Good For You

Chapter Twenty-Five

I take to my bed, prepared for a night of tossing and turning furiously, but instead, I sleep like the dead.

There are no bad dreams about my latest viral meltdown. No anxious night sweats over Justin and Orla. No staring at the ceiling in a panic spiral about my kiss with Edward or my fight with Sam. I just sleep; heavy, thick and dreamless.

I wake up late, as the front door slams. Usually when Sam leaves for work, she sneaks out, moving about with care in case it disturbs me. Not today. She’s clearly still furious.

Oddly, I’m not. Not anymore. In fact, I don’t feel much of anything.

It is tempting to try for sadness; to have a big old cry about all these things that have befallen me and my life.

For a moment I consider spending the day – many days!

– in bed, contemplating what my future might entail now that I’ve ruined everything and sabotaged all the things I cared about.

But there is something like acceptance in my chest as I move about the flat, making myself breakfast.

Because a lot of this is my fault, I’m realising.

Sam was partly right in what she said last night.

I’ve been blaming all the outside factors for what’s happened to me, and sure, maybe I didn’t really deserve to be filmed and publicly shamed like that.

But I have to take some accountability for where I am right now.

I’m the one who behaved like that in the restaurant.

I’m also the one who mentioned Edward’s name when Fabian said I needed to have therapy.

I’m the one who resisted and behaved badly when Edward tried to help.

I’m the one who went with him to his parents’ house yesterday.

And I’m the one who – hazy as it is, what with all the lust – made the first move and kissed him.

I’m also the one who would’ve kept kissing him if he hadn’t stopped us.

And I probably would’ve dragged him into bed afterwards, too.

I’m also the one who picked a fight with Sam last night because I needed to take my feelings out on someone.

Although, admittedly, some of it needed to be said.

Either way, I had agency in all of this. And it’s time I accepted what’s happened, instead of fighting it. It’s time I started trying to fix things.

I remember what Edward started to say yesterday, during our interrupted therapy session. The thing about appropriate outlets for my anger.

I pick my phone up from the table and google my local gym. On a whim, I book myself into a midday kickboxing class on a guest pass.

The frustrating thing is that I felt like I was starting to work on fixing things.

I felt like talking to Edward was working for me.

It was getting through, piercing my shell.

I was starting to realise how deep-rooted and messy a lot of my internal stuff was.

I was starting to understand that just because I have words of wisdom for other people, doesn’t mean I have internalised anything wise about my own life.

I was really starting to understand that I needed to work on myself. And I was willing to at last.

The next thing I do is head to LinkedIn.

I’m about to lose my regular work on Morning Tea, my clients at the therapy collective have abandoned me, and there’s next to no chance my publisher will want Orange Flags anymore.

Worse than that, I’ve been living off the advance money they gave me, and if they suddenly demand it all back, I’m going to have to find a new source of income. And quickly.

I search the site for roles requiring a therapist and ping off my CV to a few places, barely reading the job listings I’m applying for.

At this stage, I’m aware how unlikely it is that I’d be a strong candidate for anything, but I want to at least feel proactive; like I’m taking steps to rectify my situation.

I need to feel some semblance of control over my existence.

I throw on my gym clothes, my mind blank and numb, and an hour later I’m pummelling a boxing bag.

I give it everything I’ve got, which – to start with – is not a lot.

The first few punches and kicks feel awkward and futile.

The bag is so big and immoveable, while I’m weak and feeble.

But after a few minutes, the feelings start to rush in.

I feel my rage solidifying in my fists and feet.

I hit harder, I kick with more strength, I cry a little bit.

I internally curse the bag and everyone I know.

Because sure, I have fucked things up and I’m happy to take some accountability. But other people haven’t helped, have they?

How dare Edward toss me to one side like this?

How dare Samira tell me I’m the problem, it’s me (Taylor’s version).

How dare those strangers on the internet mock and jeer like I’m not a real person.

