Chapter 25
AVA
I’ve been tired before—I think I’ve been perpetually tired for my entire life.
But this exhaustion is so deep, I feel it in my bones.
“You sure you don’t want to sit next to Anderson?” Emerson asks me, shoving her tote bag underneath the seat in front of her.
I nod, stifling a yawn. “I’m good with you guys.”
“And I thought we would have to pick straws or something for who ended up in the middle seat,” Rumi laughs, buckling her seat belt.
“Well, pray for Jack,” Emerson says, sliding up the window just enough to see the sun beginning to rise. “I don’t know how he’s going to go almost four hours without Rumi right next to him.”
“I can hear you.” Jack’s gruff voice cuts through Rumi’s laugh. She turns around in her seat, finding her boyfriend just one row behind and across the aisle from us.
The flight attendants begin closing the overhead bins, and my jaw cracks when a big yawn escapes my mouth.
I slept right up until my alarm this morning—something I haven’t done my entire life—and I feel like I’ve been operating on autopilot since dropping a half-asleep Georgie off at Jack and Rumi’s and the five of us piling in a car to get to the airport by five in the morning.
As the flight attendants go through their safety presentation, the plane slowly moves down the runway, preparing for takeoff. I try to focus on the nice woman’s voice, reciting the words she’s probably said a million times, but instead, my mind begins to replay the last few hours in my head.
Did I lock the front door? I remember the sound of the lock turning, the weight of the handle in my palm when I checked and rechecked as Anderson loaded our suitcases into the car—but the memory feels thin, like it belongs to someone else.
I count it again in my mind, once, twice, three times, but the numbers won’t land the way they’re supposed to. Did I get to seventeen? I had to.
Right?
In my last session with Dr. Abbie, we talked about ways I can “bargain” with myself. I remember trying to do it when I was packing, checking, and rechecking that I had everything. The number of times I zipped and unzipped my packing cubes, my tote bag, and my toiletry bag.
I told myself, I can break up the number. Checking the zipper on my packing cubes four times. Checking the one on my tote bag six times. Checking the one in my toiletry bag seven times—because that one is the most important.
My mind darts to my suitcase, checked and stowed away beneath the plane.
Did I zip it all the way shut? Did I check the zipper? What about the lock? Did I put my toiletry bag in there?
I can’t picture closing it with the toiletry bag inside.
I can’t remember if I double-checked that I had tampons packed, since I’m due for my period either today or tomorrow.
Did I grab an extra birth control pill pack to start on Sunday?
Did I put my toiletry bag in my carry-on bag?
I’m tempted to bend down and check, not even concerned with how embarrassing it would be to pull out my tote bag from underneath the seat in front of me and open it up in the middle of the aisle.
There’s a feeling buzzing inside me telling me I have to, but my body feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.
The thought of getting up feels impossible with how tired I am.
Usually, the fear would spike sharp and electric, sending me spiraling until I found a way to fix it. But right now it’s muffled under this thick, dragging fatigue.
I press my head back against the seat and tell myself I locked the door, I packed what I needed, and the plane is about to take off—there’s nothing left to adjust, no matter how badly my mind wants one more try.
But did I put my toiletry bag in my tote bag?
Before I can convince myself it’s probably in there—I wouldn’t have forgotten it. Not with the note I left myself on my dresser or the alarm I set on my phone—I reach down between my legs, needing to make sure it’s there.
I unzip the bag just as the flight attendants show everyone how to put the yellow plastic breathing thing over their faces.
It’s there. I see the white pouch with the faded yellow sunflowers.
I exhale, closing my eyes. The relief is instant.
Zipping it shut, the relief fades.
Turning into something much more urgent.
Will the zipper stay shut?
I unzip and re-zip the bag. One.
I do it again. Two.
And again. Three.
“Is your zipper broken?” Rumi whispers to me, and it breaks my attention from the zipper.
“Oh,” I let go of the zipper, despite the way my fingers seem to cramp. “Yeah, it got jammed,” I add.
There’s a pull to keep going, but I remember what Dr. Abbie said during our session yesterday, how delaying the counting might help me feel less “controlled” by it. I know it’s my OCD wanting me to keep checking the zipper—it’s not a necessity. Maybe next time I should take a picture or something.
