Chapter Two
Two weeks have passed since spring break and things have gone
back to normal. Well, normal for me, anyway. Mom goes to work, I go
to school, and Sam and I try to pretend like we didn't have a sex
marathon and profess our undying love for one another just fourteen
days ago.
Yep. Normal.
I didn't know how things
would be when we got back to school, but Sam came by my house the
day after he got home, and though we didn't actually talk about
anything that happened between us, I knew he was setting the tone
for how things would be. Making sure it wasn't awkward. And the
weird part is he was so good at it that I actually started to
wonder if he was ever really in love with me at all. The only thing
that was different from before was how careful he was not to touch
me.
And has been ever
since.
In fact, it's the only
indication that there even is
a before
and after, because everything else is
exactly the same as it was. We still walk together to class after
calculus, but there's no hand holding or playful elbowing. We still
sit next to each other at lunch most days, but no hand squeezing or
soothing circles. It's almost like when he first started tutoring
me—when we were already becoming friends, but before I began to
trust him enough to tolerate his touch. To relish his touch.
To freaking crave
it.
And I think it's probably a
good thing that Sam no longer wants any physical contact. Because
it's hard enough for me to be so close to him and so far away at
the same time. Hard enough to endure the constant state of longing.
We definitely don't need to add to the complication of our
situation with physical contact. I don't need the tingles, the
goose bumps, the shivering, the unbridled attraction, or any of my
other pathetic reactions to his touch constantly reminding me what
I gave up.
Because the truth is I
need no reminder. The perpetual unsettled ache in my chest is
effective enough.
But Sam is okay. He is
safe.
If Robin finds some way to
stalk me again, to come after me, Sam won't be a target the way he
would if he was my boyfriend. He won't get into fights because of
me, won't end up in fucking handcuffs, won't risk his life or
future. No, he will continue to lead the carefree life he led
before I showed up and complicated everything. He'll graduate in
June and then go off to Columbia two months after that, and the
most I can hope for is to remain his friend. Only time will tell if
I can handle being as close friends as we were before. If he even
wants to be.
For now, Sam still seems
serious about going back to our friendship. He even sent Kendall,
his former “regular” hook-up and current “good friend”, to check on
me after he got my note saying I'd gone back home.
Talk about
awkward.
Even more awkward—Chelsea
apologized to me on our first day back to school. I just rolled my
eyes and walked away. I realize it wasn't exactly gracious of me,
or even mature, but I never claimed to be either. I really don't
care if she's sorry or not. And it's not even that I'm holding a
grudge, I just don't want anything to do with her. I don't want to
forgive or forget, and I don't want to punish her either. I just
want to get on with my life, and I'd simply prefer not to have her
in it. I have enough issues to deal with without another fake
friend I can't trust.
But, of course, our groups
of friends are comingled to the point of freaking incest. So
whether I forgive her or not, she still ends up at my lunch table
from time to time, and she was of course present at the single
party I dragged myself to attend since we all got back. She and
Lily made up too, and though Carl and Tina still aren't her biggest
fans, they are all technically friends.
But the worst part is that
I'm not the only one she apologized to. Apparently, after our trip,
Chelsea's mom hosted the Caplans for brunch and Chelsea and Sam
made up. She's sorry, or so she says. She was only trying to
protect her life-long friend, though she admits she was misguided
in doing so. She claims her feelings for Sam were meaningless—just
a silly childhood crush, and she's over it. Sam has forgiven her,
and why wouldn't he? She didn't really do anything to him, her
actions were against me, and since she's apologized, Sam really has no reason to
remain angry with her. After all, they've been friends a hell of
lot longer than he and I have.
I rush around the
perimeter of the school to the student lot and hop in my jeep. It's
always a nightmare navigating the end of day campus traffic, and
I'm always stuck smack dab in the middle of it since I have no
choice but to take my detour to avoid passing the locker rooms. But
that's one trigger I'm certain still wields power over me, and
probably always will, and so I still take this precaution
daily.
