Chapter 10
Leo
I get home from work just before 7:00. It’s been a bloody long day, and I haven’t heard from Vivian. She left my text message unread, and when I’ve tried to call, it goes straight to voicemail. This isn’t like her, and I’m starting to worry. She’s usually prompt with her replies, even when she’s busy. I drop my stuff in the entryway, rush up the stairs to the second floor, and head outside to the front of the house. I scan her townhouse for any sign of her. Lights are on on every floor, including the rooftop.
That’s where she is.
She wouldn’t have the patio light on if she wasn’t up there. She loves her patio and spends loads of her free time there. It's bloody cold, though. I go back inside, run up to my bedroom, and change into joggers and a T-shirt. I grab a heavy jacket and put it on as I run up the next two flights of stairs. Light from her patio spills onto mine as I step outside. Sure enough, there she is, sitting cross-legged with a fuzzy blanket wrapped around her. A space heater hums and oscillates a few feet away. There’s music playing softly in the background. She has a large book on her lap, a glass of wine in one hand, and a tissue in the other. I look at the rather large pile of tissues next to her, and my heart lurches. She’s sad, and I debate whether to leave her alone or interrupt her at such a vulnerable time. I choose the latter.
Walking quietly to the wall that divides us, I ponder what to say. Her sudden movement suggests she senses my presence but doesn’t look up. I watch her for a few moments. She’s beautiful. Even now, with her hair pulled back and her makeup-free face red and blotchy from what must have been hours of crying, she’s still so beautiful. She tucks a loose strand of hair that’s been blown by the breeze behind her ear, and I hear her sniffle.
I’m frozen. Despite all my years as a therapist, I’m rooted to the spot, unable to find the words to convey that I want to be here for her. I clear my throat so that I don’t startle her. “Are you alright, Walker?” I say wearily. I silently scold myself—stupid thing to say, clearly she’s not alright.
She nods, sets her tissue down, and wipes both sides of her face with the backs of her hands. She looks up and tries to smile. “Yep, all good,” she replies. She inhales and exhales deeply as she stares up at the dark sky.
I proceed with caution. “May I join you?” I ask, ready to be turned away. I know better than anyone that you can’t make someone talk if they don’t want to.
She surprises me by nodding her head and allowing a soft, “Yeah, that’s fine,” to slip from her lips. She gathers all her tissues, crumples them into a ball, stuffs them behind a cushion on the other side of her, and pats the now open seat next to her.
I hop the wall and carefully approach, taking a seat next to her. “What are you looking at?” I ask, placing my hand on her shoulder blade and gently rubbing her back.
She responds by setting the book—which I’m now realizing is a photo album—on my lap and taking a large gulp from her wine glass.
She looks at me, waiting for me to say something first, but I don’t. Years of training have prepared me for this moment, and I won’t fuck it up. Now is the time to listen—to shut up, listen, ask a few questions when necessary, and listen more. I meet her gaze as she struggles to maintain eye contact. Her eyes wander to the side, down, and then back up to mine. I give her a small smile, letting her know she can trust me and that I’m here for her.
After a minute or two of silence, with me maintaining eye contact, she whispers, “I’m ready to talk to you. ”
A surge of pride washes over me as I realize she trusts me with this moment. I break our gaze and curiously look down at the photo album. They’re wedding photos… her wedding. She looks gorgeous in a beautiful and elaborate wedding dress, her face radiating pure joy. I flip the page to find a picture of her and who I assume to have been her husband. He’s handsome, and in this picture, they’re laughing as they cut their wedding cake.
I turn my head to look at her; her eyes are down, toward the photos. “You were married?” I ask. She manages a slow nod. I flip through a few more pages. She looks so happy in these pictures. I come across a family photo. “Is this your mum and dad?”
“Yeah,” she whispers, leaning in slightly for a better look.
It’s obvious that the couple are her parents. Her mum is an older version of Vivian, with the same stunning beauty, and her dad is a handsome fellow with specks of gray in his hair and beard. They both have the same dark hair, but her mum’s features are darker. I see that Vivian gets her green eyes from her dad, and her complexion and features from her mum.
“I see where you get your natural beauty from,” I say, trying to lighten her spirits.
