Gage
Chapter thirty-eight
The first thing we do at our second counseling session is report back on our “homework” of communicating with each other about how we’re feeling.
“It was really helpful, actually,” Olivia says. “It’s hard for me to be vulnerable with other people but practicing a little bit every day has made me feel more comfortable.”
I shift in my seat on the couch, taking Olivia’s hand in mine. “I can see the difference, for sure.” I look at Olivia. “When I tell you I love you now, I know you believe me. And it meant a lot that you remembered your promise to take me to that fancy milkshake place for my birthday last week.”
I turn back to Dr. Francine. “On my end, I’d been struggling with …
not with being able to tell Olivia how I feel in general but trusting that my feelings won’t overwhelm her or make her push me away.
When Olivia shared last time about how much her feelings around her dyslexia were holding us back, I felt like I’d finally been given the Rosetta Stone to understand her better. ”
It was a startling and achingly sad revelation. That she would think even for a second, never mind five years, that I wouldn’t want her because of her learning disability makes me furious, not at her, but at anyone in her past who ever put her down.
She’s everything I’ve ever wanted and more.
Dr. Francine nods. “Last time, we talked about what happened at graduation. Today, I’d like to get into what followed. When you talked at graduation, you both agreed to continue your friendship. What happened?”
It feels like she’s changing the subject, but I want to talk about this, too. As hard as it was when Olivia rejected me as her boyfriend, her ghosting me afterward is what hurt the most.
“We stopped being friends.” I chuckle humorlessly.
“And why is that?”
Olivia speaks up. “It was my fault. It was too hard.” She looks at me. “I didn’t know how to act around you anymore. I was avoiding my feelings for you. It got easier when we went to different schools a couple months later anyway.”
I wipe my hands on my jeans and focus on Olivia. “On my side, it felt like you abandoned me. I was bitter about your rejection, and you ghosting me didn’t help. I didn’t reach out to you because I felt like you wouldn’t want me to.”
Dr. Francine taps her pen against her lips, then points it toward me. “Gage, do you think your adoption might have affected how you reacted?”
I consider it. “Yeah,” I say finally. “I’m already sensitive about people leaving me because I lost Maggie when I was still a baby. Even though I saw her regularly while I was growing up, and even though I eventually understood why she gave us up, it’s been a sore spot for me.”
Olivia turns to Dr. Francine. “So, my go-to move of avoiding problems played right into Gage’s fear of abandonment.”
Dr. Francine folds her hands in her lap. “That sounds likely.”
Olivia squeezes my hand and meets my eyes. “I’m sorry I wasn’t sensitive to your fears. I know I hurt you, but I won’t leave you again. I promise. I’m in this forever.”
While her words are reassuring, and I trust that she’s sincere, it doesn’t stop the fear I feel when I think about the possibility of Olivia breaking up with me.
When I say as much, Dr. Francine turns to me.
“Gage, I want you to recognize that ‘abandonment’ implies leaving somebody helpless. An infant, for example, can be abandoned because he can’t fend for himself.
The infant that Maggie ‘abandoned’—or so it felt to your psyche—still lives inside of you and fears being left helpless again.
But you can’t be abandoned now. You’re an adult; you’re not helpless.
You can take care of yourself. People may leave you, but you will survive it. ”
Dr. Francine has made similar statements in my individual sessions with her, but today, for some reason, the words hit me particularly hard. I’ve heard the idea before, and it made sense to me logically, but today I can feel it sinking into my bones.
I’m not helpless. I can survive people leaving me.
Does that make the thought of someone—of Olivia—leaving me easy? No, but it does keep the thought from overwhelming and paralyzing me.
“We’re almost out of time for today, but feel free to continue this conversation without me. You’re both making a lot of progress in this short time with being open with one another. Can you feel that?”
Olivia and I hold each other’s gazes, and she offers me a soft, watery smile. Because we’re with Dr. Francine, I hold back from wrapping Olivia up in my arms with her head nestled on my shoulder.
Instead, I smile back at her.
“Yeah,” I answer Dr. Francine. “I’m feeling more secure in our relationship every day.”
“Me too,” Olivia says. “I’m still hesitant to be vulnerable, but I know that if I’m having doubts about how Gage feels about me, I can talk to him about them.”
Her words warm me from the inside out. I don’t want Olivia to have doubts at all, but when she does, I’m glad she knows she can talk to me.
At the same time, I know Olivia isn’t the only person in my life I’ve held back from because I’m worried about being rejected.
Mostly, I’m thinking about my parents. I’ve never talked to them about my doubts and fears about my adoption. I didn’t want to worry them or make them feel guilty or like they failed somehow.
But if there’s one thing I’ve learned this summer, it’s that holding back damages relationships, while honesty, even when it’s hard, can strengthen them.
A few days later, my mom, my dad, and I are all home at the same time, so we sit down together for dinner. My dad makes taco soup because the temperatures have dropped into the seventies here in early October, which is as close to feeling like fall as we get in Austin.
Sitting at the table, I wait until everyone’s almost done eating before I shore up my courage to start a conversation about my feelings.
“Mom, Dad, can I talk to you?” I start. They must hear something in my tone because they instantly give me their full attention.
“Of course, son.” Dad sends me a reassuring smile.
