23. Chapter 23 Theo
Chapter 23 Theo
“ O kay, let me get this straight. You lost all modicum of sense and sensibility, went to Staley’s house, got a little brave, and then your phone rang”—Barb checks her watch, doing some fast math, and presses on with her little speech—“a whole six hours ago? And now you’re in my office because?”
My phone dings three times in a row. I don’t bother looking to see who it is when I press the side button to silence it. I nod to affirm Barb’s questions. Call it restless legs syndrome or call it residual sexual tension. Either way, I am a mess.
“I’m in y-your office b-because ...” I look around, hoping to gather myself by homing in on Barb’s ugly decor.
“Because who am I? And Staley didn’t come to class.”
Barb laughs and slaps her yellow notepad, thoroughly amused by my distress. She leans over and taps the front of an inconspicuous side table, causing it to pop open, revealing a mini fridge. Not a session goes by where Barb doesn’t leave me surprised, simultaneously questioning her legitimacy as a licensed therapist. She squats in front of the black fridge, blocking its contents from my eyeline.
“You’re a virile young man. You don’t need me to go into further detail, do you?” The sound of a can cracking open fills the room when she turns to me, offering out an Art Deco–designed can of kombucha.
“A kombucha? Where did you say you g-got your license again?”
She laughs and waves off my question.
“Take a drink, relax. And I know what you’ll say—telling someone to relax does not bring about relaxation. But you are wound tight, so I can’t properly assess all this.” She waves her finger all around, outlining my heaping pile of nonsense. “Under the self-inflicted duress you’re presenting me with.”
The can is ice cold on my lips, the drink refreshing, and she’s right—it helps me relax a little. My tongue presses to the top of my mouth, and I let the liquid pull through my body. Barb nods, pleased with her non-alcoholic intervention.
“Do you g-give all your patient’s ice co-cold beverages as part of their t-treatment?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny how I treat my other patients. But I have a knack for helping someone chill their vagus nerve out. Cold beverages can calm your heart rate and aid in relaxation. We’re not getting anywhere with you ratcheted up.”
This may be why Staley drinks so much iced coffee.
“The next th-thing you’re gonna tell me is that you snuck veggies into my d-dinner.”
“From where I sit, you’ve gotten exactly what you wanted. Command of your speaking voice in situations where it matters the most. The girl. The sex, or close to it. You’ve never participated in this arena where you’ve gotten everything you’ve longed for. The problem, in your own words, has been thinking no one could love you for the way you speak. Staley does more than listen. She’s someone who hears you for you. The staccato of your voice, did you ever stop to think about how it might be attractive to someone? Not in a fetishizing way. I mean, this woman wants you exactly the way you are. Stutter and all.”
I never considered that someone would be attracted to me because of my voice, aside from the erotic audio I compose. Most of that is acting and requires much of my time to perfect. The idea rolls around my mind. The goal is to stay in the game, keep Staley focused on our connection, and be mindful of her fears.
“Theo. How does thinking no one could love you affect the rest of your life?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ha! I think you need another drink.”
“Isolated. Alone. In a state of unwavering a-anguish. Any other p-poet would kill for these circumstances. Excellent fodder for award-winning w-writing.”
“Honesty is a good look on you. Now, what would make this problem better?”
“The clinical answer: Letting Staley know I respect her job s-security and creating sp-space or asking for time to date outside of cuddling. Being h-honest with Staley about my feelings for h-her, being okay with rejection, and accepting that she might want m-me.”
Acceptance is a new reflex for me, one that, over time, I hope will evolve into muscle memory where Staley grabs my hand in hers, and I don’t question if she wants to.
“Theo, welcome the changes entering your life. Do not live constantly worried about what other people think of you unless they’re worth worrying about. You know your goals. Now go practice them.”
The couch squawks from underneath me as I slide forward, signaling my imminent departure from the weirdest but most helpful therapy session of my life. Barb slaps her hands together setting a Pavlov trigger into motion, sending me to woo Staley and make things right.
When Staley didn’t show up to class earlier, I found myself sulking instead, not sure how to approach the next step. This was excellent for writing but not great for my overall mood. I’m left with nothing else to do but slash papers with a heavy red pen and fume with annoyance that most of Graham’s students think all poetry should rhyme or lament about true love being a smoothed-over pebble in a babbling brook.
Maeve was behind the middle-of-therapy text messages, documenting a play-by-play of running into Staley at the coffee shop. The details make me churn in further distress because everything written can be taken out of context. When I read Maeve’s messages, I understand how badly I messed this whole thing up.
