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I don’t want her to think about him, either.
Why the fuck did I even tell her? Why? All I can say is that I was so panicked that day at the hospital that I didn’t even realize what I was saying until the words came out. But then, it was too late to take them back.
“Mom. You gave me your word. You said if I went to Heartstone, you’d forget about it. I am at Heartstone and you have to keep your promise.”
She sighs.
God, please let her give up. Just please. I can’t have her thinking about him.
“Fine. But in the future, you can’t keep secrets from me. Do you understand, Lolo? We can’t have you jeopardizing your health over a guy. They are not worth it. Boys, men, relationships… nothing is worth your health, Lolo. Love is a very stupid thing to lose your life over.”
My family is all super independent types. My mom and grandma, my aunt, my cousin. They date but they don’t fall in love. They’ve got their priorities straight. Work and family. A man is only good as a stress reliever.
My father was one. I think she met him on a trip to Paris. She was there for business and when she wanted to wind down, she found him at a bar. All I know about him is that he was tall and handsome. I like to imagine him as a dashing Frenchman by the name of Jean-Claude, with blue eyes.
I can’t say that I miss him or want him in my life but I would’ve loved to know him. Maybe he could tell me about my illness and how I got it when no Taylor has ever suffered from it before.
I deflate, my body going loose. “Okay. Yeah. No secrets about boys.”
A rush of air escapes her. Long and full. She has probably been holding that breath ever since The Incident.
I can almost see her slouching down in relief. She must be sitting in her favorite armchair in the living room, by the fireplace. “Good. That’s good. I just want you to get better. You do everything they tell you to do, okay? We have to fix it. No more refusing treatment. And when you go to college in fall, we’re getting you a counselor there, as well. Promise me, okay? Promise me you’ll get better.”
I grit my teeth. Again.
Refusal of treatment is a very unfair assessment. I never refused treatment.
I hated the therapist at the state hospital, so I might have poured water on her charts because she was being condescending. And I may have called her a few choice names.
That’s it. That’s all I did. But I never refused treatment.
And yes, I might have created a little bit of a ruckus when at the end of the forty-eight hour period, my mom came to see me at the psych ward. I thought she was taking me home, but she said she wanted me to do a six-week in-patient program at Heartstone, based on the doctor’s recommendation.
But can anyone blame me? I thought I was finally going home, not to a psych facility in the middle of the woods.
“I promise, Mom. I’ll get better. You don’t have to worry,” I reassure her again, instead of arguing.
Ten minutes later when I have to hang up, I have such deep longing to go back home and hug my mother that I have to clench my eyes shut.
Four weeks.
Four fucking weeks before I can go Outside.
But I have a feeling that even when I get out, I’ll never leave. The Roof Incident will always haunt me. My mom will always be worried about me. She will always be watching me.
God, I’m such a fuck up.
On shaky legs, I stand up, ready to leave, when I spot a tall figure in the rain.
Like the trees, the figure’s blurred and I have to press my face to the cold, permanently-shut window to get a better look.
It’s a man.
He doesn’t have any protection against the deluge as he stands on the grass, looking up at the pouring sky. It’s almost as if he’s daring it to fall, to do his worst to him. My lips part and my breaths fog up the glass as I watch him.
When he looks down, appearing frozen in the moment, I wonder what he’s thinking about. I also wonder why they matter, his thoughts.
Nothing about this man should matter to me. In fact, I hate this man.
Simon Blackwood.
It’s him.
His clothes are soaked, the mud brown shirt and dress pants, and they cling to his body like skin made of fabric. Every bulge, every carved muscle is on display. His hands are shoved down into his pockets and there’s a messenger bag slung over one of his shoulders.
He’s leaving for the day, I think. Usually, people wait for the rain to pass or the wind to become less vicious, but not him, I guess.
