16. Chase
SIXTEEN
CHASE
TWENTY-TWO YEARS OLD
There’s this nasty habit I’m trying to break.
I dissect every part of my past until the pieces are so skewed, I can’t put them back together. Countless hours are spent trying to fit square pegs into round holes, deciding who I’m going to hold liable for my failings. I’m the fucking poster boy for the blame game.
When I lost my mom, I raged.
When I lost Lily, I grieved.
When I lost Goldi, I did both of those things.
I went to her mom’s funeral with the stupid idea she would need me, not realizing I had taught her how to not need me long before then. I held her limp hand and stared into her vacant eyes, searching for the love she had always given freely and without constraint. The love I soaked up like a sponge, but didn’t deserve.
How selfish of me.
Now, I realize the love I offered in return was twisted and warped, bathed in my insecurities and modeled after the dysfunction I was born into.
But even back then, on some level, I knew. Maybe that’s why I didn’t go to her again after the funeral. I stayed that night at Sam and Anna’s knowing I wouldn’t return and drove back to ETU in the morning, desolate and defeated, hating myself for how heartbroken I felt when, deep down, I knew I had no right.
I’m a taker.
A controller.
These are flaws that exist within me and they always will.
The only difference between then and now is that now…I’m ready to heal.
So here I am, lying on a leather couch that creaks every time I move, and staring at a popcorn ceiling, wishing like hell I hadn’t made the decision to see a shrink. He said I could sit any way I liked, but in the movies they’re always lying down, and it’s easier this way, I think—not having to look someone in the eyes while I divulge the weakest parts of myself.
“Chase. Why don’t you tell me why you’ve decided to come here today.”
Dr. Abernathy is an older man, late fifties with dark wavy hair graying at the temples, deep brown skin, and round glasses that sit on his crooked nose. His ankle is highlighted by orange and blue argyle socks and is crossed over the opposite knee.
I steeple my hands on top of my stomach. “Well, Doc. I’m fucked-up. I chase away all the good things in my life.”
“Hmm…do you feel like you hold on to the bad?”
“I am the bad.”
The room grows quiet when I don’t continue. There’s a small gold clock sitting on his desk, ticking away, and I wonder if that’s on purpose. If maybe it’s a way to remind me that even these minutes aren’t given freely. That I have to pay to get someone to pretend they care.
Apparently, paying to sit in silence.
People actually need degrees for this shit?
I shift uncomfortably on the couch, the leather groaning again underneath my weight. I expected him to lead me with life lessons or, fuck, I don’t know, maybe pass out a multiple-choice questionnaire? I’m low-key nervous, and I don’t have any clue how this works. Turning my head to the side, I watch Dr. Abernathy as he taps the tip of his ballpoint pen on a legal pad that’s sitting in his lap, ready to take notes on all the ways I’m fucked-up.
He’ll need a lot more paper.
Finally, he speaks again. “What is it that makes you feel that way?”
I quirk an eyebrow and turn back to stare at the ceiling. “You want me to give like…examples?”
“That’s up to you.”
Groaning, I tug on the roots of my hair. “I don’t think I have the money for the kind of time that will take.”
He chuckles, but I wasn’t joking.
“Why don’t you start at the beginning, then,” he suggests. “Your first memory of feeling like you were ‘the bad.’”
Nodding, I blow out a breath. “All right, yeah.” I close my eyes and search through memories I normally keep locked up tight, until I get to the earliest hurt.
And then there I am, clear as day in my mind’s eye, four years old and desperate for my mom’s attention.
I open my mouth to tell Doc, but nothing comes out, anxiety crawling up my throat instead of the words.
This therapy thing is harder than I thought.
It doesn’t get any easier as I leave my session and stop at the store. I’m standing in an aisle filled with notepads and loose-leaf paper, feeling like a dumbass as I stare at the different options. Doc’s “homework” was to start journaling.
Fucking journaling.
I scoffed at the idea. I told him I’m a twenty-two-year-old man, not a thirteen-year-old girl, but he assured me I would be surprised. Said it would help me work through things I couldn’t voice. I’m not convinced, but here I am anyway, picking out a damn diary. I take my time perusing, finding one that really speaks to me.
If I’m going to slice open my insides and bleed out on the pages, I might as well do it in a book that I don’t hate looking at.
After college, I moved to Nashville. Now, every few weeks, Sam and Anna make the long drive down. While it’s mainly to see me, I know they enjoy the city, taking the opportunity to have romantic getaways and explore.
This time, though, it’s only Sam here.
“How have things been at Benson & Co.?” He shakes the glass in his hand, ice clinking against the sides as the liquid sloshes.
Here we go.
I had a feeling he was here for a reason, and even though he doesn’t admit it out loud, we both know he’s dying for me to come back home and help him run Sugarlake Construction, the way we’d always planned.
But I can’t.
“Things are great. Busy.”
I’ve been with Benson & Co. Construction since freshman year. When I graduated with a degree in architectural engineering, specializing in construction management, Sam thought I’d resign from my position and run back home, but the map of my life changed course the second I lost Goldi.
He nods. “That’s good, Chase. They’re lucky to have you, you know?”
“Yeah,” I mumble.
“Listen,” he continues, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. “I know you’re apprehensive about coming back home.”
I chuckle, sipping from my IPA. Apprehensive isn’t the word I’d use.
“But I’m planning to do a major overhaul, expand into neighboring towns, really grow the company into something bigger.”
A pinch of longing tugs at me, because for years all I dreamed of was growing up and taking over Sugarlake Construction—making a life for Goldi and me. A good one.
“I’d really love it if you came home for that…if you were part of it,” he says. “Let’s build a legacy. Together.”
Fuck. He really knows how to make it hard on a guy.
Guilt percolates through my system like slow-drip coffee and I take my time replying because, once again, I’m going to be nothing more than a disappointment with my response.
“Sam…” I start, shaking my head and leaning back in my chair. “The last thing I want to do is disappoint you, you know that, and if I thought coming back home was the right move for me—for anyone—” I pause at the pang of hurt that cramps my stomach. “I’d be there in a second. But it isn’t. I’ve made a life here in Nashville. A good one, and I can’t just walk away from it.”
He sighs, bobbing his head like he knew my answer before I actually said it. “Are you happy, son?”
No. “I’m working on it.”
A heaviness coasts across his eyes, and it makes the familiar ache of being a letdown bloom back to life, draping on my shoulders like a weighted blanket. I owe Sam for everything good in my life, and I wish I could be the son he wants me to be, but there’s nothing left for me in Sugarlake.
Not anymore.
Journal Entry #1
This is fucking stupid.