A small smile forms on her lips. “Thanks,” she says, shrugging. “My mom’s from Spain. She and my dad met while she was visiting a friend in Boston. He was going to Harvard Law School, and they met at a campus party her friend had brought her to. They were friends first, long-distance for two years, each taking turns visiting the other. Then realized they were in love, and she moved in with him. They got married shortly after, so she could get citizenship.”
Flipping through a few more pages, I let the silence build. I’m comfortable in it, and I want her to come to me. I don’t want to push. After minutes pass, and I’ve looked through the entire album, I close the book. “You look really happy here,” I say. “What happened?”
She looks up at me briefly, and I see that her eyes are glistening. Her lips press into a tight line, and she blinks rapidly before looking away. She cups a hand to her mouth as she swallows audibly. A tiny cry escapes her mouth, and it’s too much for me. My heart tears from my chest as I reach for her hand. She grips it, holding it as if she is hanging from the edge of a cliff and if she lets go, she may plummet to her death.
“He died.” She takes a deep breath in and slowly exhales.
Holy shit.
I wait for her to continue.
“In a car accident.” She sets her wine glass down and stares into the abyss. “I was driving us home from Sarah’s birthday party. We were going up the canyon… back up to Park City. We were singing and laughing.” She pauses to breathe, to hold her composure. “I saw the driver in my rearview mirror, but there wasn’t anything I could do. He was going so fast and swerving all over the road. He was drunk… and he hit us. Drove his car just right… right into us, into Ben.” Her shoulders start shaking as she drops my hand and hugs her knees to her chest, resting her forehead between her knees.
I absentmindedly rub her back, sensing that there is more. She eventually looks up, finding her blank stare again. She sniffles. “I was pregnant,” she says. “Seven months… I named her Evie.”
I feel a lump in my throat, and my eyes blur as I struggle to maintain my own composure. Fuck. This is heavy, and I wish there was something I could do or say to take away all of this pain from her.
“They had to do an emergency C-section.” She swallows, her voice wavering. “For so long I wondered why… why was I the only one who survived? What did I do to deserve to live? What did Ben do to deserve to die? He was the best person I ever knew…” She pauses, her fingers tightening around the edges of the blanket. “In the stillness of the car, moments after the accident, I knew he was dead. I knew he was dead. I knew that I was the only one still alive. That was the worst moment of my life. Ben and the other driver were killed on impact, and Evie, shortly after. I was so scared, Leo.” Her voice quivers again. “I’ve played that night over and over in my head. What could I have done differently? If only I hadn’t gone back upstairs to pee, if only we’d left five minutes earlier, if only we’d taken an Uber. So many 'ifs'.”
My own emotions get the best of me. I can’t rid the lump from my throat, and I wipe a tear from my face as I stare in admiration at her .
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Vivian,” I say, my voice cracking.
She lets out a sound that’s something between a laugh and a cry. Sullenly, she looks forward and says, “Do you know that’s the first time you’ve ever called me Vivian?” The corner of her mouth lifts, revealing a small smile.
“Is it?” I ask, “Do you want me to say something or just be a listener right now?”
She laughs at that. “You and Sarah are so alike,” she says. “I just want you to be you… be my friend. Don’t be my therapist, but know that what you say matters to me. I know that whatever you say comes from the education and experience that you’ve had.”
I nod in understanding and wait for her to continue.
“This is why I’m fucked up.” She nods her head as if in agreement with herself. “This is why I’m stagnant… why I can’t move forward.” She looks up at me briefly. “It’s why I haven’t been intimate with anyone,” she admits, swiftly moving back into her trance. “Every time I get close to anything happening… you know… downstairs…” She shakes her head. “Panic consumes me, I just… freak out, and then the guilt… GOD, the guilt is so heavy, it just… weighs on me. But it’s not having sex that makes me feel guilty. No. It’s the fact that Ben doesn’t get to live, and I do. The fact that I get to move forward, and he doesn’t.”
She pauses, her eyes glistening with fresh tears. “The worst guilt comes when I feel angry that he left me. God, I’m so fucking mad that I have to go through life without him. What kind of person is angry at someone for dying?”
She looks at me, “And it’s crazy because at the same time, I feel like I won the lottery to have loved such a wonderful person. But then it feels like God has a magnifying glass and is torturing me—like a bully, slowly burning ants alive.”
I gently squeeze her hand, trying to offer some comfort. The mix of grief, guilt, and rage is palpable, and my heart aches for her.