Maeve: Theo, if you don’t answer your phone RIGHT THIS MINUTE, I’ll give your mother location access on your phone.
Maeve: If you wake up to find your bedroom floor covered in Lego, you are to blame for the harm done to the bottoms of your feet.
Maeve: You are the dumbest smart person I’ve ever met. Seriously, call me!
In any other situation, these texts would have me rolling my eyes, thinking “Classic Maeve,” but now my chest aches, and my brain has a dull ache as if it has been in a stutter spiral all day. This is where, no matter what comes out of my mouth, next will be a painful start to the simplest words I need to say. Staley—By the way, I would love to take you on a proper date. Let’s not compromise our job security . Calling Maeve back will fatigue me, and it’s a guaranteed win on her part because without knowing what she’ll say, I already know she’s right.
I lean back in my chair and groan, gathering the courage to text my best friend. Toughen up. Your location sharing is on the line!
Theo: Maeve.
Three bouncing dots move across my phone screen.
Maeve: This is your life, for better or for worse. I, for one, have no idea how you got a redheaded goddess dressed in sunlight to have sex with you. THE AUDACITY of my best friend not telling me he finally did the damn deed! I’m not sure how our friendship will withstand such a betrayal.
Does Maeve think I had sex with Staley?
Theo: We didn’t have sex, not that it’s your business.
Theo: Maeve.
Maeve: I didn’t get any details out of her. She kept apologizing.
Theo: For what?
Maeve: She said a whole lot without saying much that made sense. When I showed up at the coffee shop, she was talking to this guy. They were in some sort of cahoots. I can spot a cahoots arrangement from a mile away. At one point, her super-hot, overprotective friend in fishnets came over to yell at me. I think Staley had a mild panic attack ... Is this the sexual effect you have on women?
Maeve: BTW (Still a lesbian, but now you’ve piqued my interest)
Maeve: She had this look about her ... I implied that the two of you had maybesortakinda hooked up.
Theo: Ughhhhhhh. I signed a contract, and she did too.
Maeve: A sex contract?!
Theo: No, a professional cuddler and client contract in which she does nothing sexual with her clients. Maybe she was freaked out because you implied she broke it, but the implication isn’t entirely off. Are you sure it was a panic attack?
Maeve: So you did do something with her? Theodore Sullivan. brB, I’m giving your mom access to your location now, mainly because you’re an idiot boy. I thought you were different.
Theo: I deserve that, and maybe worse.
Maeve: When was the last time you cruised the stacks in the library? The answers you need are probably there since you’re such a word nerd. Maybe one of those old, bearded dudes or chicks with ruffles for collars has something revelatory for you concerning your love woes. But my best guess is to give her space. She likes you. I could hear it in the way she said your name.
Maeve knows me better than I know myself, and right now, her advice is the only sound option to choose from. Space. But wallowing and self-deprecation come in as a close second and third selection for resolving this mess I’ve created.
I fire up my email and type out a message to Staley because my conscience (but mostly my heart) cannot bear knowing what we did caused her to panic.
Staley,
I want to take you out on a date. I’ll be in the library—800 stacks—Friday night at about seven p.m. to study. I’d love to see you again if you want to hang out in neutral territory.
Warmly,
Theo
Staley never replies to my email, which doesn’t stop me from obsessively hitting refresh on my inbox every twenty minutes. But for being such a loyal customer, I receive a few additional coupon emails from Cuddle Like You Mean It.
Silence is loud in the library. Heads hunch over tables in the shapes of question marks, binging on textbooks lined with content they’ll never use in the rest of their grown-up lives. Printers spit out paper, and highlighters squeak across index cards color-coordinated by subject, all while friends murmur in low, muttered whispers throughout the library. I’ve never gone to the library because it’s a quiet place. I go to the library because I can hear others when they think no one is listening. It’s where I can hear myself think because Maeve is right. I need to clear my head and think, and hope is a thing with feathers that might fly Staley to my study room.
And the poetry stacks, I come for these too. The 800 stacks are on the third floor, along with the rest of the literary works the university offers. The stairs provide me an opportunity to slow my mind before I meet with the only people (aside from Maeve) who have been my friends for as long as I can remember: the poets—Yeats, Oliver, Dickinson, Dove, and others who led me through my youth.
I’ve buried my nose in book spines to settle my anxious heart. Ailments need remedies, and I need poetry to heal me with its rhyme schemes and syntax. Running my fingers across the books in a game of poetry roulette, I drag until I feel compelled to stop and land on Christina Rosetti. Known for her ballads and splendid imagery, I thumb through her Victorian-esque style poems. Lines catch my eye:
I watched and waited with a steadfast will:
And though the object seemed to flee away
That I so longed for, ever day by day
I watched and waited still.
