I trace my finger over the little thread bird. “She doesn’t believe in it. Got to tough it out, whatever life throws at you. Therapists only make you hate your parents,” I mimic.
“And what do you think?”
“I don’t thinkthat. But I used to think I didn’t need it because I had my friends Margie and Avery to talk to, and because I turned out fine no matter what life threw at me… But I think I overestimated how fine I am. All this nuttiness with my neighbor Jack really hit that home.”
“Are you comfortable sharing more?” Wendy tilts her head, her expression open and earnest. Her degrees are hanging across the room, denoting her PhD and master’s and all the other proof that I’m here with a professional. “Tell me about Mom. Or Jack. Whatever you’d like.”
I nod, quickly before I lose my nerve, and start talking. Not about Mom, though. I tell her about Jack. About what he looks like, his snark and humor, about our fighting and the games we played and how my bias formed on false pretenses started it all. It is a stilted and meandering telling, an uncomfortable stream of consciousness that picks up momentum as I go. And suddenly, there’s an avalanche of mental baggage falling out of me, and my eyes are stinging, and I’m accepting my second tissue.
“I’m an idiot, because I have been nothing but awful to Jack, and I like him, I do, and yes, he was awful back to me, but that wasbeforethe party, and it just feels like things changed there, and he even took care of me, and then I broke everything. And now he’s with that appraiser.”
“Do you know for sure that he’s with her?”
“No. But…” My shoulders slump. “It doesn’t matter. Even if he’s not, look at the Vaughns, like I told you! A daily trust fall? How the hell doImake something work whentheybarely did? I’d just ruin it all with Jack anyway and end up living next door to an ex forever. I havenevermade a relationship last, so there’s no reason to think it’d be different with him.”
“I’d say one difference is…you’re here. Committed to working on yourself.”
I make a face, reluctantly accepting her words as true.
“Let me ask you, Penny: you briefly mentioned your work on our call. There, if a project is difficult, does that mean doing it doesn’t have value?”
“No, of course not.”
“So why, when it comes to relationships—yours, the Vaughns you so admire—why does difficulty in that sphere mean that the endeavor doesn’t have value?”
I open my mouth. Close it. I hug the pillow again, her words and the confusion they churn up somersaulting through my mind. I take a bracing breath.
“That was good. That was a good and cleaning deep breath. Maybe do that again.”
I do. But I’ve got nothing to say in response to her thought grenade.
Wendy’s voice has been melodic and soothing this entire session, but it gentles even more when she says, “Maybe another way of thinking about difficulties in relationships is… Isn’t there perhaps beauty in choosing one another each day? Over and over?”
I make a noncommittal sound. Even if a relationship being hard is part of it… Even if it’s worth it despite the difficulty… Jack is angry with me and may have moved on. And, regardless, I’m still very much the mess that is me.
When I do speak, it’s to say: “Can we maybe do this twice a week?”
18
My bathroom is hot in the mornings, the sun beaming directly through the window. My hair dryer makes it even more so.
The clatter is so loud that I hear it even with my hair dryer going. I turn it off and listen for another sound. The seconds tick by.
When I hear the sound again, it squeezes a shriek out of me. I rush to The Hole and stick my head under the sheet.
“Stuff is here. I’m taking off work today to try and finish bringing down the wall and get started building. You’ve got an hour before you leave for work if you want to help,” Jack says, taking in my wet poof of hair with a dispassionate expression. He’s sweating, sporting a Mets cap, jeans, and a blue T-shirt. Lick him. Run your hands up his chest.
No,brain. Must. Keep. Away. From. This. Man. That is the only way to survive now.
His sofa has been pulled back from the wall, and a pile of two-by-fours and tools have taken their place. It’s only seven a.m.
“You’re not serious.”
“You said you wanted it done sooner rather than later.”
“I need to get ready for work. I’m still a mess.”
“You look like you always do.” His tone makes me want to leap through The Hole and wrap my hands around his throat. I realize I haven’t covered up my hickey yet when his gaze snags on my neck, but if anything, the reminder of our stupidity makes his expression grow frostier.