“Always,” my mom adds.
I take a deep breath and launch into a rambling monologue about the developmental psychology class I took in college and how it led to me coming out of the fog and processing some of the hard emotions I’ve held onto about my adoption.
I talk about always feeling like I needed to prove to them that I was worth keeping when I was a kid.
I keep my eyes on the plate in front of me because I’m worried about their reaction, and I need to get the words out before I can face the consequences.
When I finally finish talking and look up into their faces, my parents aren’t angry. They don’t even look hurt or disappointed. Instead, the emotion I see shining in their expressions is … love.
“Oh, Gage,” my mom whispers as she reaches across the table to take my hand. “I’m so, so glad you’re telling us.”
My dad stretches his arm toward me to hold my other hand.
“We always expected one or both of you would have difficult feelings around your adoption. We know that even if we did everything perfectly right—which, let’s be honest, we didn’t, because it’s impossible to be perfect—adoption is still traumatic. ”
“We knew loving you with our whole hearts wouldn’t be enough,” my mom continues, “as much as we wanted it to be.”
“But, Gage, I want to make something perfectly clear right now. Your existence is not, and never has been, a burden; it’s a joy. For me and your mom, but for Maggie, too.”
“It’s been a joy to be your parents,” my mom reiterates.
Like when I talked to Maggie back in July, I feel a weight lift from my shoulders.
I know I still have feelings to work through before I can really move past the damage of my adoption—feelings that will probably be around to some degree for the rest of my life—but having everything out in the open now helps me understand that I don’t have to work through those feelings alone.
By mid-October and our third counseling session, Olivia and I are sharing honestly about our feelings even when we’re not with Dr. Francine.
So, when Olivia texts me that she’s planning a special date night for us this weekend after I’m done with midterms, I’m not surprised.
Now that Olivia understands my struggles better, her mission is to show me how committed she is to our relationship. And I do feel more secure in her feelings toward me, but even better, I’m starting to become more successful coping with my fears.
She picks me up for our date on Saturday and drives downtown. When she parks near Lady Bird Lake, I start to get an inkling of what she has planned.
When she starts to get out of the car, I stop her.
“I talked to Maggie today,” I say.
Olivia tilts her head. “Yeah?”
I swallow down my nerves. “Yeah. Annie and our mom and dad and I are going to spend Christmas with Maggie and her family in Fort Worth this year.”
Olivia smiles. “I love that. You’ll have so much fun.”
I run a hand down the side of her arm. “Would you … would you consider coming with us?”
Her mouth pops open, then shifts quickly into a wide grin. “Yes,” she breathes out. “I want to be wherever you are.”
Visions of our future together parade through my head. Christmases and mistletoe kisses, eventually a wedding and a family. It’s everything I want.
I shake my head to return to the present. We get out of the car and rent kayaks, and now I’m reveling in the memories of our past—our second date back in high school. As I expected, we paddle to the Congress Avenue Bridge, like we did back then.
At sunset, the first of the Mexican free-tailed bats who make their home under the bridge emerge, then more and more until they form a rolling dark cloud silhouetted against the orange sky.
We’re quiet as we watch them, holding hands the best we can with our kayaks bobbing on the water.
I remember the hope and awe and anticipation I felt watching this same scene when I was an eighteen-year-old kid in love with one of my best friends.
I’m overwhelmed with similar feelings flooding my senses now.
If I’m right, Olivia has a picnic planned next, where she’s packed our favorite foods. Then, we’ll lie on the blanket and watch the stars. And then … well, maybe history will repeat itself.
But I don’t want to spoil the surprise, so I’m quiet as we paddle back to the rental shop.
I grin at her when she pulls a picnic basket and blanket from the trunk of her car.
I help her spread the blanket on a grassy hill in the park between Riverside Drive and the Colorado River.
I talk and laugh with her as we eat our favorite foods.
By the time she lies back on the blanket and tugs me down next to her, my heart is pounding. Olivia rests her head on my shoulder, and I run my fingers through her hair as we search for constellations.
“Gage,” Olivia whispers, and I lift myself up on one elbow so I can look into her eyes. “I’ve never felt as close to anyone as I do with you. I love you.”
I bring my free hand around to cup her cheek. “I love you, Olivia.”
She bites her bottom lip and shifts closer as her gaze drops to my mouth. When she meets my eyes again, I hope she can read the question in them. She nods, her lips stretching into a soft smile.
I’m eager to taste her again, but I don’t rush. Olivia is my everything, and this kiss will be one of the many I plan to give her every day for the rest of our lives.
I stroke my thumb gently across her cheek, and her breath hitches. I lean in, hovering above her, drinking in the way Olivia looks bathed in starlight.
“Gage,” she whispers again, so quietly I slant closer to hear.
“Yeah?” My voice is as strangled as the last shred of my self-control.
Her eyes glow. “Just kiss me.”
Obediently, I erase the last inches between us. When my lips meet hers, the images that dance across my closed eyelids are a kaleidoscope of our past and our future. Of the moments we’ve shared and the milestones yet to come.
I know it won’t be easy; we have more work to do together in counseling and individually as we move through the parts of our pasts that threaten to hold us back. But we’re committed to each other and our relationship.
We both know this love between us was always so much more than a summer fling.