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“Thank you. Now… is there anything else on your mind that you’d like to discuss?”
You mean aside from me being in love with my matchmaker?
“Nope.” I pop the ‘p’ at the end. “Not a goddamn thing.”
Dr. Seymour lets out a disappointed exhale.
“You do know these sessions of ours would progress much faster if you opened yourself up a little more to me.”
“Hey, I’m talking, aren’t I?”
“Talking and saying something of substance isn’t the same thing, Nathan.”
I drag my hand over my face because this shit is starting to aggravate me, and I don’t want to blow up all over again when I know she’s trying her very best with me.
“Look, Doc, I’m trying, okay?”
“I know you are, Nate. Believe me, I know you are. But if I don’t push you out of your comfort zone, then we will never reach that place where you feel safe to discuss your childhood traumas.”
“I told you, Doc, I don’t have any traumas.”
“I know you tell yourself that, Nathan. And I know how deeply you want me to believe that, but as I told you before, there is no room for lies in therapy. You shouldn’t lie to me, but most importantly, you shouldn’t lie to yourself.”
My left leg bounces away as I look at the clock on the wall, pleased to see that our time is up.
“Guess we’ll talk about it in our next session,” I say, quickly jumping to my feet.
“Guess we will,” she retorts, discouraged.
I walk out of the office, feeling like shit for the way I treated her but happy to be out of there.
I know Doc really is trying to help me out. She even told Coach Byrne that I’ve been progressing nicely, which we both know is bullshit.
I should cut her some slack. But the thing she wants to talk about isn’t exactly something I like to reminisce about.
As far as I’m concerned, that part of my life is done and over with.
In fact, it never even happened.
That Nathan Wilder was a scared little kid who couldn’t understand why his dad got his kicks from beating him up just for breathing. Or why his mom never stopped him, too afraid her husband’s wrath would turn on her instead.
Nope. Don’t go there, Nate.
Don’t you dare fucking go there.
When the sound ofStar Wars’‘Imperial March’ starts blowing up my phone, I look up at the heavens and thank whatever deity that exists up there for the reprieve.
I would rather talk to my sports agent than have to continue spiraling down the dark abyss that is my childhood.
“Lee,” I greet.
“Wilder,” she retorts. “Just calling to congratulate you on a job well done this weekend. Going to the Boston Winter Ball was a stroke of a genius. The press can’t shut up about it. And in a good way. I’m a bit upset that I didn’t think of it.”
“You have Erin to thank for that. She’s the one who got me the tickets.”
“Erin Donovan?” she asks, surprised. “I’ll be sure to send her a bouquet of flowers or a basket of muffins as a thank you. She really came through for you.”
That she did.
