Chapter 47
FORTY-SEVEN
VALENTINA
I stare at the clock, willing the hand to move. I’m pretty sure it’s broken—that would be the ultimate karmic payback.
The woman across from me licks her lips, the sound loud in the silent room, and I reluctantly look at her. Thin, tall, dark hair greying at the roots, a simple white blouse tucked into grey pants, glasses, wrinkles around her eyes—she’s the most basic therapist I’ve ever seen.
Not that I’ve seen very many. Or any, for that matter.
“So, what? I just tell you my problems and you take notes on which institution would suit me best?”
She doesn’t smile or frown or even fucking blink. With a calm voice that simply makes me want to rage, she says, “If that’s where you’d like to start, go ahead and tell me your problems.”
She doesn’t deny the institution, and we both note it.
I lean back into the couch, trying to get comfortable, but the plush cushions threaten to swallow me, so I sit forward again. “I should make you a list of the things good in my life. That would take less time.”
She nods. “Okay, start there.”
I stare at her. She stares right back.
Finally, I relent, looking down at my nails, picking at the cuticles as I try to figure out what to say. When nothing comes to mind, Susan—that’s my therapist's name, Susan—sets down her notebook, laying her hands flat in her lap.
It’s probably some kind of shrink technique to look less threatening. It doesn’t fucking work.
“Can you at least tell me why you don’t want to tell me anything?”
I chew on my lip. I could, but— “What if I say something wrong?”
Her brows relax, and she nods, as if thinking about the question with great attention. “Do you think there’s a wrong answer?”
“Isn’t there always?”
She shrugs again, and it grates on my nerves so intensely, my jaw begins to ache. “So what if you say something wrong? You don’t know me. Plus, you pay me to listen.”
I open my mouth and quickly close it. I do it again, my mouth flopping like a fish out of water for several miserable moments before I flick my gaze back to the clock.
How has it only been five minutes?
“I always say something wrong.”
She picks up her notepad and begins to write. Strike one for Valentina—the nuthouse, here I come. After she’s done scribbling, she says, “Tell me about that.”
“Tell you about what?” I snap.
“Why you think you always say something wrong.”
“Because everyone’s always mad at me.”
Her lips purse. “Do you ever get mad?”
Is this lady serious? I feel anger rising through my chest, steam threatening to explode out of my ears. “Of course I do,” I bite out.
“Why?”
“Because I can’t do or say anything right!” I stand at the confession, chest heaving. It’s like she’s purposefully trying to goad me into being the bad guy here—show just how evil I can be. I feel trapped, cornered, and I refuse to pay her any more to make me feel worse. “I’m leaving.”
I turn toward the door, ready to flee.
“Could it be the people you look up to make you feel inadequate? Not that you are, but that you’ve been conditioned to feel less than so you’ll continue to do whatever they ask?”
Her question feels like an arrow through the heart—deadly and true.
“But why? Why did he want to control me so badly?” My voice trembles, and I remain facing the door. As soon as I have the answer, I’m leaving and never returning.
“Why do you want control so badly?”
Tears prick my eyes. This is fucking ridiculous. All I want is an answer so I can get out of here and start making things right with every person I’ve wronged. I want to be better.
“Why don’t you sit down, and we can talk about it. Wanting control isn’t a bad thing, Valentina; it’s a trauma response to having none. It’s not a weakness, or an act of villainy—it’s a coping mechanism. You’re not broken, you’re just hurt.”
I slowly turn. “Is that why he hurt me?”
She smiles softly, motioning toward the couch.
She waits for me to sit down, before crossing her legs.
“Unfortunately, we can never know why people hurt us, but I’m happy to help you explore why you are hurting, why you might hurt other people.
First, we need to tackle this pesky but very real feeling of inadequacy.
Making mistakes is human, Valentina, and you are a beautiful human, flaws and all. ”
I lean back into the couch again, but this time, I get comfy.
My body feels sore and tired, the same feeling I get after a good workout, as I walk into the house. It’s quiet, and I note that Rafael’s car is gone. Pulling out my phone, I shoot him a text.
ME: Did you decide to leave after all?
It’s a joke, kind of. After today, I know I say and think those kinds of things as a way of coping with the very real, very crippling fear of being alone.
Almost instantly, Rafael responds.
RAFAEL: You’ll have to try a lot harder than that to get rid of me. I’ll be back soon.
I smile despite myself and move farther into the house.
Entering the kitchen, I contemplate getting a drink—or better yet, a joint, but part of me wants to soak in this new feeling of self-awareness.
Not everything has to be numbed with booze or blunts, especially now that I realize when I do numb myself, I’m more likely to lash out and hurt those around me. I don’t want to hurt anyone.
I’ve a lot of work to do—more than I’m comfortable even admitting, but it feels good to have started. It’s like I’ve finally ripped off the Band-Aid, and now, the real healing can begin.
I don’t realize I’m staring into the fridge until a hand begins to push the door closed. Jumping, I step back.
“Sorry; hard day?” McCrae’s eyes are soft, kind even. I don’t know what to make of it. So, I nod. He nods back, pulling the corner of his mustache into his mouth to chew on it. His fingers are still wrapped around the corner of the fridge door, and then he drops his hold, stepping back.
It’s awkward between us, for the first time since I’ve known him. I don’t like it—it feels wrong and unnatural, and even if it hurts, I’m determined to turn a page with him.
“So, I want to apologize—”
He waves me off. “I don’t want you to. Not to me. Never to me. I understand you, V, better than anyone. You’re like a sister to me. Someone I trust and care about deeply.”
A year ago, his words would’ve destroyed me. Today, I feel only peace.
I smile at him. “We’re pretty fucked up, aren’t we?”
He barks a laugh at that. “The most.”
“You’re my best friend, you know that.”
His eyes widen, lifting to mine at the confession. It’s the most honest thing I’ve ever said to him, the most vulnerable—it’s the only gift I can give him, the only true thanks for everything he’s done.
After moments that begin to feel like forever, he smiles. “You’re mine, V.”
We stand there, smiling at each other like drunken fools, for a long while. It’s not awkward anymore. It’s comfortable, a place of understanding with another human being I care deeply about.
Before, I would have felt the cold sting of rejection, but it’s not that. You can’t force two people to be more than they are. You can’t help who you love.
I swallow thickly at the thought, my throat beginning to work overtime around a sudden knot.
“What is it?” McCrae’s smile fades.
“Are you leaving?” I hadn’t thought about it until now, but I know it’s likely the next step. He’s been my safety net, my dark knight in obsidian armor, but things are different now. They have to be.
“Yes.”
Tears burn my eyes, and for a second, I see the horror cross McCrae’s face as he grapples with the need to fix it.
I raise my hand to my face, wiping away the first beading tear.
“It’s okay. I understand—I even think it’s the right thing to do.
I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but it’s time I learn to do them for myself. ”
“What about Rafael?” I can sense the hesitation in his voice.
“It’s between him and me, but I feel safe with him, if that helps you sleep at all.”
His shoulders instantly relax, and he nods. When he raises his hand to grip the back of his neck, though, I can tell there’s more.
“What?”
“How do you do it?”
“What do you mean?”
His eyes find mine now, wide and afraid for the first time since I’ve known him. His voice wobbles as he says, “Risk getting hurt in order to be with someone?”