27. Teddy #2
Every moment of disrespect I allowed from my mother, my aunts, Lily, and Colleen. Every single moment that culminated in me being single, watching my Indie with someone else. First Petra, now this blond pretty boy. The images in my head cause a sob to tear from my throat.
Indie with some faceless person in New Jersey, holding her, loving her, bringing her meals, rubbing her head after she’s had a long day at the Cancer Center, their head between her thighs, worshipping her the way she deserves, her head thrown back as she moans out their name, not mine. Not mine ever again.
When my stomach stopped rebelling, I flushed the toilet, stood up, and walked to the sink. I stared at my reflection as I washed my hands—my eyes red, tear tracks on my cheeks, my skin pale underneath the harsh bathroom light.
Rage erupted in my chest.
“You’ve got no fucking right to be hurt,” I snarled at myself. “You pushed her away. You had her—you fucking had her, and you threw her away. You don’t get to act hurt now, you stupid fuck.”
All I could see was every single moment I let Indie be disrespected. Every single moment that my mother verbally jabbed at Indie, who just took it because of me. I didn’t set boundaries, I didn’t stand up for her, and I didn't do enough. Not when it mattered.
“And it’s easy to say, but you don’t exactly have a family to test that theory!”
My hands gripped the sink, and I tried to breathe through the new waves of nausea that statement brought.
I can’t believe I said that to her. The meanest, cruelest words I could say, and I knew they would hurt her.
Because I felt backed into a corner, completely exposed, because she called me out on my bullshit.
I wanted everything with Indie.
Europe.
New Jersey.
Indie.
And yet, I had the image of my mother cleaning those knives in the kitchen, making vague threats about harming herself in my head.
I snapped. The easiest target was right in front of me, and I hit her directly with the worst thing I could say.
Indie was my family. That’s what we were creating together. That’s what Nana wanted.
But I chose my mother at that moment, and I regret it every single day of my life.
Dr. Meyer’s voice came back to me, steady and relentless.
“When you’re so enmeshed with one person, you don’t have room for anyone else.
In this case, Indie. You were using all your emotional battery on your mother, so Indie got nothing but fumes.
And that’s really unfair, because it’s not balanced.
She was giving, and you were taking without giving anything in return. That’s a toxic relationship.”
I turned our relationship toxic.
Not anyone else—me.
I have a lot to atone for. I have a lot of ground to cover, and hiding in this bathroom because the love of my life kissed someone else isn’t going to solve anything.
Do I want her back? Yes. I would do anything for the chance to have her choose me again. But atoning is not about expecting anything in return.
So I wash my mouth out with water, splash some on my face, and walk back out into the lounge to take my spot watching over her, hanging back in the shadows.
Where I belong.
Now, in Florence, I sit on the balcony of my hotel room.
The light from the full moon is the only light I need as I finish shading the latest drawing and smile through my tears, harshly wiping my face on my shirt sleeve.
My hand cramps with how often I’ve been drawing, my entire sketchbook almost filled now with drawings of Indie, but also of the sights I’ve seen in Europe.
The architecture, the landscapes, the art.
I just hate that I’m not sharing it with her. I gave up the right to share it with her when I floundered and said I wasn’t going to come to Europe.
I get dizzy when I think of those memories, those conversations, and it’s odd that my memory is so clouded.
“It’s a very normal trauma response,” Dr. Meyer observed.
“It’s a way the mind tries to protect itself from emotional overload.
You were operating with barely any juice left in your emotional battery, so when Indie would bring up something big that required a lot of emotions or thoughts, you were experiencing burnout.
That causes irritability, snapping, and saying things you don’t mean to push someone away. It’s a defense mechanism.”
“It’s pathetic,” I scoffed.
“It’s wrong,” Dr. Meyer corrected. “But you know it’s wrong.”
“Why do I see this now, though? Why didn’t I see when I was harming her? Why did I only care when it affected me?”
“Because humans are selfish sometimes, Theo, and unfortunately, we often learn through the consequences of our mistakes.”
“Mistakes,” I sneered. “It was cruel. Unforgivable.”
Dr. Meyer challenged me, not maliciously, not even defending me, just asking me to think with two words.
“Is it?”
I opened my mouth to respond and realized I couldn’t. I considered the words I used unforgivable.
Did Indie? I realized I couldn’t answer for her, so I closed my mouth.
“You’re not excusing yourself, Teddy, but you’re not letting yourself breathe either.
And that won’t allow you to heal. Don’t wear your trauma, and don’t suppress it—own it.
That’s how you remember not to let your trauma dictate your behavior.
And keep up your drawing as an outlet. I think that is the number one thing that is healing you right now. ”
Every time I draw something, especially Indie, I feel like a piece of my soul mends itself back together. I feel free and light. It’s like the only way I can hold Indie in my hands, and while it pales in comparison to the real thing, it feels nice anyway.
This drawing is the one I’m most proud of.
This is the one that’s made my hand cramp and ache in the most wonderful way.
My eyes trail over her face, her long body covered up by her long, long hair, the look I captured on her beautiful face.
It’s how she used to look at me when we lay in bed together.
The look of love.
And then me, as a big bear, always there for her with what she needs, but staying back until she reaches first.
I slide it into the envelope and make a quick call down to order room service for Indie. I’ll place it on the tray tomorrow for her, as I’ve done in every other city.
The hotel workers looked confused until I slipped them a hefty tip, and they looked the other way. I’ve got millions sitting in my bank account right now, and I’m willing to drain the entire fucking thing just to put a smile on Indie’s face.
But I think Indie and I need to talk.
The whys that have been shoved down and avoided in my head for the past nine months.
Why did I choose my mother every time?
Why did I say those cruel things?
Why did I not defend Indie against my mother, against Lily, against my family?
I don’t even know if she wants the answers to those questions. I don’t know if she even wants to speak to me again. And if it never comes, if she never wants those answers, that’s okay too.
Because I’d wait forever for Indie.