52. Jensen
52
JENSEN
“What changes have you made this week?” Dr. Sims asks from her oversized chair.
Her tiny office in Austin is crammed with large furniture and an abundance of potted plants. Somehow, the crowded space feels cozy.
After weeks of confessions, assessments, and evaluations, she gave me her initial diagnoses. Yes, plural. The long list of disorders and phobias is a lot for me to take in, so we’re tackling them one by one, where possible.
I suffer from impulsive and compulsive behaviors, as well as depression and anxiety. No surprise there. I met with a colleague of hers, a psychiatrist, who prescribed medications to help balance my mind. He said we may have to make adjustments until we find the right combination and dosage that works best for me, so I shouldn’t expect miracles overnight. But most of my healing will happen through talk therapy.
Dr. Sims also referred me to a speech pathologist to work on my difficulty putting thoughts to words when I’m anxious. With more testing, I’ll know if my speech struggles are associated with my ADHD, another new diagnosis. Like I said, the list is long.
In response to her question about my weekly change, I say, “My brother helped me take down the wood paneling in my parents’ house and paint the walls.”
Jake has all the tools and skills from doing renovations on his home, so we’ve been knocking out the updates on my to-do list.
“Your house,” Dr. Sims says, correcting me.
She says it’s important for me to identify things as they are in the present. The house no longer belongs to my parents. I live there. The deed is in my name.
“My house,” I murmur.
“How did you feel about the change? It’s your biggest one yet, correct?”
I inhale and release a deep breath. Although I have a long way to go before I’m comfortable changing things associated with my childhood, she assures me we’re making progress in my treatment. “Yeah. I wasn’t excited about it, but afterward…I don’t know. The house felt brighter, I guess.”
“I’m not asking how the house felt.” She doesn’t baby me, that’s for sure.
Shrugging, I say, “I felt lighter.”
“Light space, light mind,” she says, chuckling to herself. “And you’re wearing a grey shirt. That’s new.”
Pinching the fabric, I study the solid, light grey T-shirt that fits a little looser than what I’m used to. “My sister-in-law bought it for me.”
Tatum bought me a colorful variety of shirts, most of which I’ll never wear. It’s funny how Jake gets to wear black shirts, but I’m being forced to switch up my wardrobe. I should’ve never mentioned the “light space, light mind” concept to Tatum. She’s taking it to the extremes. The walls of my parents’ house— my house—are now a color called Dreamy Creamy Latte .
“Go, Team Jensen!” the doctor cheers, pumping a liver-spotted fist in the air. She’s a quirky old woman. “And who did you say no to this week?”
I scrub a hand against my shorter beard, then rake it through my trimmed hair and blow out a breath. Denying even the smallest request for help isn’t easy, but it’s freeing in a way. I’m not stretched as thin or always exhausted.
The downside to not being busy is the room left in my schedule for thinking. As always, I only think about one person.
I can paint walls or donate my mother’s wedding dress or reframe the family photos. I can say no to every request, pushing against my need to help others. But nothing will ever change when it comes to Maisy. To silence the doubters, I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut and pretend otherwise.
Answering the doctor’s question, I say, “Lydia, who owns the coffee shop, asked if I could help her haul a chair she found at a resale store.”
“And what was her reaction when you said no?”
“She patted my arm and said not to worry; she’d ask Menchy for help. He owns the hardware store.”
Dr. Sims nods, a pleased smile smoothing the wrinkles in her lips. “You’re doing well, Jensen. You should be proud of your progress so far. It’s not easy for most people to accept change. Humans are creatures of comfort, after all. But you’re breaking the barriers your mind has constructed, and each wall that comes down is a win.”
“Thanks.”
She eyes me for a few seconds, her pen hovering above her notepad while I shift in my seat because I know what comes next. “Have you tried to make contact?”
“No.”
She tilts her head, eyebrows raised, silently asking her standard follow-up questions.
Have you followed her?
Have you looked at her social media?
Have you inquired about her?
Have you driven by her house?
I repeat the honest answer I give her every session. “No.”
Maisy’s still in Walford. As promised, she stayed. I’ve seen her around town, going to lunch with friends and such, but I’ve kept my distance. If I had been close to her during this time, I wouldn’t have noticed the changes in her. She’s relaxed. She smiles more and wears less makeup. These differences may seem insignificant to anyone else, but they’re big and meaningful. She’s settling into Walford, and I hope and pray she’ll be settling down with me in the end. I’ll find out soon enough.
