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2
Shaye
Iflop down on a bench inside Washington Square Park after class and let out a deep sigh. Radio silence from Nico. Again.
I lean my head back against the hard wood and stare at the blue sky. Rays of light peek through the lush green leaves of the trees, making me squint. The power and strength of the sun is guarded by those leaves and branches. Kind of like this whole thing with Nico, although he’s guarding me against something much more harmful than UV rays, I just know it. A shiver runs through me as memories of that fateful night come rushing over me. The hate spewed, the terror, the blood…God, all of the blood.
I know exactly why Nico sent me home last night, why he makes up excuses to get me out of his bed most nights. But I’ve never let on. I swallow his bullshit stories and smile like it’s absolutely fine that he wants me to leave. But it kills me that he can only stand to be around me during daylight hours because the horror of what comes over him when he sleeps is too much for him to bear with an audience laying right next to him.
I rub my temples, and flip open my journal. I start to write, watching the swirls of my words fill up page after page as I tell my notebook all of the things I can’t tell the man I love for fear of what he might do, say, or think. Writing has become my sole form of therapy. I can’t talk to my parents or Max, and even Sloane, my best friend, can’t help me with this.
I’ve pieced together enough to know that trouble didn’t end that night. Nico slayed Cappodamo but that’s not the end of the story. Nothing is ever that neat and tidy in the mob. There is more, so much more. Unfortunately, my knowledge is limited to what Nico mumbles in his sleep and what I can glean from heated, closed-door conversations between my dad and Max.
“You might want to give that pen a break. I think you’re working it too hard.”
I gasp, flinging the pen into the air and twisting in the direction of the intruding voice. “Professor!”
Jason Gary, my Psychology of the Human Mind instructor, grins down at me. That lopsided grin is famous among the female co-eds. It was one of the first things I’d learned when I transferred to NYU this fall. His single dimple, thick, dark hair, and sparkling blue-green eyes have students camping out at Student Services to plead their case for an open spot in any one of his classes.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I just haven’t seen that kind of focus from a student in a while. It’s refreshing.”
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Oh, well, thanks. I guess I just have a lot on my mind these days. Journaling helps me get it out.” What I neglect to mention is that whatever ends up on these pages normally scares the shit out of me and makes me sometimes wish I’d taken up a different major.
He points to the bench. “Okay if I sit?”
“Sure.” I swallow hard and scoot over a bit to give him more room. And also because I know I’m way too close when the scent of his cologne permeates the air I breathe. I need my own air. My fingertips turn white as they clench the pen, a shiver slithering down my spine. Something about this just feels wrong. Professor Gary sitting next to me with that curious look on his face, all of my conflicted emotions about Nico spilled out onto the page in my lap…everything is way too close for comfort, and I feel very freaking exposed right now.
“You know, journaling is a good way to help you make sense of different feelings and emotions. The exercise of writing can help you figure out the why behind those feelings and process them.”
I nod and stare at my notebook. If I make eye contact, what will I see? And do I really want to know? “Yes.”
“But sometimes it helps to talk to someone else. You won’t always have the answers, and you can write for days, months, and years without coming to any conclusions. A fresh perspective might help you find the answers you’re looking for.”
My head pops up. “You mean therapy? I don’t need a therapist!”
He chuckles. “I wasn’t implying that you did. I was just saying that an unbiased, uninvolved person can help you work through things better than you doing it on your own.”
I manage a weak smile. “That makes sense.” Except I could never in a million years share any of this with another living, breathing person. It would be the utter betrayal of so many people. Letting some ‘fresh perspective’ in on my family’s illegal business dealings, talking to a random stranger about my conflicting feelings I have for Nico…if that information got into the wrong hands, I have no idea the extent of the damage it would most certainly do.
“I’m always here to talk if you need to hash anything out.”
I have to keep my jaw from dropping because there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell I’d ever speak a word of this to him. “Thank you very much, Professor. I appreciate it.”
“You put a lot of time into your work, Shaye, and you’ve demonstrated a very keen ability to see into the minds of others. But it’s not always easy to turn that introspective lens in on ourselves.”
I feel a hot flush creeping up the sides of my face. Is it only because he’s complimenting my work? Or is it more about the dreamy smile that makes me want to bite my lower lip?
Or, maybe it’s not about the smile after all. Maybe it’s because he’s so incredibly uncomplicated and transparent. Here is a guy who makes a living out of fleshing out feelings and emotions. Forget the way he looks. He doesn’t bottle things up so that the unspoken words become a huge elephant in a room. He’s a fan of talking. I’m a fan of talking, too…except, I can’t. Not now. And as far as that introspective lens goes, mine is pretty damn fogged up right about now. “I’ll keep working on it.” I force my lips to curl upward into a more convincing smile. “I should, ah, get going now. I have another class in a few minutes.”
He winks and relaxes back against the bench because he is obviously not overburdened with unresolved feelings of angst. Lucky him. “Have a great afternoon. I’ll see you in class, Shaye.”
“Thanks…you, too, Professor.” My throat is so tight, I can barely squeak out the words. I stuff my journal into my backpack and hoist it over my shoulder. “Have a good day.” My feet can’t work fast enough to put as much space between us as possible. I feel like I’ve just been stripped bare, like he could sense exactly what is going on in my mind and in my heart. A tiny part of me wanted him to see it all so I wouldn’t have to say anything.
I need help, but I can’t get help.
I’m on my own.
And somehow, I feel more alone now in New York, now that I’m actually in a relationship, than I ever was when I was in Florida by myself.
