Chapter 15
The next morning, I burst through the door to find Helen sitting at her desk. “I am so sorry I’m late,” I say, out of breath.
“Well, I was late too,” she says. “Not thirty minutes late, but…”
“Oh yeah? What was your excuse?” I tease.
Helen snorts, flutters her hand in the air. “My children. My wife. My life.”
“Your wife?” I say, as my Robbie-romance theory dies before my eyes—although she could be bi or pan, or she once was straight but now she’s married to a woman because Robbie turned her off to the entire male gender. The theory returns!
“Don’t pry into your therapist’s life, Austin. That’s my job. But yes—wife,” she says. “You didn’t think Robbie would send you to a straight person, did you?”
“What? Queer people make better therapists or something?”
“No. Well…” She tilts her head, considering. “No,” she decides diplomatically. “But sometimes it’s better to be paired up with someone who can relate to your experience.”
A small photo on her bookshelf catches my eye for the first time, and I run my fingers over its intricate silver frame.
Helen stares lovingly at her wife, just as beautiful as she is.
The picture is so perfect that it could be a stock photo, except for one thing.
“Didn’t want to go with a traditional white dress? ” I ask.
“How boring. Why not shake things up?”
And she certainly did. Her wife is in white, but Helen wears a baby blue dress covered in a striking floral print. “Stunning,” I say. “Straight out of the Met Gala.”
“All right, time to sit,” she says, gesturing to the couch, “and tell me why you’re late.”
“Oh, I just overslept.”
“Why did you oversleep?”
I squint, deciding which reason I should give. She squints back. This is only my third session, but I think she can already read me.
“Well, I won yesterday…”
“I know. I was watching,” she says. “Well, I caught the final…” She pauses, carefully considering her tennis terminology. “Set?”
“Very good.”
“I had to subscribe to ESPN Plus.”
“Yeah, you’re gonna need that. And thank you.”
“Congratulations,” she says with a warm smile, and I can tell she means it.
“Thank you.”
“Why were you late, Austin?”
I sigh. “I was out late. With…a boy.”
“Ghost Boy is back?”
“Straight from the grave.”
“And we’re happy about this?”
A grin spreads across my face. It’s embarrassing, but I can’t help it.
“Well, this is good news,” she says.
“I don’t know what it all means, though. Like, I don’t know if he actually likes me. He wants to be my friend, for whatever reason, but I don’t know if he wants anything else.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know either.”
“True, yeah.”
“Has he asked you anything about your sexuality?”
“Nothing. It’s never come up.”
“You haven’t brought it up?”
“Well, no, I guess. I’m obviously not shy about it, but it’s possible to have a conversation and not discuss who you’re attracted to, right?”
“It is.”
“And he knows I’m gay. He saw the interview. I mean, that’s how he knows who I am in the first place, I think.”
“Right. And perhaps it will come up later, naturally.”
I hesitate, trying to articulate my next thought. “Do you ever wonder why people want to be your friend? Like, why they like you? Is that a normal thing to wonder?”
“How do you mean?”
“Like, why someone would go out of their way to be your friend—yours specifically. I think about that sometimes.”
“Well, there are plenty of reasons why someone would want to be your friend.”
“I understand it on that level, but there’s a part of me that’s surprised. Like, he’s number two in the world, and he’s banging on my door at night, trying to hang out. How did I get lucky like that?”
“If you’re choosing to spend time with him, it sounds like he’s the lucky one.”
I nod. “That’s a nice compliment for a guy who was late.”
“Well, if you’re late again, no more nice compliments.”
Helen with the threats.
“Oh, also”—I pat the pockets of my shorts, putting on a show—“no phone. Gave it up. It’s in Robbie’s custody now. It’s been a whole day,” I say.
“Really? How do you feel?”
I thought this update would be met with applause, but maybe that’s not how therapy works.
“I feel…good? Honestly, I’ve been so busy that I haven’t really missed it much. It’s making me a little nervous not being able to hear from Diego, though.”
