostly confusion and hesitancy.
“I want to see him,”I admitted minutes ago.“But I don’t know if I can. What if I have an episode? What if I do something embarrassing? What if he hates it here? What if he regrets becoming my friend because I can’t go do anything interesting with him?”
What-if after what-if.
Can I handle it?I asked, hoping she would simply tell me I could.
But even with all the words I sputtered at her, there were many things left unsaid. Questions left unanswered because I wasn’t brave enough to ask them. NotcanI handle it, but do Iwantto be able to handle it?
Because if I can handle hanging out with Matteo, I might be doing a lot better than I thought. And if I’m doing a lot better, then what’s my excuse not to do everything else I’ve been avoiding for years? What’s my excuse for not reaching out to old friends? What’s my excuse for not trying to dance again?
“Yes,” I lie, grabbing my bottle from the side table next to the small couch I always sit in and popping open the lid.
The office where I meet with Tiffany is located in a quiet part of the house. The room isn’t fully soundproofed, but a white noise machine plays outside of the door anytime we’re in session. It’s a cozy room, despite being small and windowless. A comfortable chair for her to sit in, and a two-cushion couch for me. There’s a couple of plants, and a display of books and therapy tools, but most of our sessions just involve talking.
I watch out of the corner of my eye as she writes something down in her notepad, her fancy pen running over the journal with a professional swish. Her curly caramel-brown hair moves as she does, almost bouncing as she looks back up at me.
“Feeling better?” she asks, watching me set my water bottle back down.