Oh, and there it is, the acknowledgment of what to do next: Wait and remain steadfast; maybe Staley will show up here. It seems apt for Rossetti’s poem to be titled, “A Pause for Thought.” My head drops back to the shelf, and the answer is to remain hopeful, a type of defeat.
It’s been three days since I tasted her.
A whole seventy-two hours since I gave her my voice, mis-starts and all. 4,320 minutes since Staley asked me to leave her house. Counting the seconds is a special hell I will not entertain, but I do it anyway.
Familiar laughter echoes across the rows of books, and I can’t help but place my forefinger between the pages and lean toward the sound. Along the back wall is a row of study rooms, coveted by students for secludedness. I peek past the aisle to see if any rooms are free so Staley and I can speak privately if she shows up. A blond-colored door stands cracked open, and I hear the clinking of keychains knocking against a study table. The sound of Staley’s voice interjects. My heart bottoms out—she came.
“No, it’s okay, Gabby. I’ll finish up here and send you the rest to work on. Go on your date and have fun. One of us needs to.”
Staley’s back faces me (thank God) as Gabby makes her departure. I turn back down the row a second too late when Gabby spots me standing under a library spotlight, nervous to perform. Except I’ve been eavesdropping on the two of them all this time.
Quick, make up an excuse—say you needed to put your fingers between the pages of a book.
Gabby eyes me and makes a hard left into the row, where I walk backward in a panic—stopped only by the cement wall to land by the Z’s. To my right is a shelf of books, and to my left is Staley. Smack dab in front of me is what can best be described as my death wish if I don’t start explaining myself.
“What are you doing here?” Gabby whispers, eyes shifting toward the study table where Staley moves her head slowly to whatever is playing in her ears. Maybe it’s me?
“R-reading.”
“Staley’s right over there.” She tilts her head back, and I play it cool, so cool I only burn bright red when I stare at Staley for far longer than anyone trying to be inconspicuous should.
Gabby slaps the book out of my hands and scans my face, looking for a reason to call me out. I open my mouth to explain when she cuts me off.
“I don’t want to hear you and every other guy’s tired excuses. Staley might be a new friend to me, but don’t hurt her, okay? Don’t screw with her job either. Be straight with her.”
“I don’t kn-know what Staley told you.”
“She didn’t have to tell me anything. You told me everything I needed to know by being here now.”
A sly grin spreads across her face, and she has me cornered physically and tricked me into thinking Staley told her about us.
“I don’t pl-plan to hurt her, that’s why I asked h-her to meet me here,” I reply with a bite in my tone because I want to make it clear I’d never do that sort of thing to anyone, least of all Staley.
“My b-best friend already gave me a l-lecture. She said she m-met you the other day at the coffee s-shop. You left quite the impression on her.” I deliver this last bit with a smile because I want to see Maeve happy.
I cock my eyes at Gabby in hopes I’m driving the point across that I, Theodore Sullivan, have far too much penis for Maeve. And by too much penis, I mean I have one, and Maeve is not interested in penis owners.
Gabby’s eyes dart up in surprise, bringing her mouth into a wide O.
“I see. Even after I shouted at her to leave Staley alone? Well, this is a first.” And then she does this thing Maeve does when she is excited. She swoops in and grabs my hands, jumping with excitement. The keyrings on her backpack make an atrocious racket, sending the fear of Staley discovering me straight to my constricted throat. Approaching Staley calm, cool, and collected is the only plan I have in place, and Gabby is taking it from me.
“Shh! I don’t w-want Staley to th-think I’m spying on her. I invited her, b-but I didn’t think she’d come.”
The jumping ceases, and we return to silence as Gabby picks off imaginary lint from my sweater, adjusting the lengths of the strings in my hoodie, making them even. I’m comfortable communicating via eye contact only because it saves me from tripping all over my words, and I send a message I hope Gabby understands. Moony eyes aside, Gabby receives the message, and celebratory fist pumps the air.
“What’s your next move, Theo?”
My shoulders drop, and I breathe out a nervous sigh.
“I’m going to ask her out. But can you k-keep this between us? I don’t want the other students to kn-know.”
Gabby slaps the side of my arm and nods.
“Well, what’re you waiting for? Go ask her.”
I slide Rosetti back on the shelf and straighten my already straightened sweater, drying my sweaty palms off on my pants. Gabby stretches out her arm for me to go first.
As I reach the end of the stack, my hood is yanked, stopping me in my tracks. Gabby prompts me to lean in.
“Before you go—can I get Maeve’s number?”