Chapter 11 Theo
My parents know I don't give a flying fuck about therapy, yet here I am, listening to my dad tell my mom they should hold off on further sessions.
My mom scoffs like he suggested something obscene. "After the third one? That's ridiculous, Scott."
Nessa sits beside me with one knee pulled up, staring at nothing. That's how I know she's deep in her own head.
Three sessions in, and all I feel is scraped open.
The therapist has a way of asking questions that sound simple until you're answering them out loud and hearing yourself say things you didn't know you'd been thinking.
Last week, she asked me when I first felt responsible for Nessa.
I said I didn't know what she meant. She waited.
I kept not answering until the session ended. I've been thinking about it since.
I hate that I've been thinking about it since.
"Why are we doing this?" I ask. "We're fine."
My mom turns to me, and I see myself in her expression. "We were functional," she says. "Therapy isn't about fixing something broken. It's preventative."
"Whatever you say, Doctor."
She looks at me like she's been tired of me for years.
I glare back.
I'm tired of me too.
My dad exhales and rubs his jaw. "How about dinner? We're all wrung out."
I lean toward Nessa. "Want to?"
She nods once, then slides her headphones over her ears. The music plays loud enough that I can hear it. She looks the other way.
I let her.
We sit at the same table we always take at the steakhouse. My parents order. The waiter disappears.
"Theo." My mom folds her hands. "How are you?"
"Was the session not enough?"
"Theo," my dad warns.
"I'm fine," I say. "We're playing UCLA this weekend. I'm looking forward to it."
My mom pivots like she always does. "How is the team managing — with what happened to your teammate?"
I play with the condensation on my glass of water. "You'd be surprised how quickly things adapt."
"Do they know what happened to him?"
My dad leans in slightly. Nessa's headphones are off — I notice without looking.
I let a slow smile settle on my face. "These things take time."
Nessa stands. "I'm going to the bathroom."
She walks off before anyone can stop her.
My mom watches her go, then turns back to me. She picks up her wine when it arrives, but she doesn't drink it yet. Just holds it and looks at me.
"Theo."
I meet her eyes.
"If you know anything about what happened to him—" She keeps her voice even. Careful. "You know what the right thing to do is."
I think about that for a moment.
"I don't know anything," I say. Calm. Unbothered.
She reads me. She's been reading me since I was seven years old, when she found the neighbor's cat and immediately understood that I hadn't found it the way she did. She never said a word then either. Just looked at me with that particular expression she's wearing right now.
"He wasn't who people thought he was," I say quietly. "That's all I'll say about it."
"Theo—"
"I have an alibi for that night. The game. The ER after." I pick up my water. "That's all the police would need from me."
She holds my gaze for a long moment. Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
My dad says my name, low.
Nessa reappears and slides back into her seat. The conversation closes without anyone closing it.
My mom knows how to read silence. That's the problem with her. I give her almost nothing, and she still manages to fill in the outline.
I smile at her over my water glass.
She looks away first.
We get home just after eleven.
The house settles quietly around us. My mom kisses Nessa on the cheek and squeezes my shoulder on the way past — still tells me she loves me — and I think about what that means.
That she can look at me, suspect what she suspects, and still say it.
Our family is loyal beyond reason. I used to think that was a fault.
Tonight it just feels like the truth.
"I'm going to watch something," I tell Nessa. "Come."
She sighs like I've asked her to pick up dog shit. "You're such a dick."
"At dinner?"
"Talking about him like that. In front of Mom." She shakes her head. "You have a problem, Theo."
"Come watch a movie with me."
"You're the reason we're in therapy."
"It's your depression over Cody that started this. Your actions triggered Mom. Not mine." I say it evenly, without cruelty. It's just true.
She goes still.
Her eyes, when she looks at me, aren't wet. They're flat. Dark. Like something behind them switched off months ago, and she's gotten used to the dark.
That's not what she looked like before him. I remember what she looked like before.
"Come watch the movie," I say.
She storms past me toward the home theater.
I melt the butter, salt the popcorn, and mix it. By the time I get there, she's already picked something. I don't say anything. I hand her the bowl and sit beside her.
We're halfway through the popcorn when she says, "Have you seen her yet?"
I don't answer.
"You know who I mean." She throws a piece of popcorn in her mouth.
I turn and look at her in the glow of the screen. She's thinner than she was a few weeks ago. Her lips are chapped. I don't like the way she's been looking since all of this started — like she's slowly becoming less of herself.
"Don't," I say.
"She's really pretty, Theo. Like genuinely—"
"I said don't."
Not because hearing Adela's name bothers me.
Because I don't want Nessa anywhere near that name. Near what that name is attached to. Near what's coming. She's been through enough, and whatever happens next — whatever I make happen next — she doesn't get to be part of it.
Nessa studies me for a moment. Something crosses her face that I can't read.
Then she hands me back the popcorn bowl, stands, and says, "I'm going to sleep."
"Goodnight."
She leaves.
I sit alone in the dark with the movie still playing, and I think about my mom's expression at dinner. The way she held her wine without drinking it. The way she kept looking at me was like she was solving something slowly.
She's close.
She's always close.
I think about Beckett spending the afternoon with Adela Kalkaska, feeding her sandwiches, planting seeds. Doing exactly what I told him to.
I think about Nessa's door. She used to leave it open, but it's been closed every night for months now, like she's sealing something off.
I reach over and turn the movie off.
The room goes dark and quiet, and somewhere in my dresser drawer, a pink crystal pendant sits.
Some things, just like the necklace, once cut, don't reattach.