Chapter 8
Sloane
“Let’s start off with a quick check in, Sloane. Are you still okay with our sessions being conducted over video chat?”
“Absolutely. I feel comfortable with you, Dr. Chen.”
Dr. Chen gives me a smile and nod. “Great, then let’s get to it. How has your first week back in your old house been?”
“Good. Mom and Dad have made me feel welcome without overdoing it.” I laugh. One of my worries was that Mom would turn into a helicopter parent and drive me insane. “They renovated the pool house, so I have my own space. It’s like I’m living alone, but I know I have them close by.”
“And you feel secure with that?”
“I do. Although, I feel strong within myself. Stronger mentally than I have in months.”
Dr. Chen notes down what I say. I learned early on in our sessions not to pay attention to it.
Once, I asked her what she was writing, and she was happy to show me.
I’d only had one or two sessions by then and was still feeling vulnerable and a little paranoid.
I’d convinced myself she was making notes on how crazy I was. Of course that wasn’t the case.
“That’s very good to hear. Have you had any moments where you’ve not felt as strong?”
Biting my lip, I think back to meeting Becca and then the run in with Eden. I know both of those situations would’ve triggered me in the past, so I’m pretty proud of myself for working through them.
“I’ve had two highly stressful events in a relatively short amount of time.”
“Okay. Do you want to tell me about them?”
I do because this is what therapy is about.
Dr. Chen allows me to purge myself without feeling guilt.
Even though I dealt with the situation with my best friend and ex-girlfriend, I still have the odd moment of anxiety.
It usually comes out of nowhere. Take, for example, this morning when I woke up.
Everything felt fine until I suddenly remembered Eden’s text.
My mind decided to throw me through a loop and overthink her text message.
I’m still trying to decipher it, to be honest.
“Sloane, where did you just go?”
Shaking my head, I take a deep, cleansing breath. “After seeing Eden, she messaged me asking to meet for coffee. I couldn’t answer.”
“Why couldn’t you answer?”
“I think I was still in shock about seeing her.”
“Understandable. Eden has been a huge part of your guilt.”
“She still is,” I interject. “I found it extremely hard when she was being so nice to me.”
“Once again, that’s understandable. You’ve been punishing yourself for the past two years. Of course you expected and possibly wanted Eden to punish you too.”
“I know you’re right. I’m tired of having this lead weight in my chest.”
“It will ease up, I promise you,” Dr. Chen reassures. “You’ve made remarkable progress. How are you feeling on the medication? Any issues?”
“Not at all. I feel good on them.”
“Perfect. We’ll keep checking in and adjust accordingly. Just remember, it’s possible that when you feel better, you may want to stop the meds.”
“I won’t.”
Dr. Chen smiles. “You will, Sloane. It’s extremely common. All I ask is that you call me when you think you are ‘well enough’ to stop the medication.”
“Okay. I can do that.”
“Great. Let’s get back to Eden and her message.”
Shuffling in my chair, I give myself a second to calm my heart. It’s a physical response to her name, and it’s both exhilarating and panic-inducing.
“I asked her if she’d meet up with me when she’s ready. Then after I left the lookout, I got a message from her asking me to go for coffee. Later on, she changed the offer to a walk.”
Dr. Chen’s eyes reflect her understanding. Walking is more than the action for Eden and I. Walking is how we became Eden and Sloane. It was on those—sometimes painful—walks where I got to know who Eden was after crushing on her for years.
“Did you answer the second message?”
Shaking my head, I drop my gaze. “No, because I’m scared of reading too much into it.”
“Say your feelings out loud, Sloane.”
“I’m afraid she’s going to tell me she hates me. I know she’s already said that’s not the case, but she’s had time to think now.”
“It’s a risk,” Dr. Chen states. “Do you think it’s a risk worth taking?”
Huffing out a laugh, I look back at my therapist. “Everything that involves Eden is worth it. I know that now as much as I did when I finally plucked up the courage to talk to her in the gym five years ago.”
“And how does that thought pattern influence your decision to meet her for a walk?”
“I know I’ll meet her for a walk. The calming techniques will come into use to help me stay present when I see her again.”
“You’re doing mindfulness and journaling, yes?”
“Yes. Both are proving to be really useful.”
“Excellent. Well, we’re coming to the end of our session. Are you okay with sticking to weekly appointments for now?”
