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“Did your teaching credential come with a psychology license?”
“I’m sorry, you’re right,” she said. “I’m not a psychologist. But as a teacher, I have a duty of care to my students who are in trouble. Your descriptions of alcohol abuse are too realistic to be fictional.”
“Maybe I just have a very active imagination.”
“Or maybe I recognize the truth in your words because I’ve been there too.”
I stopped in the act of shouldering my bag.
Ms. Watkins waved a hand. “You don’t have to say anything. It was a long time ago, and yet it’s also yesterday, today, tomorrow, and the day after that. That’s the never-ending nature of the struggle.” She smiled gently. “But I had help. I want that for you.”
I stiffened. “People have been trying to fix me my entire life. It doesn’t take.”
“I understand how it can feel that way, but please don’t give up on yourself. Keep trying until you get to the place where you truly understand that you deserve to be happy. Because you do.”
“I will be happy. Once I graduate, cash my inheritance check, and move to Paris. Or Lisbon. Or Madrid…”
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The concerned furrow between Ms. Watkins’s eyes deepened. “Isolating yourself even further doesn’t seem to be the healthiest choice. Especially not with large sums of money and an addictive personality.”
“What’s my alternative, Ms. Watkins?” My tone was hard, but my heart was begging to hear an answer it could believe.
“You stay here, close to home, and maybe consider what I said about the program at the university. Not only will your talent be cultivated, but they have mental health services—”
“Wrong answer. This isn’t home. There’s nothing for me here.”
And no one. Not after River leaves…
Ms. Watkins sighed. “All right. But if you change your mind or want to talk between now and then, I’m here for you, Holden. Please remember that. Okay?”
I swallowed a jagged lump of sudden unwanted emotion.
“Okay,” I said, leaving the door open just a crack.
That night, the guesthouse was claustrophobic in its emptiness. I tried to write but the sound of the pen scratching the paper set my teeth on edge. Every little sound was big, amplifying my solitude and turning it into a living, breathing thing.
I tossed down the pen—River’s pen—and started for the freezer where a fresh bottle of Ducasse waited for me. The cold, frosty air wafted over my skin, carrying memories of Alaska with it. Another drunken night of delirium stretched out before me, followed by another hungover morning. Rinse, repeat.
I slammed the door shut.
“It is possible,” I said to no one, “to be completely sick of one’s own shit.”
I changed into my pajamas and robe, flopped onto the couch with a bag of cheese-dusted popcorn, and began flipping through channels. I was starting to give up on finding a decent movie when I landed on Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. A movie about a guy who has his ex-girlfriend wiped from his memory.
“Lucky bastard,” I muttered and hit play.
If I could, I’d go back and wipe River Whitmore from my mind, starting from the very first second I laid eyes on him.
Then you’d have even less than what you have now.
A few minutes in, a knock came at the door. I opened it to Beatriz. She wore slacks, a jacket over her flowered blouse, and her purse on her arm.
“I’m going home for the day, Mr. Holden, but wanted to see if you need anything first.”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“You never came to dinner tonight.”
