Chapter 30
Chapter thirty
Maya
Ihad to park six blocks from my apartment, but I don't mind.
There's a cool breeze and it smells like someone is burning leaves nearby.
Fall in New York is my favorite, hands down.
The humidity lets up, the leaves start to change, and I can finally wear all my sweaters without getting weird looks. Adam never minded my sweaters, but…
I pick up the pace and turn the music in my earbuds up louder to clear that unpleasant thought.
It’s been three weeks since Damon’s going-away dinner…
and the huge fight afterward. Adam's been answering my texts but it’s…
different. He's closed off and distant. He doesn’t call anymore.
He doesn’t answer when I try to call. And we haven’t seen each other since that night.
I've showed up a few times, but I never get past the buzzer.
Despite Denise's hopes,—and mine—the weird, crazy, amazing, spectacular, fantastic thing I had going with Adam seems like it's over for good.
Once I got home that horrible night and wasn’t seeing red, I knew I was to blame.
Emily is a skank and I hope she trips down a flight of stairs, but I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions about what happened.
I should've listened when Adam tried to explain. Even if she was hitting on him, can I really blame him for that? I mean, he is super hot. And he was right. I did know him well enough to know he didn’t want to be with her.
With the pause between Adam and I, I've been killing it at work. I'm still glowing with the thought of continuing to teach my Summer kids when school starts. And I'm so relieved Denise and I made up. It hurt, and we both made mistakes, but I think I made more of them.
Also with the help of the pause, I can appreciate exactly how much my friends are here for me when I need them.
After the last time I tried to see Adam (unsuccessfully), I went to Tiffany's and we belted out Kelly Clarkson and Cardi B for hours at the karaoke bar down the block.
It beats crying. Then once D and I were back on good terms, the girls and I did a movie marathon (no romance movies allowed), and another boozy brunch.
I drop my bag, keys, and a box of art supplies right inside the door of my apartment.
Khan greets me with head butts—he's always happy to see me, or at least he pretends to be because I feed him daily.
I give him a rueful smile as he winds figure eights around my legs.
I nearly wipe out, and my cell phone flies from the pocket of my oversized sweater.
When I pick it up to put it on the counter, Adam's texts are like a slap in the face.
Adam
Are you sure you can’t come over?
Adam: I want to. Just don’t think it would be a good idea.
I absently pet Khan. He’s purring loud enough to drown out a sewing machine.
At least someone is feeling good right now.
I prepare Khan's wet food and put the kettle on.
Maybe some chamomile will soothe my nerves.
Khan dives face first into his bowl, completely forgetting me.
Let's hope that's not a trait shared by all males.
It's almost killed me not to see Adam, to feel him, not to get a chance to apologize…because he was right about me. Just because Cory managed to voice all my insecurities, didn’t mean Adam felt the same way.
Adam’s words and actions never said anything but that he loved being with me, and loved making love to me.
Sure, he hadn’t said those three words that were always on the tip of my tongue when we were together, but that didn’t mean he was faking anything with me.
From the moment I met him, he seemed genuine.
He wasn't afraid to say he was interested, he wasn't afraid to be seen with me in public, and he wasn't afraid to show his affection… sometimes three times in a night.
My cheeks turn pink and I try to get my mind out of the gutter.
Things might be over between us, but Ms. Kitty downstairs has not gotten the memo!
Practically every night since that night, I've woken up with my hand inside my panties.
The sex isn't the only reason I'm in love with Adam, but damn if it doesn't help a lot!
The whistle from the kettle breaks into my thoughts and I scroll to his texts from a week after the fight.
Adam
Adam: FYI: I talked to Cory.
You did?
Adam: He’s really sorry about what he said. When I talked to him, he said he’d already talked to Mom and Dad about what a dick he was at dinner.
I appreciate the apology, but you didn’t have to fight with your brother on my account.
Adam: Yes I did. He was out of line.
Did you maybe want to come over and talk? No pressure.
Adam: Can’t tonight.
Oh, OK.
I set the tea on the counter to brew and fail miserably at not thinking about Adam.
Thank God I’ve already got an appointment with Dr. Jamison tomorrow morning.
I know what I'd like to talk about, but my guess is that she's going to grill me on my parents, asking me to make a dream journal, or some other bullshit.