“Totally. When I’m really settled and have gotten over the biggest humps with regards to my friends, I might feel ready to knock the sessions to bi-weekly.”
“I agree. You’re doing the work, Sloane, and it’s paying off. Just remember this is a day-by-day situation. It’s okay if you have a bad day. It’s okay to step back and reassess what you need.”
“Thanks, Dr. Chen. I’ll keep that in mind.”
We say our goodbyes and log off. I exhale, then inhale, then check my breathing for signs of “rapid, shallow patterns” like Dr. Chen asked me to track.
It’s normal, if normal means the same old lead weight that forms whenever I try to act like a person who can text another human being without running five disaster scenarios first.
Case in point: Eden’s message waits like a loaded starter pistol in my phone’s notification bar.
I haven’t responded. It’s been hours. She’ll think I’m ghosting her again, or hiding in bed, covered with ten duvets like a vampire hiding from the light.
Either way, if I don’t answer soon Bella will start texting, too.
She has a sixth sense for unresolved drama, and although Becca has welcomed me back with open arms, I can’t guarantee Bella will.
I open the message and start typing a reply, then delete the first attempt.
It’s too casual, like I’ve been cool and unbothered all this time.
The second attempt gets halfway before I realize it reads more like an email.
The third, I try something new. Honesty.
It’s what Dr. Chen has been drilling into me every session, whether it’s honesty with myself or the people in my sphere who love me and would want to know what I’m feeling.
I leave the message on the screen, thumb hovering over the send button.
You
I’d really like to. But if you want to bail at any time, I’ll totally get it.
It’s…not great, but better than the passive-aggressive self-flagellation my brain wants to default to. I hit send before I can chicken out, then watch the three dots pop up and disappear repeatedly. The reply is almost instantaneous, like she was waiting with her phone in hand.
Eden
When?
Just that one word, and a million possibilities.
It’s so purely Eden, it knocks the breath right out of my lungs.
I almost tell her to meet me here and now, but my shirt smells like three consecutive days of nervous sweat, and my closet situation is a textile avalanche waiting to happen.
So, I buy myself a sliver of time and type…
You
Today? After three? My place or yours?
I’m so proud of myself for giving options that I nearly cry.
Eden
Yours. I’ll bring caffeine if you supply cookies.
My face flushes, even though nobody can see me. I toss my phone on the bed and flop down next to it, limbs akimbo like a crime scene outline. This is happening. This is actually…maybe…finally happening.
But first, I have a closet to rifle through.
My closet is a study in opposites: half aspirational athleisure, half oversized hoodies because I became obsessed once Eden introduced me to their wonderful comfiness.
Every “normal” item has been overthought into oblivion. I have one pair of good jeans that I trust not to betray me with surprise camel-toe, and a single black V-neck that doesn’t itch or accentuate the wrong things.
I lived in a sports therapy uniform for the majority of college, and during my dark days, I didn’t exactly feel like shopping for new items. Mom kept a lot of my old clothes in the house, but I don’t feel like they’re me anymore.
Something I need to add to my “To Do” list: Find my new style and update my closet.
I try on both in quick succession. The jeans are looser than I remember, which is a side effect of my non-existent appetite over the past several years.
Thankfully it’s returning to normal now, so I should pack on a few needed pounds.
I would like to get back to the level of fitness I enjoyed when I was eighteen, which means some serious gym time.
The V-neck is safe, but paired together they scream “midwestern retail worker about to clock in for the closing shift.” Not the vibe I was going for.
I rotate through half the closet, tossing rejects onto the bed: the blue dress with the weird armpit stains, the skirt that only works if I stand perfectly still, the blouse that’s too “sexy librarian” and not enough “stable adult.” By the end, my room looks like a TJ Maxx clearance rack had an emotional breakdown.
There is nothing to wear. I sit on the floor, surrounded by failed identities, and text Becca in a fit of desperation. The message is mostly emojis: crying face, closet, pants, explosion. She responds with a laughing gif, followed by…
Becca
I’m ten minutes away. On my lunch. Don’t you dare change until I get there!
This is both a threat and a comfort. If anyone can handle my spiraling it’s Becca. She’s been field-testing my crisis management for half my life. It’s a shame I couldn’t see that when I was checking out of my life and melting down.