I run my fingers through my hair, adding, “In high school.”
“Were you unaware?”
Scoffing, “I mean, I knew people teased him sometimes for being different but he never reacted. He always seemed… above it all. Like nothing could touch him. I’ve never seen him react likethat.” The rest tumbles out, from the initial encounter with Jessica to the panic attack and vomiting in my parents’ driveway.
“In the past, how didyoureact to it?”
The loose thread on the couch cushion falls from my fingers.
“I’d get upset, obviously,” I say, my voice trailing off as dots connect.My stomach does a weird lurch. Memories flit through my mind on fast forward while I backtrack for any signs, but it’s all shrouded in the thick fog of my illness. That time of my life was a fever dream I was desperate to wake up from. Revisiting it is like staring at an impressionist painting, willing it to transform into a high-definition photograph.
It’s taken years of consistent work in therapy to examine things I’d buried deep in the recesses of my mind. Many are still smeared swatches of color, fuzzy around the edges with fragments of clarity.
A beep on Dr. Kat’s phone signals the end of our session. She taps the screen to clear it, but before she can ask if I’d like to extend our time, I jump to my feet and grab my backpack. Herintelligent eyes scan my face; she’s attuned to me by now, reading whatever thoughts I’m broadcasting.
“We’ll dive into this next week,” she murmurs. I nod, turning to go. “And Remy?”
“Yeah?”
“Maybe revisit the book I gave you on trauma responses.”
I’m composed of reeling thoughts weaving with images and fears as I numbly exit the office. Opening my phone, my stomach sinks at the distinct lack of messages from my obsessive boyfriend.
Boyfriend. Because I’mwithWin again.
But he’s been suspiciously absent for two days. I’m trying not revert to my needy ass ways, but it’s fucking difficult. Huffing under my breath, I dial Andrea and climb into my truck.
The Bluetooth connects, her voice blaring through the speakers.
“Please tell me you’re down for a margarita.”
“Lolita’s?”
“See, this is why you’re my favorite person to exist,” she says, making me chuckle as I flick my blinker and angle toward the local beach bar. She rambles for a few minutes about some asshole from our old neighborhood before disconnecting to get on her motorcycle. Of course, I’m the first to arrive.
Opening and closing apps a hundred times and skipping through my playlist does nothing to satiate the nagging beast in my mind.
“Fuck it,” I mutter and open my text thread with Win.
Hi
I’m an idiot.
I groan and Google how to unsend messages when my phone vibrates.
hi to you too sweetheart.
His message allows me to take my first full breath in days.
What you up to?
No typing bubbles pop up despite the read receipt. Any relief at his initial response evaporates. I gnaw my bottom lip, glaring at the screen like it’ll produce some sassy reply.
It doesn’t.
A knock on my window jolts me out of the staring contest with my phone. It almost flies out of my hand as I whip around to find Andrea smirking, drumming her holographic nails on the glass.
Sighing, I tuck my phone in my pocket and shoo her back to exit the vehicle. She crosses her arms, scanning me from top to bottom.
