My band—what a fucking joke. They were supposed to be important. Like family.
And yet half of them had fucking bailed on me.
Rory kept tending to his plants, almost unconsciously. I could tell all his focus was now on me, no matter what he was doing with his hands, as I got up and started pacing around the courtyard.
“Do you remember, long ago, when you told me?” he asked me, watching me pace. “It was one of our early sessions.”
“Yeah. I remember.”
“Why do you think you remember?”
“Because it stands out.”
“How many people have you told, over the years?”
He knew the answer to that. “I find it irritating when you do that.”
“When I do what?”
“Ask me questions you already know the answer to. It makes me feel like a child.”
“In many ways, Johnny, you still are a child. We’ve discussed that. We can discuss it again.”
“Not right now.” I didn’t come here to discuss the fucking fortress. I came here to talk about JC. Or my career going into tailspin. Or something.
“I’m asking,” Rory said, “because the answer is meaningful and it might be a good idea to keep it front of mind.”
I grit my teeth. But finally, I answered the question. “The answer is one. I’ve told one person.”
“Me.”
“Yes.”
“Not your beloved sister.”
“Why would I tell her? I can’t tell her.”
“Do you still feel you’re protecting her by not telling her?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“What about your stepmother?”
“No. My dad wouldn’t want that. Even if I wanted to.”
“You don’t think she could provide a measure of support?”
“It would upset my dad.”
“What about your closest friends?”
I laughed bitterly. “By your estimation, I don’t have any close friends.”
“Closeness requires some transparency. Trust. Tell me, Johnny. How can a friend get past the wall?”
We both knew exactly what was meant by that.
The wall was high, a fortress in my mind. It was already there when we’d met, but Rory had helped me to envision it, to put words to it.
