Chapter Seventeen
Chelsea
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As soon as Bas walked out, I gasped for air.
He reminded me so much of my dad in that moment. Not when he grabbed me; I knew he’d never hurt me. But when he walked away.
He left.
Oh my God. He left me.
Of course he left me; I’d pushed him away.
I watched his expression as he realized I wasn’t this marshmallow hidden inside a spiky shell. I was all spikes, and he’d fallen into my Venus man trap. My regret was almost instant. I wanted to tell him he’d been the reason I’d wanted to try at all. If I could’ve made it work with anyone, it would’ve been him.
But that wouldn’t be fair to him.
So I watched from behind my walls as he sucked on his lip and then chose dignity over bargaining. Or maybe he chose my wishes over his. Either way, he walked out the door.
Elizabeth swept me into a hug. “Hey, there. Let’s go sit down.”
He was so much better off without me. I smacked myself in the forehead with both hands. Again. And again. “Why can’t I pretend to be normal?”
“You are normal, Chelsea.” She led me to the sofa. “You’re not yourself tonight.”
He’d probably never forgive me, and it hurt the most knowing I’d lost his friendship.
“You need to call Dr. Rubin.” She arched her eyebrow at me, in stern friend mode. I felt bad for making her be my therapist. She hadn’t signed up for this. “I love you, but I’m not qualified to heal you. Promise me you’ll call her tomorrow.”
My eyes closed, and I sat with her words. The fear my therapist would tell me I was overreacting, or worse—that I’d invited Basil’s reaction—kept me circling the drain. But Dr. Rubin had never once judged me like the school counselor in my youth.
With a heavy exhale, I said, “I’ll call her.”
I stared into my wineglass, willing myself to get it together. Crying wouldn’t fix anything with my parents or with Bas. He was right to leave. He’d made a mistake to believe I could be whatever it was he wanted. We’d known each other a little over a month.
So why did I feel like I’d just made the biggest mistake of my life?
Elizabeth sipped on her wine, then brightened like her brain had woken up and a synapse had fired. “Maybe we should go to yoga tomorrow.”
I blew a raspberry. “I don’t think anything on the list is going to make this hurt less.”
“Have you tried forgiveness?”
She meant well, but I chortled. “My parents have never expressed remorse.”
“I wasn’t talking about them. It’s time you stopped beating yourself up. You’re worthy of love, too.” God, I didn’t deserve Elizabeth.
A tear slipped free and streaked down my face. I brushed it off. “You sure you don’t want to upgrade our relationship? Think about it: you keep me company for all the sappy emotional moments, and I’m an excellent kisser.”
“That’s just the arrangement I’m after.” She smiled, but there was no joy behind it. “I’ve been waiting for you to propose.”
I laughed bitterly. “I don’t think I’m the marrying kind.”
“You might be. Maybe you just haven’t met the right person yet.”
“If not you, then who?”
She yawned, then heaved herself up. “I have to go home and sleep off this food. Call Dr. Rubin.”
For the first time, I noticed Evan had cleared out as well, and I hadn’t even seen him go.
After a nice, long pity party, I finally dragged myself to bed and fell asleep without even changing into my pajamas.
In the morning, I woke with a head full of noise.
At first, I hoped that I’d dreamed everything, but then the reality of my mom’s phone call hit. I considered calling her, but I couldn’t bring myself to contact her as long as he might answer. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to talk to her after she’d let me step on a land mine with no warning.
Then I had to face what I’d said to Bas in the depths of my despair. I’d finally scared that nice guy away, and I didn’t know how to handle the emotions that stirred up. I’d never regretted ditching anyone in the past, so why did my heart cramp at the thought of never seeing him again? It was better for him.
Dr. Rubin scheduled an emergency session with me, and I sounded like a broken record.
She listened patiently, and rather than tell me I hadn’t heeded her advice, she said, “You’ve been working on putting your past into your past, and you’ve been doing brilliantly. But it’s all come back to life again, and of course you’re going to feel shock and renewed grief. But, Chelsea, you need to examine who your anger is aimed at.”
I sat with that for a bit. I knew she didn’t mean Bas. And she must not mean my dad because he was my enemy number one. Did she mean me? Was this one of those Zen awakenings where I was my own enemy all along? I had no answer until it hit me. My mom. I’d been giving her a pass for so long, but she was the one allowing this man into my life over and over. My dad had fucked me up by making me flinch at the idea of romance. But my mom was the one who taught me loneliness was all I deserved. It was the only safe option.
“So what now? I’m supposed to forgive her? Then I’ll stop fucking up my life?”
That got a laugh out of her. “You should know by now there’s no silver bullet, but why don’t you write her a letter, like you did to your dad? You don’t have to send it, but you can work through some of this anger by telling her how you feel. She never needs to hear it until you’re ready to confront her.”
I’d never be ready to confront her. Whatever else she’d done, she’d been my only family, and she was a victim, too. She was a moth that kept flying into the bug zapper, but that was her nature. I didn’t want to keep flying with her.
“What do I do about Bas?”
“Remember what I told you about communicating? You need to figure out exactly what it is you want from him, whether that’s nothing, just friendship, or something more. And you need to make sure you’re both on the same page.”
Well, that would be difficult considering he’d probably, justifiably, run for the hills. And if I could talk to him, what would I even say?
“I’ll get right on that.”
I went home and opened my laptop. Before I started writing, I reread the letter I’d written to my dad. After that fueled me with renewed fury, I unloaded everything I wanted to say to Mom but never dared.
The anger I’d been hiding from myself poured out. I let myself become the needy child who’d relied on her to help me navigate a scary world, and I was done excusing her as a victim, forgiving her because she’d stayed when he’d left, ignoring her neglect and constant take-take-take. I wrote about the times she failed to stand up for me, for herself. I wrote about how disappointed I was that she’d chosen to cede her control to a man who mistreated her, how she’d been a shitty role model who set me up for a lifetime of relationship failures. I wrote that my life was my own, and I could make my own decisions. I could value myself. And when I wrote it down, I tried to believe it.
It helped. I’d weathered one storm, but then I was left with the realization I’d completely driven away a good man. Bas had spent the whole day proving to me that he was a rock, safety, comfort, all the things I craved. Like an antidote to my poison. And I’d kicked him out because I was the bad guy all along.
Maybe I should be writing him a letter. I’d thought it as a joke, but then it struck me that I owed him an apology for how I’d treated him. How I’d been treating him.
So afraid of being hurt, I’d turned the behavior I’d internalized outward, and poor Bas hadn’t deserved my sudden rejection. But I also couldn’t keep going as I had. I’d flamed out because I’d tried to bury my rough parts—Old Chelsea. But there was no old or new Chelsea. There was just me, and I couldn’t keep showing him only half of myself. It wasn’t fair to trick him into loving someone who didn’t even exist.
He might not even care. For all I knew, he’d shrugged me off like a worn coat. Easygoing Bas would move on, like he always did.
And I didn’t deserve anything more.
I printed out the letter to my mom. Elizabeth asked me whether I wanted her to keep that one, too, bury it, or send it to my mom. I no longer cared either way about either letter. The threat of my parents reading them lost its power, and I just wanted to let go of my anger. I wanted to move on.
So instead, we performed a small ceremony on Elizabeth’s porch involving a couple of bottles of wine, a tiny cauldron, and a Zippo lighter, turning my words into cinder and smoke. It didn’t instantly free me of all my worries and anger, but a weight lifted off my shoulders. The truth finally sank in: my mom was not my responsibility.
It was time to stop running into flaming buildings. I’d only get burned.