CHAPTER 32
SO, IT WAS DEFINITELY YOUR MOM.
DARCY
“How long has it been now, since you and Billie began this arrangement?” Gordon no doubt knows the answer, but—as I’ve come to learn over our many therapy sessions—he must think it’s important for me to say it out loud.
“About two weeks,” I answer as nonchalantly as I can muster. It’s been the best two weeks of my life, and he probably knows that, too.
“And you’ve been in Balsam Bay for well over a month now. What’s changed for you in that time?”
“Seven weeks. Uh, well, everything, I guess.” Not, I guess. Iknow.
Gordon doesn’t say anything while he waits for me to process.
“I bought a car. I started surfing more regularly. I’ve gotten to see what living five minutes away from my best friend is like when one or both of us aren’t working nearly every waking hour. I’ve cooked more. Spent more time outside. I’ve met a lot of people, especially thanks to this revitalization project I’ve been working on with Billie. And then… of course… there’s Billie. I’vespent a lot of time with her these last several weeks, too.” I swallow, but the dryness in my throat remains, so I reach for my bottle of water.
“Those are all things you’re physically doing, but what’s changed foryouin that time? In the way you feel about yourself, your life, your purpose?” His final word makes me flinch. It haunts me. Always has.
“It’s easy to feel more at peace when you’re on vacation. It’s why I wanted my cottage here. I needed it to be far enough away so I couldn’t pop into the office. I feel free here. Both completely out of my comfort zone, but also entirely at home. It’s hard to explain because I don’t know that I’ve ever felt that before.” I pause, trying to come up with a way to say the next words. “And no one knows here. No one looks at me like I’m breaking, or already broken.”
“You know you’re not, though, don’t you? Breakingorbroken?”
“I know, Gordon. It felt like that’s what they all thought at work. Suddenly, I was so fragile to everyone around me. I think I even started to believe I was. I mean, how much stress would set me off again? How many hours could I work before my body decided it was too much?” I still don’t know the answers to those questions, and that fact is enough to get my heart racing. I hated how my boss saidsabbaticallike it was something to be ashamed of. Hated the pity in his assistant’s eyes when I walked out of his office. But my doctors—yes, I got more than one opinion, just to make sure—insisted if I didn’t take some time away, the panic attacks could become more frequent and likely more intense, too. Theyalltold me not taking care of myself now would only mean worse consequences in the future. That it would be best to ease into the medication if I’m not also dealing with my number-one stressor: work.
“It’s not something you can quantify, Peter.” Gordon always defaults to my first name.
“I know, I know. But my brain doesn’t always fall in line with what’s logical, which makes no sense.” I pause, preparing to say out loud the thought that has crossed my mind a few times in the last week. “To answer your question, I feel more like myself here and now than I have in a long time. I’m starting to think maybe this isn’t about escaping, but finding where I’m truly supposed to be. I’ve attached my worth to my job for a long time, we both know that. And lately I’ve found it more and more in the mundane moments, not in how much money I can make someone else. Using the thing I’m good at to help the town grow and thrive is far more rewarding than making already rich people richer. And… I like it. I like the challenge of something new…”
“But?” Damn therapist could hear thatbutfrom a hundred miles away.
“What if that wears off, too? What if I repeat the cycle again? What if this is another thing I throw my whole self into, and what if I end up hating and resenting it, too?” I scratch my cheek and find it damp. Fuck. These thoughts weren’t fully formed in my head yet, but for some reason they come out of my mouth so easily.
“Do you resent your career? Do you hate your job?” There’s a hint of surprise in his voice, which is interesting, because of all the things I’ve admitted, I would think this is the least surprising.
“Yeah. I do,” I answer with no hesitation. “I didn’t always, obviously, but now? Now that I’ve seen how much more there is for me outside of that bubble of pretentious dinners, constant phone calls, endless emails, nice suits, and making myself available twenty-four seven? Fuck, yeah, I hate it. I don’t want to go back. But I feel like I have to. It’s not fair to take off and leaveother people to deal with my unfinished work.” Even though that’s exactly what I’m doing by being here and taking time off in the first place, so… What the hell is my point?
“Hmm. If that’s what’s stopping you then you have to decide whether it’s enough. And Peter.” He waits for me to look at him for this next part. “You don’t need to decide anything right now, but take note of these thoughts and feelings. Some of them might be new, but others I would wager have been with you for a while now.”
I nod as he jots down a quick note. We move on to talking about my medication, and he agrees it’s something I should bring up with my doctor. It’s been a hell of a time, figuring out what works and how much of it, balancing the use of Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors and Benzodiazepines, but I trust Gordon.
By the time I make it home, I don’t even remember the drive. How did I get here? I was so caught up, replaying the words I so easily said out loud in that office today, that I can’t recall a single other vehicle I shared the road with on the drive back to Balsam Bay.
After a workout, a protein shake, and a nap, my chest feels less like an overinflated balloon. The lemon chicken skewers I’m attempting for dinner tonight are already marinated and ready for the grill with asparagus, so all I need to do is make the feta sauce and roast the potatoes. I hope Billie likes it. I’ve cooked for her a couple of times, and even though I managed to fuck up our meal a few nights ago, she shrugged it off and made us grilled cheese instead while I washed the pots and pans.
It was uncomfortable, trying something and not being good at it.
The thought doesn’t get a chance to fester because my phone rings with an incoming video call. My smile doesn’t come as easily as usual, so I take a moment to slap my cheeks lightly and shake off the tension in my shoulders before accepting the call.
“Hey, Mom.” I force my lips into a grin, keeping my voice light.
“Peter, can you please tell your father he was definitely the one to leave the garage door open? It couldn’t possibly have been me because Ialwaysclose it.” My dad, standing right behind my mom, rolls his eyes so hard all I see are the whites. Gross.
“Uh,” I mutter, unsure how to respond.
“Hi, son. How are you? Sorry about your mom’s lack of manners.”
I cough to mask my laughter as Mom scoffs loudly at him. Turns out, I don’t even have to fake a smile. These two and their shenanigans could break anyone out of a funk.
