Chapter 7 Red - Ain’t no thang but a chicken wang
My bare feet hit the hardwood floor of my bedroom, and I take in one of my most favorite smells in the world wafting in from the window I have cracked next to my bed.
It’s the smell of leaves beginning to change and cool air that makes you grab your oldest, comfiest hoodie. I breathe in the scent of football games, apple picking, pumpkin carving, and bonfires that last all night.
It’s the end of September. The start of my most favorite time of the year.
Fall.
You’re assigned a season at birth. Don’t ask questions, it’s just one of the rules. My season is fall. I love everything about it and trying to put that feeling into words wouldn’t do it justice, so it’s a if you know, you know type of thing. Capeesh?
I’ve been feeling the temperature drop and the days shorten for a couple weeks now, waiting for the switch to flip between seasons. I slowly and quietly said goodbye to summer while trying to settle into life post breakdown.
I start my morning routine: wash my face, brush my teeth, and tame my out of control hair.
I change into a clean pair of cheeky underwear, a new pair of long cable-knit socks, and throw on my old Merrymount High Varsity Cheer hoodie, tucking my thumbs into the holes of the sleeves I’ve created from wear and tear over the years.
This sweatshirt has been through it all with me and it falls about halfway down my thighs, so it’s perfect for a no pants day.
I pad my way into the kitchen, grabbing the s’mores iced coffee in a mason jar I brewed last night from the fridge. I’m throwing this flavor on the menu next week, and I want to make sure it’s just right before I release it to the masses of Merrymount.
The first sip after a drop of creamer tells me I have nothing to worry about when it comes to pleasing my customers at Red’s. This shit is good.
I crack open the window above my sink to let that crisp, fresh air in, and I find my laptop on my kitchen table, where I left it last night before I went to bed.
I sit down, facing the French doors that lead to my backyard.
I watch my laptop come to life as I open it up and inhale another glorious sip of caffeine.
All around, I’m feeling better. There’s a list of people to thank for that, and at the top of that list is my therapist, Lisa, whose picture just popped up in the corner of my computer screen. I tap accept on the notification to start our meeting for this week’s session.
“Good Morning, Red,” Lisa greets me with a bright smile, one I’ve come to lean on and love over the last couple years.
“Anotha glorious morning! Makes me sick!” I say over my cup in my best Winnie Sanderson impersonation.
“Ah, so you feel it in the air today as well, huh?” Lisa was assigned fall as her season at birth, too. I’m convinced it’s one of the reasons I’ve stuck with her through this process for so long. She gets me.
“It’s starting, Lisa. I can practically feel the leaves crunching already.”
“How are you feeling today, honey?”
The main reason I clicked with Lisa almost instantly, is she’s perfectly informal.
The slew of consultation appointments I had with other therapists immediately following my separation from Dean taught me I could never reach my full potential of clear mind and mental stability if I constantly felt like I was having to put on an act for the person who was supposed to be helping me.
I met with a few professionals in their stuffy offices with stale hard candy sitting in a bowl next to the leather chair they directed me to sit in, and I wanted to crawl out of my skin right then and there.
One male therapist’s first question like, right out the gate, was “Do you think there’s anything you might have contributed to your marriage ending? ”
It was the last time I set up an appointment with a male therapist.
Some weren’t so bad. Most weren’t awful. But none of them felt like they could work with me to tackle untangling everything going on in my head. Until Lisa.
She calls me honey and listens to my rambles, following up on every point, whether there are five or fifteen. And she calls me out on my bullshit, something I do appreciate from time to time.
I finally settle on a generic answer, although an honest one. “I’m feeling good.”
“Good?” Lisa adjusts her thick, tortoiseshell framed glasses that always find themselves teetering on the edge of her nose. “Good is good, Red. What has this week looked like?”
“The usual. Nothing crazy has happened at the cafe. I stayed late yesterday to have dinner with Miller and Penelope.”
Lisa looks into her laptop’s camera. “You had dinner with them last night?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“And how was that?”
“Miller made salmon, and I thought there was no way Penelope would touch it. But she did! She ate her whole plate and asked for seconds. I don’t blame her, it was wicked good.