I glance nervously between
the gridlock in front of me and the clock on the dashboard, sure
I'm going to be late to my appointment. I've never been an
especially punctual person, but as a fun extra side effect of my
fun new anxiety disorder, every time I'm late for something, it
makes me crazy. Like the world is going to end if the light doesn't
freaking change, or that asshat in front of me doesn't just drive
faster. Rationally I know it's ridiculous, but that doesn't change
the physical reaction. The racing pulse, the shortness of breath,
or the irritability.
I know Dr. Schall won't
give me a hard time for being a little late, but I know once it's
past ten minutes into the session, Kathy, the receptionist, will
call and ask to reschedule for tomorrow. But tomorrow's Thursday,
and I have calculus tutoring with Sam.
The relief I'd felt when
Sam didn't discontinue our tutoring sessions after Miami was truly
pitiful, but he's trying to act like everything is the same as
before and I'm not going to stop him. Truthfully, I'm just grateful
that he doesn't hate me for leading him on and then ending things
so abruptly.
And so, despite the fact
that I'm little more than an exhausted, depressed zombie these
days, calculus is one class I'm still doing okay in. My state
hasn't quite affected my grades that much just yet—tests are seldom
given now that graduation approaches. But finals get closer every
day, and it would suck to ruin my GPA because of the last few weeks
of high school.
I know, of course, that it
won't really affect anything. NYU isn't going to withdraw my
acceptance because of it, surely. But I worked so hard to get my
scores back after I'd fallen behind last year. My mother did, too,
as she was the one homeschooling me. And it would just feel like an
immense failure to screw it all up now. So I'm grateful to Sam. But
if that jerk in the Porsche in front of me doesn't speed the hell
up, Kathy is going to push my appointment and then I'll have to
reschedule my tutoring session and I can't
freaking deal with this right now!
At the next red light, I
close my eyes and count backwards from ten, knowing that I'm too
close to losing it. But it doesn't matter if I'm aware that my
reaction doesn't match the situation. Self-awareness is a useless
tool when my anxiety is in control.
When I finally arrive at
the medical office complex, I'm no more than three minutes late,
and I have to sit for an additional few minutes in my car, taking
deep, even breaths, forcibly calming myself, making me even later.
It's not something I ever could have imagined before. Not having
control over my physiological reactions to everyday situations. And
it makes me resent myself that much more. And then I resent my own
self-loathing, perpetuating the vicious cycle.
Dr. Schall greets me,
welcomes me into his office, and then excuses himself to use the
restroom in an obvious attempt to allow me to get my bearings. His
office is not what I ever would have expected of a shrink's office.
It's both contemporary and comfortable, done up in steel grays and
warm taupes. There is a sofa, but not the kind you would lay down
on. More like the kind you'd expect to see in anyone's living room.
I sit and wait until he returns and takes his place in one of the
club chairs adjacent to the sofa.
"Your mother is joining us
today, correct?" he asks, though his tone tells me he has already
confirmed this directly with her.
Once a month, Dr. Schall
asks my mother to join the second half of my session so we can
discuss everything "as a family". Or what's left of our family, in
our case. And family session day is today.
I nod, even though I know
he already knows the answer.
"So, any good nights since
Saturday?" he asks with carefully managed expectations.
I shrug automatically
before shaking my head no. He asked the same question on
Saturday about the three nights since the previous Wednesday. The
answer was the same then, as I expect it will be for the
foreseeable future. Maybe forever.
Since Miami, I've been
made to double down on therapy, now spending every Wednesday and
Saturday afternoon here, but unlike when I first began the
sessions, I don't begrudge the change. God knows I need
it.
Before Miami I had
progressed to having a few nights a week of relatively peaceful
sleep, but I'm not sure I've even slept at all since.
Dr. Schall gives me a
sympathetic smile and goes on about how my upswing in nightmares is
to be expected with my "recent trauma". He reminds me of this every
session, as if he's justifying my regression.
Anyone who bothers to
spare me more than a cursory glance could surely see the dark
circles under my eyes, despite my attempts to hide them with
cover-up. I don't care about being attractive—in fact, in the last
year I'd actually taken care to make sure I was not especially attractive. But I've
recently learned that negative attention to my physical appearance
is just as unwelcome as positive attention. I still don't want to