Page 89
Lies. Lies. Lies.
“Did you feel ready for that at fourteen?”
No. I shrug.
“I guess.”
Dr. Sutton nods. “And when you lost your virginity, was it something you wanted? A boy you liked?”
Slowly, I shake my head, dipping my gaze toward my fingernails as I pick at them. “No.”
She doesn’t ask anything else for a moment, and I roll my eyes.
“Sex is fine. I’ve had times where I liked it and times where I didn’t—is that enough?” I blow a breath heartily through my lips. “Can we talk about something else?”
“We can talk about something else,” she says, voice calm. “Does something feel more important than this?”
My irritation with her only ratchets higher.
“You wanna know everything? Fine—when I was fourteen, I lost my virginity to a thirty-eight-year-old man. I had a relationship with him for almost three years. And then—” A ragged exhale. I close my eyes, trying to center my suddenly swirling thoughts. “And then, I had a boyfriend. My age. He was the first person who made me feel . . . I don’t know, good? But I fucked that one up, too.
“And since then”—I shrug, half lifting my hands in the air with a smile that feels wrong and twisted along my face—“sex is just sex . . . I don’t enjoy it. It hurts most of the time—I don’t know what you want from me.”
It’s only when she hands me the tissue box that I realize I’ve been crying.
“Let’s take a breath,” Dr. Sutton says, voice soft and calm over the harshness of my hiccupped breathing. I take my time, breaths slow, deep. “Everything is okay. You’re safe here.”
I want to roll my eyes, but I can’t. Because the words are making me feel calm and safe. Slowly, but it’s happening.
“Why do you think you choose to have sex when it hurts or doesn’t feel good?”
My stomach sours. I try to shrug again. “I don’t know.”
Dr. Sutton nods. “Try to think. You know yourself and your body better than anyone else. Think about those moments. Think about the times when it felt good, with your boyfriend. What is the difference for you?”
“It didn’t feel like he was taking anything away from me.”
“Who?”
“Bennett.” His name pours from my lips before I can stop myself. I watch her vigilantly, but she doesn’t write it down, just watches me back—steady in the torrent of my inner turmoil.
“And with others? When you choose to have sex now?”
My eyes feel waterlogged again, and I dip my chin. “It’s . . . I don’t know how to explain it. It feels better in my chest when I do it, even if I hate it. It’s like . . . like I’m getting relief from something.”
“From what, do you think?”
The word comes out before I can stop it. “Guilt.”
My stomach churns.
The truth is that I feel like I’m paying some sort of penance. Like punishing myself feels better than allowing myself to sink into Bennett’s arms—though I indulge in that more often than I should. But saying that out loud feels too raw. I’m just not ready for it yet.
“Paloma,” she says, her voice firmer and more intense than it has been since I got here. “Sex is important, and it’s complicated for you.”
I shake my head.
“I wasn’t attacked. I wasn’t—”
