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“You’re a nurse, right? How do you like that, Idaline?” his mother asks me.
I blink back as my inner voice answers with, “Uhhhh.” Every pair of eyes focus on me and I stumble, “Oh, um, yes, I like it.” They stare as if they expect more from me. “It’s a good job,” I add.
“What’s your family like?” his father asks, thankfully moving the conversation forward.
“They’re all great. I’m especially close to my grandfather.”
Thankfully, seeing that I’m struggling, Justin takes over and explains what my family does for a living. I stare at my food as he talks, my mind zoning out. Everything slows and stills and silences. My heartbeat even quietens until I can barely hear the steady rhythm. My eyes constantly find something to focus on, blurring out everything in the periphery.
Before I know it, Justin pulls me to stand and we’re saying goodbye to his family.
“What the hell happened in there?” he asks the moment we’re outside, walking to his car.
“Why did you tell them about my anxiety?” I counter.
“I thought it would help if they were aware you’re an anxious person,” he replies as we slide into our seats.
I roll my eyes. “It was so helpful that she brought it up to me and made my anxiety so much worse. So, if you want to know what went wrong, it’s that. You should’ve asked me first, Justin.”
He doesn’t apologize. Not about that, anyway. “I’m sorry for trying to help you, Idaline. What a shit first impression.” He shakes his head in disbelief.
“It didn’t help that it was more than just your parents either!” I snap. He’s seriously pissed that I had a panic attack? As if they are so easily controllable.
“Don’t give me that excuse, Idaline. All you had to do was go, smile, and speak. Instead, you were a fucking mute and stared off into space the entire time. You made me look like a fucking idiot to my own family. You’ve never acted like that before when you’ve had your anxiety. If you didn’t want to go, all you had to do was say so.”
That hurts. No one has made me feel so terrible and stupid over my anxiety, but Justin has. He apparently even thinks I’m faking it now. I stay quiet the rest of the way to my apartment. Once there, we mutter a goodbye, and he heads to his own apartment. I check my mail since I forgot to do so earlier and feel relief when I see a letter from FC. It seems like it’s taken forever to hear back from him.
I rip open the envelope as soon as I walk inside and begin to read.
Idaline,
I never knew it would be so hard to revert back to writing letters after talking to you so much. I feel like a part of me is missing knowing that your contact isn’t even in my phone any more. (Don’t worry, I have your number memorized if I ever need it.) But you’re right that this does feel like when we first started writing one another. Your letter made me smile and I can’t thank you enough for that.
Things here are normal. I’m doing my best to stay sober. Every day seems harder than the last and every day I’m sure I’ll drink, but by some miracle, I haven’t relapsed. My mom and dad are doing their best to keep me straight. I call them when it’s real bad. When there’s a bottle of tequila in my hand, or maybe just a shot, or when I’m in the parking lot of a bar. I think of my future and I call them to
help me stay sober, even when the temptation overtakes my every thought.
If I relapse, there’s no hope for me. You and my mom may think differently, but this is something I know for sure. After my first relapse, I know if it happens again, I won’t be able to climb out of the drunken bliss. If you pray or anything like that, pray I’ll stay strong and sober. It’s more important than you know.
There are so many things I want to tell you, but at the same time, I don’t think I’m strong enough to do it. On one hand, I wish I could go back in time and change so many things, but on the other, I should hate myself for wishing such a thing. Damn it. I’m sorry for rambling.
How are you? How’s it going with Justin? How’s your head? Tell me everything, Idaline, but especially the good parts.
P.S. FC doesn’t stand for Forrest Calvert
I find a piece of paper and pen and sit down at my dining table to respond. I reread his letter, wondering what exactly he wishes to tell me. What would he change if he could? With too many thoughts swirling in my mind, I begin my letter.
Fabricio Constantine,
I’m sad to report Mrs. Fish died today. My monkey was a terrible guardian angel and now Mr. Fish is lonely. It wasn’t fun disposing of her (even though I made Justin do it), so I’m not sure if Mr. Fish will remarry or remain a widower.
Right now, things with Justin are so-so. We were supposed to have dinner with his parents, but his siblings were also there. On top of that, Justin told them about my head issues. So, I didn’t make a good impression because as soon as his mother told me she wouldn’t make me uncomfortable with my “anxiety thing,” I started having more anxiety. We had a big argument and I feel terrible about what happened, but I’m sure we’ll make up soon.
I have complete faith in you that you can stay sober. You ARE strong enough to take the urges and resist the temptation of taking a drink. Don’t worry about tomorrow and take one day at a time. One second at a time, if you have to. I’m glad you have your parents supporting you, too.
I hate to bring this up, but it’s been on my mind since the day you told me this would be our only form of communication. Why can’t you tell me? You know I’d understand whatever it is. I won’t walk away from you. Why don’t you trust me enough to tell me what’s going on? I’m worried about you, but I have no idea if my worries are warranted or not because I don’t have a clue what’s happening.
The only thing I have to go on is what Justin thinks. He thinks you’re distancing yourself from me in order to please Lila, who may be jealous with how much we talk, but by writing letters, you’re still keeping me in your life. He also thinks you have feelings for me, but that’s for another day.
