Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
kane
Leaving – Zach Bryan
Monday morning comes far too quickly, but somehow I’m awake before my alarm.
I even have time to go grab a coffee instead of drinking the shitty stuff in the teacher’s lounge, the brown sludge that barely passes for coffee most days.
I’ve started bringing in more high-quality stuff just to be able to make it through the day.
There’s an extra pep in my step, courtesy of the little brunette I get to see again in just a few days. The prospect of spending some actual time together has done more for me than any type of caffeine ever could.
I spent the whole drive to work laughing my ass off, because somehow, over the span of the past twelve hours, all of the shoelaces in my apartment vanished.
I spent a good chunk of time this morning looking at all my shoes and trying not to burst out laughing.
I have no idea when she did it, but every one of my shoes was cleared of the laces, leaving me with one option this morning: the slip-on Vans Avery got us two years ago so we would match.
She must have come in when I was still at work last night, and the fact that the shoes I was wearing last night also vanished overnight tells me they got to Marcus before I could get him on my side. He always was the easiest to break.
I sit in my chair and boot up my computer, taking a long drink of my coffee. My gaze snags on the picture of me and Avery, and the grin that tugs at the corner of my mouth from looking at that alone tells me how much trouble I’m in.
I check my calendar for this morning, grateful to see that Trevor is coming in at ten. I haven’t seen him since early last week, not even in the halls.
My schedule is booked today, but I still have some free time to get caught up on other work.
My 2 p.m. therapy session stares back at me from its slot.
It’s only my fifth appointment, the second since we started me on a low-dose medication he referred me to someone else for so I could get some extra support—which has helped more than I could have hoped for.
My racing heart and sudden onset panic have lessened since starting, and my mind feels clearer, allowing me to take deeper breaths. My body feels as if it’s coming down from a bender, the fog clearing significantly.
I don’t think I ever realized how much anxiety was affecting my everyday life.
Steve, my therapist, said I may have had it since childhood.
A coping mechanism to protect myself from an unstable childhood, and eventually all those repressed emotions had to make their way to the surface and come out somehow.
We’re still working on getting me to identify my emotions, and letting myself feel them, since my first instinct is still to shove them down to where they can’t be felt.
Steve says that is the worst thing to do, and the only way to get better is to work through them.
Nothing has been harder work than therapy.
The emotional bandwidth it takes from me, and the mental exhaustion that follows feels unreal some days.
Having to relive some of the worst moments of my childhood is brutal, but after just a few weeks I feel lighter, knowing I no longer am forced to carry all of that around.
Some days are easier than others. The anger gets to me on the worst days.
When I just feel so angry at everything they did, the unfairness of how they treated me, and now it’s up to me to put in the work to undo all the damage they caused.
Steve said that’s normal, almost as if I’m going through the stages of grief.
Mourning for my past self, the sadness, followed by anger, then finally giving way to some sort of acceptance.
I scoffed when he said that to me. Acceptance, as if I could ever accept what they did to me.
As if someday I’ll have to say, “Oh, it’s okay that you destroyed my entire childhood and still feel no remorse for all the things you’ve done.
” But Steve is hopeful, and I’m trying to borrow some of that hope for myself.
We have obviously talked about Avery too.
I don’t think I’m capable of going too long without speaking about her.
I told him everything—the panic attacks, the distance I unknowingly put between us, the breakup and the way I’ve felt since.
I wasn’t even sure the distance between us was there until Steve pointed out the times I may have made her feel that disconnect when I was too blinded battling my own brain.
It felt good to finally get it off my chest. To unload everything and talk it through.
I know if I came to Marcus or Grayson and told them, they would be there for me and be nothing but supportive, but I still find it so hard to let myself be vulnerable in that way.
To let someone see that side of me, the side I have been trying for so long to pretend doesn’t exist. The weak version of me that feels too strongly, who has always felt more deeply than he was allowed to.
I’m still trying to find a way to let him exist peacefully with the other part of myself—the strong one who has endured more than he should have in the past twenty-three years.
I grew up with everything a kid could want—money, private chefs, every toy I could think of.
But I was missing the things that really mattered.
I never felt love, or acceptance for who I was; I was never held and told it would be okay when I tripped and fell; I was never told they were proud of me.
No paintings hung up on the fridge, no ice cream when I got a report card.
Instead, I was yelled at and berated for getting an eighty-five instead of one hundred.
Belittled for crying when I scraped my knee and being told to be quiet and unseen on more nights than I can count when my parents were entertaining company.
None of this shit has been easy, but I have an end goal, and at the end of the day there’s nothing stopping me from getting back what I lost. I’ve been my own worst enemy for too long, and it’s time I face my demons and get my future back—because there isn’t one without her.
She’s it, but she also needs me to heal. Or at least be on my way to it.
I’ve learned that I can’t be good to her if I’m not good to myself. The work to get her back starts with me, and there’s no mountain I wouldn’t climb to reach her. No monster I wouldn’t slay to be next to her every day going forward.
The high from the morning fades with every appointment I have.
Three of my early appointments were with kids who have no interest in being here and are struggling to keep up with their classes.
Many students I work with aren’t headed down a path of continuing their education, instead choosing to start working immediately after graduation since the scholarships and funding are often too little for what they would need to even begin.
Some already have part-time jobs they’d rather be at than a school that has shown little interest in them, with families that depend on their income.
I take a big breath and let my shoulders fall, letting some of the day drain from my body before Trevor comes in. I almost drove by his work to see if he was there since I haven’t seen him in a while, but it’s hard to know where the line of overstepping is.
There’s so much that goes into being a good counselor, and the part that matters most days is showing up for the kids who need it. The kids who may not have anyone showing up for them anywhere else—Trevor being one of them.
This is only my first year here, and I may not make that much of a difference yet, but I plan to make an impact, no matter how small. If I can be a place for one person to feel better, feel supported in the way they need, that’s enough for me.
The clock ticks as I sit here, welcoming the silence and letting myself take a breather. This job can be a heavy one. One I’ve had to learn to compartmentalize at the end of the day. Not every problem can be solved by me, as much as I wish it could.
My stomach grumbles, the early morning snack I ate doing very little to hold me over for the next two hours.
I have some time after Trevor when I may be able to run to the cafeteria for a snack.
I look at the clock and see the minutes counting down, and I wait with bated breath to see if he shows today.
My mind wanders to a certain someone, and my fingers itch with the need to text her. I stared at our old messages for hours last night, contemplating what to say as the last message between us haunted me.
I pull out my phone, unable to keep the need to say something at bay much longer. I finally have something to text her about, and I’m stalling.
What if she blocked my number?
What if she doesn’t respond?
The thoughts swirl in my head. An edge like panic starts to close in, and I make myself take some deep breaths the way my therapist explained to me. In for four, out for four. I do this six times until breathing becomes easier again and the fog disappears from my brain.
I stare at my lock screen, at the picture of Avery in one of my sweatshirts—a Grateful Dead hoodie she always preferred—the size dwarfing her as she smiles up at me with a crinkle in her nose.
I made that my background just over a year ago.
When I looked over at her and just couldn’t help but think how fucking lucky I was.
This girl stole my heart at eighteen and hasn’t let it go since.
I remember the bickering afterward, her wanting me to pick any other picture of her with her hair and makeup done, but I knew this was the best one I would ever take.
Because that face she made was always just for me.
She tries to make herself less noticeable when she’s around other people, but she gives me raw openness. She comes alive when she’s with the people she loves most, and I love opening my phone to that face every day. The confidence and love that shine back at me make my cheeks widen further.