Can you believe neither of them has ever tried sushi?
Insane. I told them we’d have to order take out sometime.
I was ready to head home but Penelope asked if I wanted to watch the rest of the movie she had on earlier, and I had nothing to do.
So, like, why not? But to no one’s surprise, she passed out well before the end.
But then Miller put on The Bachelorette, and I obviously had to see who was being sent home… so, yeah.”
“So, you’d say you had a good time?”
I’m not sure where she’s going with this. “Yes.” I’ve learned it’s easier to answer her questions before demanding explanations.
“And this was a spur of the moment decision, not connected to the informal, verbal contract you have with Miller about his and his daughter’s living arrangement?”
I now see where she’s going with this. “Yes,” I admit.
I watch Lisa lean back into her chair and interlace her fingers together on her lap. Her notebook and pen are perched on the chair’s armrest. Her tight, jet black curls are gathered in a loose ponytail on the top of her head. She pretends to ponder for a minute.
“Interesting.”
I huff a sigh. “Out with it, Lisa. What’s so interesting?” I throw up air quotes for extra emphasis so she gets that I’m onto her shenanigans.
“You have barely strayed from this rigid routine of yours for…almost two years now? Maybe more?” Lisa waits for me to nod my head.
She continues, “Except with Margot. And now the Caswells.”
“Yeah, Lis. I found friends. Who knew?”
“You’ve had friends all along. You’ve been the one guarding your castle.”
Okay, Lisa’s metaphors are kind of annoying sometimes.
“Do you see some of your walls starting to come down?” she asks me.
I don’t fucking know is how I want to respond. But, of course, I do not. I take my time mulling it over in my head. I think about how I don’t jump at the sight of Miller coming down the stairs anymore and rather, greet him with a smile like a normal human being.
I don’t hesitate to join Penelope in whatever activity she wants me to participate in, whether it’s a random dance party or donut eating contest. (Miller squashed that one pretty quick. He said it was a choking hazard. He was right, but I pouted alongside P in solidarity.)
Margot has been opening the cafe, and I’ve been heading in a little later.
We work with each other on scheduling, and Miller fills in when needed.
I’ve even thought about officially hiring someone else part time.
You know, besides tapping George in from the pizza shop when I’m in a bind. It’s not all on me now, I feel lighter.
The only thing that I’ve actually planned is Thursday night pasta, and it doesn’t feel like a chore at all. I look forward to it.
Now that I really sit here with it all, I realize life has shifted, and I didn’t even notice it happening.
“Woah,” I say.
“Woah is right, Red. I’m really proud of you.
Nothing that has been thrown at you has been easy.
Showing up for yourself every day is no small task.
But granting yourself grace and freedom, something you have struggled with for some time, is so beautiful and rewarding.
It doesn’t have to be big and heavy. These baby steps you’re making are laying an incredibly strong foundation. ”
We dive into the rest of this week’s session without any other major breakthroughs.
I beat around the bush when Lisa brings up my lack of communication with my parents, and thankfully, she doesn’t push me on it.
I think I’ve made enough progress this week in her eyes that she’s willing to look past it.
Once I sign off with Lisa, I get started on housework I’ve neglected lately, beginning with my very sad monstera plants that have seen better days. I hope some water and sunlight can bring them back to life. Poor little droopy babies.
I flop onto my couch after attending to my greenery, dishes, and laundry.
Satisfied with the work I put in, I grab the remote to throw on one of my comfort shows as a break.
The sounds of Gavin DeGraw float through my living room, and I let my eyes flutter closed, not needing to see to know what’s going on in this episode because I’ve seen it so many times. A nap doesn’t sound so bad right now.
I look between the extra butter popcorn in my left hand and the movie theater popcorn in my right. I repeat this several times, unable to make a decision.
“They’re not expired. I checked this morning when I got in.” Chris’s voice snaps me out of my pattern, and I face the teenage pain in my ass cashier at the front of Merrymount’s little market, The Store. It’s been staple in my life, since I grew up two doors down at the cafe.