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I miss him.
I leave before he can see me.
Chapter 17
THEN: Freshman Year, September
Bennett
It’s the last week of September, which brings cooler weather and my usual anxiety surrounding the start of the hockey season, multiplied tenfold for the newness of this year.
It’s also a Tuesday, which means I’m currently stuffed into the front seat of my dad’s car, seat shoved back to accommodate my spread, shaking knees where I’ve dipped my head as I puff out breaths in a pattern.
Therapy isn’t always like this, but sometimes it is.
“You could have brought Seven.” His voice is kind, but I hear the words my dad wanted to say. You should have brought Seven. And he’s right.
“I’ll be fine,” I grit out, shaking my head again and abruptly opening the door like I’ll suddenly run with glee into the brownstone office building in front of me. Instead, as soon as the door shuts behind me, I falter again.
Go inside and tell her everything.
There’s a small squeaking sound as my dad rolls down the window, and then his voice, calm and steadying. “I’ll be back in an hour, and then we will have dinner at our usual spot.” I nod in acknowledgment but don’t turn back. “I love you, Ben.”
He drives away before I take a step, but his words lead me up the well-kept stone steps and into the waiting room.
• • •
I’ve been seeing my therapist since I was first diagnosed as a kid. A mild-mannered but firm woman, Dr. Anya is the only one who knows my routines as deeply as I do.
“How has your week been, Bennett?”
She always starts with this question, while pulling her pen from behind her ear in a way that somehow doesn’t disrupt the tightly slicked-back bun of ringlets she always wears. Her white shirt is so crisp I can hear the fabric as it brushes against itself, bright against the deep umber of her skin.
“Fine.”
I always start with this answer, even if it isn’t how I feel. Dr. Anya, however, is always immediately aware of my mood. A side effect of seeing me almost every week since I was eight. We spent the last several sessions talking about the “new shift” in my life, from boarding school to college, and she’s allowed me to avoid the topic of my best friend slowly outgrowing me. Instead, we talk about hockey.
Mostly, the team’s newest equipment manager.
“And how is the new routine there?”
This time I know she’s talking about Paloma. We’ve spoken about her before, enough that I think I’ve painted a clear picture of exactly the level of my feelings for her, which inevitably climb higher each day. My cheeks blush involuntarily.
“Fine. She does everything right, so maybe I don’t need to watch over her anymore.”
Dr. Anya purses her lips. “Does that make you uncomfortable? Having her do it alone without your guidance?”
What makes me uncomfortable isn’t relinquishing control to Paloma or trusting her—I already do. What makes me uncomfortable is the realization that not being with her would be the unwelcome change in this new routine.
“I like that time with her,” I admit softly.
A weight lifts off my chest—only one of many, but it’s a welcome relief to say it aloud.
Dr. Anya nods and taps her pen a few times. “Could you see yourself wanting more time with her? Rather than just in the arena for a few minutes?”
“She’s in my poetry class.”
“Outside of class and her work, Bennett. Would you enjoy doing something else with her?”
