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“Why drowning?”
“Because I feel like I’m suffocating.”
“And now I want you to think of the opposite of that feeling. Not necessarily the opposite of the word drowning. I want you to think deeper. The opposite of that thought that makes you feel like you’re drowning.”
I don’t hesitate. “Freedom.”
“That’s a good one,” she encourages, her hand scraping across the paper on her lap. “What does freedom mean to you?”
“Being able to do what I want,” I say, breathing out, the thought of it liberating from deep within. “And to not have to worry about what people will think of me or my image.”
She suddenly glances at the numberless clock on her wall, the hands slowly gliding around its circumference. She brings the backside of her wrist up to her face, confirming the time and signaling the end of our session. “That’s it for today. We’ll pick up here at our next session. Same time?”
“Sure,” I answer as I stand up.
“That was a good session. We opened a lot of closed doors today.” She sounds like she’s trying to convince herself more than me.
I remain silent as I shake her hand and turn my heels towards the door. Every time I leave her office, I leave a little lighter but a little bit more confused. I guess it’s not bad, but I can’t figure out if it’s good. For now, all I can do is keep coming and hope that one day I can understand it.
Right now, with everything that I had put out for Dr. Greene and having to draw it all back in just as quickly, I’m irritated. Frustration is pent up in my chest, and I want to punch something, anything. I want to hole up in a corner for a week. I want to sit in silence and do nothing. I want to do all of these things, knowing that none of it would ever fulfill the void in my life. It would all leave me just as empty as I feel right now.
My intention after leaving Dr. Greene’s officewas to hit up Charles for lunch. They were loose plans we had mulled over earlier in the week, but I don’t feel like forcing a smile and socializing while stuffing my face with overpriced gnocchi and bitter wine, so I keep driving. The gentle roar of my 1980 Camaro Z28 purring under my feet gives way to a direction I don’t really have control over. I just need to clear my head.
I continue to stare at the asphalt in front of me, the Los Angeles heat causing the road to sizzle as I speed past it. I knew when I moved here from Nevada, I would be trading in the high desert for the cool beachy air that comes with the Southern California coast. At the time, it sounded so glamorous and exotic. Now, it feels mundane, completely lackluster, and repetitive.
Dr. Greene’s office is situated right in the center of Westwood. Office buildings and restaurants line the streets, and people flood the sidewalks on every sunny day that Southern California has to offer, which is almost every day now that spring is in full gear.
The streets that I drive through are familiar, the trees and buildings ingrained in my head in the form of memories. Memories that came from a busy college life in acting technique lectures and improv classes. Flags are randomly pitted into the streets that wave UCLA in bright yellow and blue.
My car sits idle in front of an intersection when my eyes catch something equally familiar as the university seals that are strategically placed everywhere as the campus draws nearer. A coffeehouse. It has no quirky, unique name, just the wordCOFFEEHOUSEall in bold capital letters adorned with coffee beans sprinkled at the edges of the sign.
When you look back nostalgically at a time when you were happy, you generally think of your childhood. Time spent with your friends climbing monkey bars and riding bikes late into the summer nights. My days spent at this exact coffeehouse felt much like that. Gathering with classmates and drinking coffee while studying the allure of method acting and script memorization. Having something to look forward to, knowing that making it big, chasing that high of having a box office hit was the only thing that I looked forward to. No weight of a thousand shades of grief sitting square on my shoulders. Only anticipation and hope.
I miss that feeling. The expectation that every day could bring something unexpected and exhilarating instead of dread.
As a last-minute decision, I pull into the coffee shop. It’s not busy, but the in and out of customer traffic is still there. Students engulfed in their studies and the chitter-chatter between friends keeps the atmosphere light and natural.I haven’t decided if I can pull off going in unnoticed as I park my car in a spot at the far end of the parking lot. The folded baseball cap sitting in my glove compartment feels loaded, like it’s warning me that I’m a fool if I think I can go out and about in public without being recognized. I stifle that thought, ignoring it completely by adding a pair of Ray-Bans before I open the car door. I slowly exit my car and look around before walking towards the entrance. The tall trees sprinkling their loose leaves to the ground shelter me from the sun, allowing me to move discreetly through the parking lot. A hop onto the sidewalk, and I’m faced with the curved metal handle attached to the heavy glass door.
The long counter with a chalkboard menu board behind it is situated right at the entrance. There’s barely enough room for me to take a step past the closed doors once I’m inside. With my hat lowered, I approach a girl with short, straight hair that’s too dark and eye makeup that’s too heavy.
I clear my throat. “Can I get a table for one, please?” I ask.
She looks at me, confused, her face drawn together in what I can only describe as disgust. She blows a bubble with her gum, the translucent pink ball growing bigger and bigger before it pops with a loud smack.
“It’s self-serve, buddy,” she says. She looks as bored as she is annoyed. “Just order what you want here and sit wherever.”
“I uh… guess I’ll just have a black coffee then.”
She raises her brows, eyes widening with judgment as she turns behind her, moving between a glass coffee pot and papered cups. Her movements are minimal, everything she needs being within arm’s reach. She turns back around to face me and slips a sleeve around the cardboard cup, then places it on the counter between us.
“$3.57,” she says, her face emotionless. The entire transaction, me pulling my card out of my wallet and sticking in the card reader, her doing everything to avoid rolling her eyes at my stiffness, feels so awkward. Like I’m inconveniencing her, and I need to apologize.
I take my coffee and walk away from the counter. The rest of the shop faces an outdoor area. The small, intimate patio is set over a cobblestone pavement, and above it hangs large round string lights tied to the massive trees that create a shelter for this little sanctuary. The iron-wrought tables and chairs fit the setting perfectly, creating an inviting atmosphere. It’s fairly empty, aside from a couple of other patrons enjoying their mid-day break.
As I place my coffee on the uneven tabletop, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and see Levi’s name on the screen.
Shit. That’s the second time today. I’ve been blatantly avoiding him all week. While I was in London, he’d been calling and emailing me, trying to decide what my next project would be. In all honesty, I don’t know. I don’t know what I want to do or what I should do. What Idoknow is that I don’t need to jump into anything that I can’t commit to. I need a minute to sit on things and decide carefully before I sign up for something that I can’t get out of.
My thumb hovers over the answer icon, still deciding if I want to talk to him. To face the music that I know Levi is going to rain down on me. In the middle of my delayed decision, the phone stops ringing, making my decision for me.