The thought alone helps me get some distance from the urge, and the relief comes back, just a little but enough to notice.
When I was telling her about how much my daily life is affected by the need to stop what I’m doing and count, having to get to seventeen, despite trying to bargain with myself, she gave me the visual of a wave—just like the urge, it has a rise and a peak, but it eventually falls on its own, not because I do my counting.
I’ll do the rest of the counting when the flight attendant finishes the safety presentation.
Nothing will happen between now and then.
I can wait.
Closing my eyes, I try to focus on what’s happening around me. The cool metal armrest beneath my palms, the air from the vent above me, the flight attendant's voice.
The more I let myself notice these things, the calmer I feel. My eyes begin to drift closed, exhaustion being stronger than any of the thoughts circling in my head, begging for my attention.
“So,” Emerson starts just as the plane levels out, and it makes me jump. The pilot comes on, announcing that we’ve reached cruising height.
I didn’t even realize I fell asleep.
Peeling one eye open, I find Emerson staring at me. I see her gaze dart to Rumi, and I bring my hands up to my eyes, rubbing them in the hopes of being able to keep them open. I turn to see Rumi staring at me, too, a huge smile on her face.
When I look back at Emerson, she’s smirking at me like she has a secret.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” Emerson asks, lifting a brow.
“Like you’re about to pee your pants with excitement or something,” I deadpan.
“Do people actually do that?”
“Dogs do,” Rumi chimes in.
I let my head fall to the other side of my headrest, finding Rumi giving me the sweetest smile she can muster, and I know she’s in on whatever Emerson is about to say.
“Are you going to tell me whatever it is you two want to tell me, or can I go back to sleep?”
“You can sleep after we tell you our plan,” Rumi pretty much squeals. She’s too peppy for this early in the morning.
“I don’t know if I want to know about your plan.”
“But you love plans,” Rumi says, poking me in the shoulder.
“I love my plans. There are no surprises.”
“Surprises can be fun,” Rumi argues.
“Yeah, if you don’t mind going into cardiac arrest.”
“Anyway,” Emerson interrupts, drawing out the word. “We thought, as a way to celebrate your upcoming nuptials, that it would be super fun…” She pauses for dramatic effect, and I want to flick her in the nose, right on her septum piercing.
“To throw you a bachelorette party!” Rumi yells, causing heads to turn in our direction.
“So, what do you say?” Emerson asks, her more chill demeanor balancing out Rumi’s overly excited one.
“I say,” I pretend to think about my answer for a second, “no.”
Rumi groans. “Come on, Av. It’ll be fun! We can get all dressed up and go to a nice dinner, just the three of us. Then we can go to the casinos. Or, we could have a pool party. Or, go dancing. Oh! We can get you one of those “Bride to Be” sashes!”
“Orrr.” I stretch out the word. “Why don’t we save all of those super fun ideas for when you and Jack get engaged?”
I hate that I’m shutting down these ideas so quickly, especially because I know Rumi and Emerson just want to be supportive.
But the last thing I want to do is make my marriage with Anderson a big deal.
It’s already confusing as it is, and my feelings are just getting more and more complicated the deeper we get into this.
Ever since that morning in the shower, I can barely tell what’s real and what’s fake when it comes to how I feel about him, and that’s the last thing I need to be worrying about right now—not with the adoption still in the balance.
Rumi’s face falls slightly, but she tries to hide it. “Okay, whatever you want.” She crosses her arms. “We just wanted to do something fun for you. I know this marriage is important for Georgie’s adoption, but that doesn’t mean we can’t make it special.”
“Are you sure this whole marriage thing is even a good idea?” I turn to look at Emerson, her elbow balancing on the armrest between us, her chin resting against her palm.
“I know you guys said it’s supposed to help with you getting Georgie, and that your relationship was headed in that direction anyway.
But, I don’t know. You seem a little off about it all. ”
My stomach drops.
She’s getting suspicious.
I’m supposed to be excited about getting married.
Not acting like they just asked me to go get pap smears together.
“I’m positive,” I quickly answer, needing to play the part. I brighten my voice. “There’s just no need for a bachelorette thing.”
“Why not?” she asks, raising a brow.
“Because we’re getting married this weekend.”
“What?!” Emerson and Rumi shriek at the same time. Once again, loud enough for heads to turn in our direction.