“I’m sure he’ll find a way to reach you,” she says. “You feel fine otherwise? How’s the anxiety?”
“No symptoms, really.”
“Not even during the match?”
“No, I felt good.” I pause. “I’m a little worried, though, that it will sneak back up. It’s almost like…I don’t trust that I’m feeling better.”
“You’re making changes to protect yourself. If you’re looking for something to trust, trust that.”
—
I meet Robbie in the lobby of the hotel at nine thirty a.m. for breakfast, right on schedule.
Turns out, not having a phone takes careful planning.
We’re together most of the time, but Robbie gave me a slip of paper with his phone number on it in case I get lost somewhere and need to make contact.
In his mind that was a simple solution, but he failed to account for my social anxiety.
There’s no way I’m approaching a stranger to use their phone.
Across from me and my very specific breakfast of eggs, yogurt, and grapefruit juice, Robbie frowns at his phone.
“Are you serious?” he asks.
“What?”
“You cannot be late to your appointments.”
“I thought you and Helen weren’t discussing our sessions.”
“We’re not discussing the content of your sessions. You being rude and late is fair game.”
“I apologized, and it was fine.”
He goes back to his oatmeal. “Don’t let it happen again.”
“Okay, but why are you so grumpy this morning? Last night didn’t go well?” He hasn’t said a word about his date—not that I expected him to.
He pauses and, with the tiniest breadcrumb of a smile, says, “It went well.”
“Robbieee, who is sheee?” I sing through a toothy grin.
He grunts and chuckles, and I know I won’t get any more than that.
“Where did you and Cruz get off to?” he asks, forcing a new subject.
“We just sort of walked around for a bit,” I say, hoping that’s where the investigation ends.
“Hmm…” he says, eyes narrowing. “And what’s happening there?”
“What do you mean, what’s happening? I’m hanging out with a friend.” I hold for a response but don’t get one. “That seems to bother you?”
“Well, I don’t want it to be bothering you, especially with everything going on.”
“It’s not. It’s really nice, actually.”
“And you’re just friends?”
“Rob, oh my god, yes. Can’t I be just friends with someone who’s probably straight?”
He shakes his head at my half joke. “He’s a good-looking guy, and I know how you get.”
“Oh, so you think he’s good-looking?”
“Austin, don’t be weird,” he says, glancing up at the waiter refilling our water. “Everyone does,” he adds with a shrug.
“Speaking of…” I shift in my chair, leaning closer to him. “Can you check one thing for me?”
“What?”
“Can you…see if he messaged me?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Just check, dude. It’ll take two seconds.”
He rolls his eyes and digs through his bag for my phone.
“He did,” he says, scrolling through my notifications. “Ten times.”
Whoa.
“Yesterday,” he adds. Shit. Yeah, I knew about those messages.
“Nothing today?”
“Wait—yes, something this morning.” Robbie squints, reading. “He’s asking you about the event tonight. And then he says…‘Hi, Robbie.’ ”
God, he’s cute.
“He knows you’re my messenger,” I say, and Robbie shakes his head at the stupid grin spreading across my face. “So, you think we should go to it?” I ask him. “This event doesn’t count as a distraction?”
A bunch of invites for random tournament-related parties came through as soon as I qualified, and Robbie’s been declining them, but he mentioned this one—some fancy culinary thing—as one we should consider.
“I think we should say yes to this one,” Robbie says. “It’s not a bad idea to show some face to potential sponsors. You’ll have it in the bag if you just behave yourself.”
We’ve been trying to lock an apparel sponsor for months now, and we’ve had no luck with the big brands, so maybe he’s right. Plus, it’s one more opportunity to see Diego.
“Will you text him back and say we’re going?” I ask.
“I hate this,” he replies as I down the rest of my juice. “I feel like a matchmaker.”
“Aw, but think about your best-man speech. You can tell the story about how you accidentally saw his nudes.”
“There better not be nudes, Austin, I swear to god.”
“Scroll to make sure.”