“Why does my life get to go on as if nothing has happened and his doesn’t? Why do I get another chance to fall in love when Ben can’t?” She shudders, sobbing now. “I can’t shake the feeling that if I have sex with someone else, it’ll be like I’m officially letting him go.” Tears stream down her face. I wrap my arm around her and give her a squeeze.
“I don’t want to let him go. I want to move forward, but I don’t want to forget him. How do I share something like that with someone who isn’t Ben? Something that connects you so deeply to someone… how do I do that?”
She dabs at her eyes with a tissue. “I’ve only been with Ben and one other person, which was a drunken mistake,” she says, gripping her head with her hands and slowly sliding them down her face as she groans. “It’s not even about being horny or the orgasm, you know? My vibrator can give me an orgasm. It’s about the connection. About connecting with someone like that. I don’t want or need mindless sex; I want what I had with Ben. I miss that connection so much. I miss him. I fucking miss him. I can’t…” She doesn’t finish. She drops her head back on the sofa, unable to continue, looking up for inspiration.
I sit quietly and squeeze her hand, letting her know I’m here for her. So many things are running through my mind, puzzle pieces coming together, everything about her falling into place. God, she’s only been with two people! The way she values sex as such an intimate bond, almost sacred… it’s admirable. And I guess it would be if you’ve only ever shared that with someone you loved. Christ, what does she think about me? I’ve only attached emotions to sex with one person, and that completely backfired. Since then, I’ve vowed to never attach sex to feelings, to only allow it to be something fun, a playful means to an end. I almost envy her, but then I remind myself that this is precisely why I don’t ever want to fucking fall in love. Your life can’t be blown to pieces if you don’t have someone to lose. You can’t disappoint anyone. No one can leave you, cheat on you, or die. It’s my coping mechanism for sure, and as a therapist, I’ve stared myself down in that mirror plenty of times, but I don’t want to fix it, and I don’t want to change. Love is not in the cards for me.
We sit in comfortable silence for a few moments while I gather my thoughts.
“You know you can have both, Vivian.” I let go of her hand as she looks into my eyes .
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“Moving forward doesn’t mean you have to forget Ben. You can hold on to his memory while allowing yourself to embrace new relationships. You deserve to have both, and it’s completely possible. It’s also completely normal to feel what you are feeling. There is no timeline with death, Viv. Some people move on by sleeping with anything that moves, while others take years to get to the point of trusting another with intimacy. There is nothing wrong with you, and you are not fucked up. You are perfectly imperfect in this fucked-up journey of healing.”
A small laugh escapes her.
“I promise! There’s nothing abnormal about this, and I’m truly sorry if I’ve been the cause of any of your pain. I never would have joked about it if I’d known.” I wrap my arms around her, bringing her close as she rests her head on my chest. Her arms wrap tightly around me, and I feel her fingers grip my jacket. She nods her head as if she believes me and sobs quietly.
We sit there holding each other for what feels like an eternity.
She eventually loosens her grip and looks up at me. “Thank you, Leo,” she whispers, a small smile forming on her lips.
“Hey,” I say, wiping a tear from her cheek, “That’s what friends do.” I gently place a kiss on her forehead and give her another squeeze. As I release her, she sighs heavily, removes the clip from her hair, and lies on her side, placing her head in my lap and curling her feet up into a fetal position. I stroke her hair gently, feeling the weight of her trust in this moment. The night air is cool, but the warmth between us is palpable, a silent promise that she’s not alone in this.
“Will you tell me something?”
“What do you want to know?” I ask, my voice deep and quiet as I mindlessly toy with my fingers in her hair.
“Anything… something real… something that makes me feel less broken. You know, I envy you.”
“You envy me?” I say, surprised. She turns onto her back so that she can look at me, her knees bent and feet planted on the sofa.
“Yeah… you just have your shit together. You go through life as if it's easy . You’re always so calm and collected… and confident. Tell me something, anything, big or small, that makes you human.” She looks at me with so much depth, searching my eyes. The raw human emotion in her eyes, from having bared her soul to me moments ago, compels me to give her something in return.
I don’t really want to go into the details of my past, not just because I don’t want to talk about it, but because I don’t want to overshadow her night of remembering Ben. I form a small smile and let a chuckle escape.
“Oh, Walker,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m just as fucked up as everyone else. Isn’t that what you predicted the first night we met?” I flash her a full grin. Tonight, I’ll give her a half-truth.