6. Julia #3
“I’m hanging up.”
“Wait. Have you thought about Dr. Hotwood?”
My knife stops against the cutting board. I close my eyes to center myself before I strangle her over the screen.
“We agreed you weren’t calling him that.”
“You agreed. I made no such commitment.”
“His name is Blackwood.”
“Which honestly made this way too easy.”
“Tessa.” I warn with my right eyebrow bending into a reverse checkmark.
“What?”
“He’s my therapist.”
“And?”
“And stop making it weird.”
There’s a pause. Not a teasing one this time.
“Am I making it weird, or are you?”
I exhale louder than my neighbour's fat cat while suntanning after a meal.
“I’m going to hang up now.”
“Julia.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
I put the knife down. “There’s nothing weird. I had one appointment with the man.”
“Okay.”
“He’s attractive. I have eyes. That doesn’t mean anything.”
“I didn’t say it did.”
“You implied it.”
“I asked whether you thought about him.”
“That is implying.”
“That is literally asking a question.”
I hate when she does this. I hate it slightly more that it reminds me of him.
“I said you looked guilty. That doesn’t automatically mean the guilt belongs there.”
Apparently my life is now populated exclusively by people who weaponize semantics.
“Yes,” I admit. “I’ve thought about him.”
Tessa is silent. Suspiciously silent and I look at the screen just in time to catch her grinning. “Oh, fuck off.”
“I didn’t say anything!” She laughs but turns serious over whatever expression I have on my face. “Fine. Why have you thought about him?”
I look down at the vegetables scattered across the cutting board.
Because he irritated me. Because he made me laugh when I didn’t want to.
Because he looked at me as if everything I did meant something, and somehow managed to make that attention feel less like judgment and more like curiosity.
Because when I told him I was fine, he looked straight at me and said “No, you weren’t” with a certainty that should have pissed me off far more than it did.
Because he told me I didn’t have to make myself smaller, and I’ve spent the last three days noticing all the ways I do exactly that.
“Because he gave me homework,” I say.
Tessa sighs. “Coward.”
“Love you too.”
“Tell Dr. Hotwood I said hi.”
“I will absolutely not be doing that.”
“Fine. Tell him your emotionally intelligent and devastatingly beautiful best friend says hi.” She hangs up before I can say anything else.
I stare at the phone for several seconds, then shake my head and return to chopping vegetables. The truth is considerably less interesting than whatever romantic comedy Tessa has apparently started writing in her head.
The day of my next therapy session arrives faster than I expect.
By the time I stand in front of my closet that afternoon, staring at clothes as though one of them might provide instructions for how a person is supposed to dress for a second therapy appointment, I’ve accumulated enough observations to fill several pages.
I’ve also learned two things. The first is that Dr. Blackwood was right about more than I wanted him to be.
The second is that I deeply resent him for it.
I reach for the blue sweater I wore last week before stopping.
Too obvious. I have no idea what would be obvious about wearing the same sweater twice to therapy, but apparently my brain has opinions.
I chose a dark green one instead. Then I stare at myself in the mirror.
“Jesus Christ, Julia. It’s therapy, not a date.”
The woman in the mirror looks unconvinced. I point at her.
“Don’t start.”
I grab my purse and leave before she can.
The drive into Minneapolis is uneventful, traffic irritating but manageable, and I arrive seven minutes early because being late makes me feel like my skin is trying to crawl off my body.
Another thing I have not written down. I sit in the parked car with the engine off and stare at the clinic entrance.
Last week, I had needed reminding and latent threatening before walking through those doors.
Today, there was none of that. Nobody reminded me.
Nobody threatened me. I came back because I wanted to.
That realization feels more significant than it should.
My phone is in my hand before I consciously decide to open the notes from the bus.
I scroll past the sounds, the memories, the physical sensations, until I reach the last sentence.
I bit myself because screaming felt worse.
The question beneath it is still unanswered.
Why?
I stare at it. Then, slowly, I type: Because people notice screaming.
My thumb hovers over the screen while something uncomfortable moves through my chest. I added another sentence.
And being noticed has never felt particularly safe.
For several seconds, I simply stare at the words, then I lock my phone, drop it into my purse, and look toward the building again. I have absolutely no idea what Dr. Blackwood is going to do with that answer.
For some reason, I’m beginning to want to find out.