Dr. Sims clasps her bony hands together and says, “Tomorrow’s the big day.”
“Tomorrow’s the day,” I say. Despite my easygoing nod, my heart rate spikes from the thought of talking to Maisy again. Or worse, not talking to her because she wants nothing to do with me.
“How do you feel? Are you ready for whatever comes?”
I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. “Honestly, I’m nervous.”
“If she wants you in her life, she’ll come to you. Respect her choice, no matter what decision she makes.”
My stomach dips when I ask, “And if she doesn’t choose me?”
With a sympathetic smile, she says, “You call me, and we’ll talk about it,” but I catch her unspoken message. Don’t lose your shit.
Back in Walford after my appointment, I’m walking into the rear entrance of Bruno’s an hour before the bar opens for the day. Charlie waves from behind the bar where he’s marking off tasks from the opening checklist. Javi’s in the kitchen prepping food, so I pop in to relieve him and let him know he doesn’t need to stick around tonight.
At the sight of him, I stop short, and the swinging door nearly hits me in the face on the rebound. “Are you wearing a dress?”
Slicing tomatoes at the prep counter, he glances down at the blue garment with white stitching along the hems. “It’s a long tunic.”
“My mistake. The matching pants threw me off.” When he carries on with his slicing, unbothered by my comments, I add, “Is this like a messiah complex thing or…”
He huffs in annoyance, and I bite back a smile because he’s not as chill as he pretends to be. “I like to be comfortable. Plus, this outfit’s made from recycled materials. It’s earth friendly.”
“He also has it in ecru.”
I jump when Trevor’s voice startles me. He’s on the bench in front of the employees’ cubbies with a laptop perched on his knees.
“What are you doing here?” I ask with more bark than intended. Then I take in his blue plaid shirt and matching shorts paired with brown loafers. Who dresses my friends?
His gaze remains on his laptop when he says, “Clearly, I’m working.”
Before I complete my eye roll, Javi asks, “How was your appointment?”
Arms crossed over my chest, I lean against the prep counter. I’ve been open with the guys about my therapy and the goals I’ve set. Along with Jake, Tatum, and our other friends, these two have supported me every step of the way.
I rub a palm across my beard and say, “Good. I’m making progress.”
“You’re nervous,” Trevor suggests, and he is not fucking wrong.
Every minute ticking closer to midnight—to tomorrow—my nerves become more frenetic. I’m not sure if I should go to Maisy or if she’ll come to me. Hell, she may have moved on. I’m in the dark where her intentions are concerned, but I intend to look her in the eye, apologize, and right my wrongs.
Javi’s eagle-eyed stare bores into me like he’s counting the smallest vessels in my organs. “What’s your fear?”
Ah, the new question those closest to me ask when I show any signs of anxiousness. As I’ve discovered in therapy, I have a shitload of fears. The major phobias are fear of change and fear of disappointing others, but I also fear the people I love will be injured or killed in an accident.
It only took half a session with Dr. Sims to identify the roots of that particular phobia. The seed was planted when Maisy’s bicycle was hit by a car, and it grew exponentially after my parents’ fatal crash and Logan’s accidental death, which I witnessed and felt responsible for. Still do. Overcoming my guilt regarding Logan will take a long time, if I succeed at all.
A host of other fears keep my brain on high alert, so I try to be honest and put a word to what I’m afraid of, similar to the “one word” approach Maisy made up when we were teens.
Without knowing, she uncovered a coping method that allows me to narrow my mind’s focus to a single word, which calms me down. And I love her even more for having good instincts, a fact Dr. Sims validated. I’ve always claimed Maisy rescued me when I was spiraling. Turns out, she did.
In response to Javi’s question about my current fear, I say, “Abandonment.”
He and Trevor stop what they’re doing and gather around me, and Javi grasps my shoulder. “Since you only have half a day left of the no-contact period, I’ll cheat a little and say you have nothing to worry about.”
My gaze pings between them. “Do you think so?”
“We know,” Trevor says with an awkward, light punch to my chest. He’s not a touchy guy.
“Trust us,” Javi adds. “We’re absolutely certain.”
With a relieved exhale, I say, “Thanks, guys.”
Sensing Javi’s about to propose a group hug, Trevor takes a step backward, removing himself from the huddle.
Javi embraces me and whispers, “You’ve got this. You’ve got her.”
I pound a fist on his back. “I’m glad I have you as a friend, man. Thank you for everything.”
When we separate, I ask him to stick around for half an hour longer. There’s something important I need to do before I begin my workday.