I'm not too happy about tomorrow's session, but Denise is right—something's gotta give, and my girls aren't professionals.
“So, Maya. What brings you here today?” The office has art pieces from a well-traveled life, including masks from Mali and terra cotta pots from the hills of New Mexico.
Denise told me she trusts Dr. Jamison implicitly.
She certainly has great taste. The leather of the butter-soft couch couldn’t be anything but Italian.
I rub my palms on it before raising my eyes to meet Dr. Jamison’s.
“I’ve kinda got…Self-esteem issues.” I look at my hands again before continuing. “I’ve never had trouble dating decent men, but, in my head, none of them are really interested…At least, not because of my looks.” Dr. Jamison purses her lips and pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose.
“OK. Did something in particular happen that caused you to seek therapy now?” Busted.
“I was seeing someone pretty great. His brother said some not nice things about me. And I took it out on my boyfriend.” She starts taking notes and I rush to elaborate.
“It wasn’t just that, though. I’ve felt this way for a while.
I used to be teased about it growing up and, even though I’m grown and I’m successful, those bad thoughts have stayed inside me and come out whenever I try on a swimsuit, or start dating someone new, or look at movies and magazines with their unfair beauty standards.
” Dr. Jamison puts her pen down and folds her hands in her lap.
“I’m sorry you’re going through all of that, Maya. Feelings of unworthiness are a common reason for people to seek therapy.” She smiles warmly at me, and I immediately start to relax. I can see why Denise likes her.
"Would it surprise you to know that, despite those unfair beauty standards you mentioned, people are three times more likely to search for pornography featuring a plus size woman over a thin one?" My eyes widen and I almost drop my purse on the floor. Dr. Jamison chuckles at my embarrassment.
"Pornography is nothing to be ashamed of, Maya.
We can even talk about it in our sessions, if you'd like.
" I secure my purse more closely in my lap and shake my head nervously.
"Fine. But my point is, these sessions are for your benefit.
You don't have to shy away from more mature or even taboo topics.
" She picks back up her pen and notepad.
"Feelings of inadequacy despite external circumstances that contradict those feelings are usually caused by some traumatic incident.
" She levels her gaze at me and pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose.
"Can you recall an incident, maybe in adolescence, when you were, perhaps, bullied for your size or physical characteristics? "
Without hesitation, the insults come into sniper-like focus.
"Ms. Nappy Head"
"Thunder thighs!"
"Try Jenny Craig!"
"Call me when you lose 50 pounds!"
My palms start to sweat and I look up to see Dr. Jamison has noticed. I avert my eyes again. How pathetic that I have to go to a therapist to work out some junior high shit. Am I seriously not past this? I snort, almost disgusted with my emotional immaturity. Dr. Jamison's gaze sharpen.
"What's that? What were you thinking just then?" Is this woman psychic?
"I…," I start, hesitant to be truly open with her.
What the heck; she said to be honest. "I was thinking how pathetic it is that I'm hung up on bullshit from junior high.
" She raises an eyebrow in question. "There was a slam book.
Some bullshit like in 'Mean Girls', except the book was passed around for everyone to write in.
It was basically a way to talk shit and to see how people really felt about you. " Dr. Jamison didn't look impressed.
"They called me names. Things like 'fatty' and 'nappy head'.
" I keep my eyes trained on my hands folded in my lap.
"Then the head mean girl embarrassed me right in front of my crush…
Well, in front of, like, the whole school.
" I look up to see her irritated expression.
Is she irritated because my problems are a waste of her time?
"What's pathetic is how unoriginal the kids at your school were when it came to insulting you.
Did you know, Maya, that the slam book goes as far back as the 1920s?
A century's passed and still no one has come up with a better outlet for teenage angst." I smile at Dr. Jamison.
She's a one-woman trivia machine. Despite her radical candor, I get a good vibe from her.
“Over the next few sessions, we’re going to peel back the layers and see what might be at the core of these feelings of inadequacy.
Then we will work to build your belief in yourself, so you don't rely so heavily on external sources of validation.” She returns my smile, and I'm feeling lighter already. I should’ve started therapy a long time ago.
“Thank you, Dr. Jamison.”