More importantly, I’m excited to see him because I’ve realised how much our sessions are helping me. I’m seeing myself so much more clearly than before. I want to talk more. I want to tell him about my conversation with Orla,about my fight with Sam, about how okay it was bumping into Justin like that. How there was a sort of closure sense to it. I want to unpack it all with someone who gets it and doesn’t judge me.
Outside his door, I check my phone. I have another email from Fabian, chasing me about this meeting with the publisher. I had hoped ignoring his last message might magically make the whole thing go away but I guess not. I shoot off a quick email.
‘Hey Fabian, I’m assuming they’re cancelling the contract, so any chance we can just do this over email? I’d rather not be dumped in public again, you know I don’t react well to that kind of humiliation, lol.’
I feel better after I press send. I don’t even want to write the stupid book anymore. It’s become very clear in the last few weeks that I know nothing at all when it comes to relationships and romance. I am beyond clueless and in no position to be doling out advice to anyone. I need to work through my own stuff before I can work on anyone else’s.
‘Olivia, good morning,’ Edward greets me from his doorway. He’s wearing a grey three-piece suit today with a crisp white shirt. His tie is black and woollen. He smiles nicely – but coolly. ‘You ready?’
‘I am.’ I nod, following him in and taking a seat. He offers me a drink of water, and I reach for the glass, taking grateful sips. It helps settle my stomach a little as I try not to look at his mouth.
These feelings are normal, I instruct myself again. Not real, but normal.
‘So—’ he begins, leaning forward, and I cut him off.
‘Before we get started today…’ I smile. ‘I wanted to say… well, sorry.’
He blinks at me, and I sense something shift under the neutrality of his face. He thinks I’m referring to the kiss.
I quickly continue, ‘I mean sorry about this whole’—I wave my hands—‘therapy thing. I’m sorry I’ve been so resistant and so, well,rude.’ I think of that first session, playing that stupid colourful test tubes game and ignoring everything he tried to ask me. It seems like such a long time ago and I hardly recognise myself. Edward’s face relaxes a fraction. ‘I didn’t think any of this would help me,’ I explain, knowing he knows this, but still wanting to say it. ‘I feel silly about what a child I was about the whole thing. I was acting out, trying to run you off, trying to force these sessions to stop somehow. Until last week, really, when I realised how much I wanted to keep going.’ This time, Iamreferencing the kiss.
I stop suddenly, considering this. Considering the timing of it and what a stupid, self-sabotaging thing it was to do.
What if I did kiss Edward to avoid closeness? Because I knew there was no way this could turn into anything real. Maybe I don’t feel worthy of real love and that’s why I dated Justin for so long, too. Because I didn’t believe I was worthy of someone decent – of an equal.
I shake my head, the realisations coming thick and crushingly fast.
I always felt – feel – less than. Something in me is afraid that people will leave me because I’m not enough. Perhapswashing Justin’s pants was my way of proving I was worth keeping around. Like, if I can make myself amenable enough and bring something real and useful to a relationship then maybe I can persuade them to stay. Maybe I’ve been doing the same thing with Sam, by being her entertainment.
What if I sabotage myself by avoiding anything that could be real and true, because… what? I don’t trust love? And maybe the anger is another way to keep things and people at arm’s length. When you’re angry, it’s hard to feel anything else, right?
‘Do you think I push people away?’ I say suddenly, and Edward frowns.
‘What makes you say that?’
I take a deep breath. ‘Sam and I had a…tiffthe other day.’
‘A tiff?’ He is reflecting everything back; making me do the work. God, that actually really is annoying.
I take a deep breath. ‘It was mostly just petty lashing out, but there was some real stuff under there.’ I grimace. ‘I worry she encourages my worst tendencies. It feels like she likes me best when I’m self-sabotaging and creating drama. Like, shewantsme to be a fuck up.’
‘Why would she want that?’
I consider this, feeling intensely disloyal. ‘I sometimes think she needs me to be the mess in our lives, because then it makes her feel less like a mess herself. She’s dissatisfied with things – she hates her job, she’s still grieving her dad – and maybe if I’m even more of a hopeless case, then she can feel… superior. Like things aren’t that bad because at leastshe’s not Liv. And I allow myself to be that person for her because I need her to need me. I have to be useful to her so she’ll keep me around.’Because she won’t let me wash her pants– I don’t say.
‘Have you ever talked to her about it?’
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘It came up during the row, and things really blew up. We’ve barely spoken in a week.’
‘We don’t always take things said during an argument seriously,’ he says. ‘Especially if it was very heated. So, it might need repeating in a kinder way.’
‘It was very heated,’ I confirm. He regards me silently, waiting, so I start speaking again, fast. ‘I don’t think it’s a conscious thing she does. I don’t think Sam is doing it deliberately. It’s just a dysfunctional pattern we’ve fallen into. And it was actually quite fun for a long time, but I don’t think it is anymore. Another friend, Jools, said to me recently that women put themselves through so much pain for no reason, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it.’ I pause and he waits. ‘Sam is one of the best people I’ve ever known,’ I tell him fiercely, though he said nothing. ‘She is my twin flame and I wouldn’t be without her.’
‘It sounds like you just need to talk to her then,’ he says softly. ‘Calmly – non-heatedly. If you can both see the toxic patterns and work on trying not to slip into them, you’ll be fine. Sometimes we have to work just as hard on keeping our platonic relationships healthy as we do with the romantic ones. Friendships can be dysfunctional, too. Even the best ones.’
‘That makes an awful lot of sense,’ I say slowly. ‘But being honest is sometimes really hard. Harder than it should be.’
‘Why do you think that is?’
