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“How did you get this number?”
“It’s kind of a long story—”
“I’m on vacation, Bradley. You shouldn’t be calling me here.”
“I know, I—”
“Do you have any idea how inappropriate this is?”
“I know, but—”
“We’ve talked at length about the importance of establishing clear boundaries and sticking to them. Boundaries, Bradley.”
“I know, but it’s an emergency.”
“Then call one of the emergency numbers I provided. It’s Christmas morning, for crying out loud. I’m three rum and eggnogs deep. Invasions of privacy aside, it’s highly unethical for me to be providing you any sort of counselling, let alone on the topic of—”
“I think I might be in love!”
A long beat of silence passed.
“In love?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be calling. But I need to talk to you. Because I think I might be in love. Or maybe I’m just spiralling. I almost lost my job. We had sex for like two days. Two days. Which, while incredibly awesome, was probably not the healthiest behaviour for someone struggling with addiction. Then she opened a bottle of champagne, and I panicked. I kind of broke up with her. I thought for sure it was the right thing to do, but then she sent me a robot. Although I guess it’s not technically a robot because it can’t perform physical tasks, but I can’t imagine calling it anything else, and that’s probably not important right now. And now I can’t stop wondering—”
“Hold on. Hold on. Did you drink any of this champagne?”
“No, of course not. But that’s not the point. It was like she didn’t understand me or my issues at all in that moment. So it doesn’t matter if I love her or if she loves me, because it’s too dangerous, right? She doesn’t understand.”
Dr. Rahi’s sigh was lengthy—he could almost smell the rum and cinnamon on her breath through the receiver. She yelled to someone in the distance, “Carl, could you pour me a cup of black coffee?” Then she spoke to him. “Okay. So this woman doesn’t understand. Fair. But did you, oh, I don’t know, try to make her understand?”
“Of course I did. I told her about my alcohol addiction.”
“Right, okay. I believe you. I don’t doubt for a second you provided her with the broad-spectrum details. But did you actually tell her how any of it makes you feel?” She muttered a thank you and made a long sipping noise. “I’m asking you this because while it took you only a couple sessions to open up to me about the facts of your past, to share the anecdotes and the stories, it was months before you admitted how those experiences affected you on a personal and emotional level. And we’re still chipping away at the exterior of those issues, only just beginning to uncover possible root causes.” Another long sip. “Listen, as I said, I’m in no state to be counselling you right now. I have absolutely no idea if you are in love or who this woman is to you, given the last time we spoke the leading lady of your life seemed to be Gladys. It’s not Gladys, is it?”
“Gladys? Apparently she’s even cooler than I thought, but no, it’s not Gladys. It’s…um, my neighbour.”
“Your neighbour.” Bradley could picture Dr. Rahi’s deadpan expression. “The disagreeable one who yelled at you for petting her cat?”
“Yup. That’s the one.”
Silence.
“Okay, anyway, what I’m trying to say is I don’t know if you’re developing codependent behaviours, as you claim, or if you’re simply nervous about starting a new relationship. I can’t give you the answers you’re looking for over the phone after one single conversation. But I can remind you to slow down, Bradley. Don’t get ahead of yourself. We can work through this. Together. In January. And given your accomplishments thus far, if you do this right, I don’t see any reason why you couldn’t start dating again.”
Bradley swiped at the back of his neck. “Honestly, as much as I want that—the thought of being with someone…it kind of terrifies me too.”
“That’s a perfectly normal response for someone with trauma—to want something so badly, to yearn for it, but to also be afraid of getting it. You want to be loved, Bradley. It’s part of what drives you to be the friendly, wonderful man you are. And yet whenever someone gets too close, you have a tendency to push them away.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You don’t? What about Melissa?”
“I didn’t push her away. She left me.”
“After you blacked out and said something unforgivable. Which, granted, could have been an unfortunate and unintended consequence of your alcohol use disorder, if it wasn’t such an isolated incident. By your own accounts, you were not mean when drunk. In fact, your family couldn’t even tell that you were under the influence most of the time. Your friends thought you were hilarious. It was only Melissa, the woman you were falling in love with, who ever had a reason to slap you. And I’m starting to think, combined with this conversation right here, that might not be a coincidence.”
Was it possible? All this time, he’d been obsessing over what he’d said to Melissa. What he’d done to drive her away. When the important question had really been why had he done it. A defence mechanism. A way to push her back because she was starting to see the real him, the parts of him that weren’t shiny and charming but raw and unpleasant.