How dare producer Spencer threaten my livelihood so casually.

How dare the publishers cancel my book. How dare everyone and everything. Punch punch punch. Kick kick kick.

The trainer shouts out more instructions and I throw myself into the routine, sweat pouring down my face, my hands and arms aching with the effort. It feels so good, so cathartic. I feel strong. I feel… powerful? This is exactly what I needed.

The fifty-minute class is over quickly, and I fight an urge to hug all the strong women around me, all just as sweaty and furious looking. I will be back, I silently tell the room, but for now, I have things to do and say.

I’m going to speak to Edward.

I rush straight over to the therapy collective building in a blaze of self-righteous anger and indignation, not even stopping to change out of my stinky exercise clothes.

I run up the stairs, ignoring the lift, and burst into his office, only realising too late that he is likely to be with a client.

But he’s not.

He’s alone, sitting behind his desk, hunched over his laptop, studiously making notes. He looks tired, his usually perfect suit a little more crumpled than usual. And is that a hint of stubble, heaven forbid?

He looks up, starting in his chair when he sees it’s me. A look of horror crosses his face, before he swiftly pulls it back to neutrality. To therapist Edward.

‘Olivia?’ he offers politely, like he’s not sure. Of course, it’s possible he’s not – I must look demented, standing in his doorway wearing my old grey, gym clothes, my face sweaty and bright red.

‘We’re going to finish our sessions,’ I tell him calmly. ‘We’re going to have our final two meetings, and then you’re going to sign me off to go back to Morning Tea.’

He’s already shaking his head. ‘Liv, we can’t.

You know how transference works. It’s very common and very normal for a client to develop romantic feelings for their therapist. There’s no judgement at all, but we have to maintain appropriate boundaries.

It wouldn’t be professional to carry on after what happened. ’

His words confuse me. Transference is all one-sided. Is he saying this was all me? That the kiss was all on me? And that the way I’ve been feeling recently is all fake? He’s saying it’s only my stupid psyche getting confused by his kindness?

I shake my head, trying to understand. No, he’s wrong!

Of course he is. This isn’t transference.

I’m a trained, experienced therapist for god’s sake, not a personification of the silly young woman trope, easily swayed by a few words of kindness.

This is more than that. Surely it’s more than…

Edward’s staring at a point above my head, waiting. His words echo around my head.

He’s saying I don’t know my own mind.

But what if I don’t? What would that mean?

Because if I can’t even recognise the difference between real emotion and me projecting something onto the nearest nice person, what kind of terrible therapist does that make me?

Maybe I really am a fraud. I feel a surge of anger at the injustice of it all, and then that same feeling of acceptance I experienced this morning.

‘Okay, look,’ I begin again, this time keeping my voice as calm as I can.

‘It was just a mistake. Like you said, it was all just transference. It happens, it doesn’t have to be a big deal, does it?

And you can’t just abandon the sessions now.

I can’t start again with someone else, and I will definitely lose my job if it gets back to Morning Tea that you’ve dumped me as a client.

You can’t do that to me. We’ve both agreed that what happened yesterday was a mistake…

’ And for good measure I add, ‘… a disgusting mistake that was an all-round horrible experience…’ He has the good grace to look mildly offended.

‘… and it will never, ever be repeated. So why would it be a problem to continue with our last two sessions?’

He sighs, looking a little defeated.

‘Edward,’ I say sternly. ‘We’re carrying on with the therapy. Even if I have to squat in your office for the two sessions. I mean it, I’ll just turn up here and sit there, saying nothing.’

He sighs again. ‘Okay,’ he says at last.

‘Okay?’ I echo back, relief flooding me. We stare at one another; resignation on his face, determination on mine. I smile tightly. ‘Shall we have a session now then? Bang out number five right here.’ I’m almost being sarcastic, but he checks his watch.

‘Fine,’ he replies tersely.

‘Fine.’ I flounce over to the sofa and take a seat. ‘Let’s do some fucking therapy then.’