Chapter 10 #2
The air has been sucked out of the room.
That’s the only explanation. I try so hard to move past this, and one photo threatens my sanity.
It sucks me back into the treatment chair, hands and feet sitting inside ice packs, needle plugged into my chest with paclitaxel dripping into my bloodstream.
We’ll have you out of here in an hour, the nurse assures me. Just as soon as your medicine is done.
And Penelope posted it to a hundred thousand people.
I can’t look Eitan in the eye. I shove my chin behind my shoulder so that my neck is craned away from him.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t say that to upset you.” Eitan stands up from the couch, walking toward me like he’s approaching a skittish colt. “I thought it was out in the open with you mentioning it and Penelope posting it.”
Just don’t share it, please, I had requested when Penelope took that photo. Of course not, babe, she had said with a shoulder squeeze.
“It is.” I sniffle. “It just took me by surprise.”
“I wanted to talk to you about this, actually.”
I take a few centering breaths, make sure all tears and other signs of emotional breakage are mitigated. “About what?”
“You’re good at this wedding planning thing.” He grimaces. “I’m not. I was—it took some convincing to make sure Josh felt confident about me being his best man. I need to not screw it up.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” I know the wedding is important for Reasons, but right now I’m having trouble remembering why I care at all.
He shakes his head. “I’m trying really hard. I wasn’t in a good place for a while, and Josh—” A flighty breath shakes out of him. “Josh was a really good friend to me. And I haven’t been able to repay him. Until now. And…You saw how that’s going. Which is where you come in.”
“Me?” I ask indelicately.
“You can help me not completely mess this up.” Eitan leans on my counter, looking chagrined.
I squint at him. It’s cute that this friend group interloper, bathroom hooker-upper thinks I’m going to help him look good. Little busy here trying to do the same thing for myself.
“But I can help you too.” He steps closer. Danger sirens are going off somewhere in the distance. “I take it you haven’t been out that much since…everything happened?” He takes the liberty of scanning over my space, and then my body, slowly, as if to prove his point.
The floor is littered with popcorn kernels and used tissues as I ask, “What makes you say that?”
He cocks his head.
Have you seen yourself? his seaglass eyes ask.
I have and I don’t know to what you are referring, I blink back.
We war silently for a moment, unspoken volleys passing between us in the silence of my studio loft.
“Fine,” I relent. “I know what you mean.”
Eitan nods, pleased. “Here’s the deal: You can help me make sure my best friend’s wedding goes off without a hitch. And I can help you with getting back out there.” He nudges my shoulder, like he’s my Little League coach. “I’ve been in your shoes.”
“I seriously doubt that,” I cut back.
“When you assume you make an ass of you and me, Bathroom Girl.”
I roll my eyes so hard they are in danger of getting stuck. “Where’d you read that? Your dad’s facebook page?”
“You wound me,” he says flatly. “Regardless of what you assume, I’ve had my fair share of hard things I’ve had to move on from. I can help you. You’re clearly struggling.”
“Am not!” I parrot, regressing about twenty years in maturity.
Again, for some reason, he looks at the used tissues and popcorn kernels. “There’s nothing wrong with needing help.”
I scrape my teeth over my bottom lip. I’ve had help.
I lived with my parents for a year, under the extreme and intense watch of my mother.
I have added six new doctors to my care team.
I was even able to wean off my antidepressants six months ago, because my psychiatrist agreed that my depression symptoms were abated.
I’ve had a year and a half to come to terms with this! I should be good. Or if not good, then at least better.
“You can think of me like a coach,” Eitan says softly, like he can sense the depths of the water I am treading.
“I’m not looking for suggestions on how to hook up with strangers in public bathrooms.”
His eyes narrow, the arrow hitting its target. “You need to figure out how to exist in the world without being hurt by it. And the part you’re clearly not seeing is that helping me will also help Penelope.”
Penelope’s offer flashes through my mind, buried beneath nightmares about Grant’s perfect teeth. I could share your query with her. Seven words that could make or break my writing career. After the wedding has gone perfectly, I’d totally owe you one.
The Be Yourself List. My ticket to the other side.
“But I guess you’re not interested in that.” Eitan crosses his arms and steps back, looking out the window.
I squeeze my shirt hem. Now that I’m not under the microscope of Eitan’s gaze, I can admit that everything he said was true.
I’m floundering. Being in the wedding party won’t do me any good if I can’t carry a social interaction.
Which, I’ll admit, has not been my strong suit lately.
I just need to reacclimate. Get some practice. Establish my footing again.
Which, I acknowledge, Eitan is offering to me on a silver platter.
“Okay,” I groan. He turns around, shit-eating grin on his face. “I’m listening.”
“I had a feeling you’d change your mind.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
He breezes past me. “I’ve picked up a few things you should do every day to feel okay.”
“Hold up.” I flex my palm at him. “What are your qualifications?”
“Qualifications?”
“You can’t just get a coaching job without sharing your qualifications.”
He’s quiet for a minute. “Remember when I said I have colon cancer in my family?”
I nod, my stomach dropping at the memory of how dismissive I was to him last night.
“My dad died of colon cancer four years ago.”
I close my eyes. “I’m an idiot.”
“At least you’re a cute idiot.”
Something sparkles down my spine at the revelation that Eitan thinks I’m cute.
“So…” He’s blushing, like he also didn’t expect that to come out of his mouth. “As I was saying.”
I raise my eyebrows.
He starts to count off on his fingers: “One, take a shower every day.”
That feels targeted. “I wasn’t planning on having company—”
“Even if you’re not seeing anyone.” He holds up a second finger. “Two, make your bed, first thing.”
We both look at my bed, piled with haphazard covers, a corner of my fitted sheet riding up one edge.
“Point taken,” I concede.
“Every day,” he finishes.
“I got it!”
He holds up a third finger. “Go outside. Talk to someone random. The person ringing up your groceries. An old person crossing the street. Interact with the world.”
My jaw ticks. “Let me guess,” I say dryly, “every day?”
He nods.
“How is that helpful?” I screech. “I could read that in any two-bit self-help book about grief!”
“That’s just the foundation, Bathroom Girl. We have to work up to larger social gatherings.”
“You’re getting two stars on Yelp.”
He ruffles my hair. It feels unexpectedly sensual, and I swat his hand away as a reflex.
“Better than zero.”
I’ll kill him. “You little—”
“Time to go,” he says, with a winning grin. I can’t decide if I want to smack or kiss it off his face. He checks his watch. “And just in time.”
“What were you going to do if I said no?” I ask while jiggling the key into my lock.
“Probably type wedding flowers into Google and hope for the best,” he says from over my shoulder, the very proximity of him making the ground feel unsteady.
Against my better judgment, I laugh.