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After a smile, she glances at her wrist, blinking. “We ran over,” she says, rising, placing her notes facedown on her desk. We shake hands like we always do, and I leave there feeling enlightened.
She didn’t say she wanted to stop seeing me because I didn’t listen to her. That’s not how real relationships function, and fearing that was… silly. On top of which, Dr. Evans believes I am ready to be in a relationship. And she thinks I need to talk to Cohen about everything between us.
I drive home, silently plotting my next move. A first step into the new me, one who has total control.
sixteen
cohen
But I’m selfish and I want you anyway
With time to kill and my body full of energy, I head to the gym to swim some laps. I discover late evening at the pool looks a lot like early morning, and I’m relieved to be alone. After hanging my bag in the locker room, I clutch my towel at my side and head out. The concrete is warm beneath my feet, and instead of bringing comfort from familiarity, I ache to get off of it. To dip my feet into the cool water.
I toss my towel on a seat and grab the metal railing with each hand, slowly lowering myself in. The water is warmer than normal, maybe a result of a high-traffic day. But as I sink beneath the surface, feeling water bubble in between my ears and all through my trunks, there’s a shift.
Pushing off the bottom, I gasp for air as I break the surface. Blinking through watery eyes as I watch the slow splashes fade, rejoining the still surface. Small ripples of water lap at the sides of the faded tile pool, and as everything grows still and stagnant, I just stand there, staring down through the hazy water at my blurry feet.
Every time I’ve come here before, it’s felt necessary. The same way I felt staring at my feet in a church pew as a kid, then later with my grandfather; it felt like it had been etched into my grand design, and that I couldn’t deviate from the ritual of it. That it was part of my story, and I couldn’t veer from this course.
Swimming those laps, holding myself under water, punishing my mind, testing my body—I thought I owed them that. I thought I deserved that. That no matter what, that was the path for me forever. To repent and feel that pain and loss every fucking day.
My therapist has always told me it’s unhealthy. Always. But when you’ve made your mind up about something, therapy can be a waste, because you have to want to be different… to be different.
His words echo through my mind as I stand in the still water.
Torturing yourself doesn’t change the past.
Ceasing to live your life has no bearing on the things that have already come to pass.
And lastly, the words I still am not sure if I can believe, but am willing to accept that I could be wrong about everything—it was out of my control.
That’s the point I think I’ve struggled most with, beyond the loss, the last few years. Why couldn’t I have been there? Why didn’t I do something? How could I have changed the way things happened?
It was not in your controlis perhaps my therapist's favorite sentence. I’ve given it no credence over the years. None. I assumed part of his job was to make sure I didn’t collapse in on myself in pain and misery, and take my own life. Good advice and hard truths sprinkled in with pep talks—that’s what I assumed therapy was about.
A crazy laugh erupts from my chest, bouncing off the tiled, mildewed walls of the gym. That little boy weeks ago thought I was fucking strange, and I told myself he didn’t understand what I was going through. That a little boy could never know exactly why I held myself under, tested my limits and hoped that I’d have the courage one day to stay under.
But he was right to find me odd. He was right to question me.
What the fuck have I been doing?
“Jesus Christ,” I breathe, panic pushing the walls in around me, making me hyper aware of the heated room, and the warmth of the water. I need to get out of here. I need to get the fuck out of here.
I can’t get to the edge fast enough.
My hands wrap the cool metal poles and her face flashes behind my eyes. I freeze for a moment, water sloshing around my hips, and I close my eyes. I can feel her soft body in my arms. In slow motion, her curls dance as I toss her in the air, loving the squeal that erupts from her when she’s in my arms again.
That was a good moment. A good memory. I look back at the water. I can trap myself here, in the pain of knowing I lost something so good and perfect, or I can rise from the pain and keep the memory.
I can move forward with the good and understand that bad happens, has happened, and will happen again.
I pull myself from the water and drape the towel over my head, chest heaving and not from exertion. My thoughts run so fast my breathing intensifies. I fall onto a bench near the pool, clutching the sticky wooden edge of it, curling my fingers beneath.
I don’t know if I can, that’s the thing. I don’t know what I can be for Scarlett, or what it will look like, but I want to try.
I’m fucking terrified. But I want to try.
I force myself to my feet, feeling woozy like I’ve taken a couple of shots on an empty stomach. Maybe that’s the effect of emotional revelation, maybe that’s what it feels like when you realize your therapist has been right for the last four years but you’ve been too fucking dense to realize.
