CHAPTER EIGHT
CONNECTICUT, AGE SEVENTEEN
There was one time in elementary school when my art teacher had instructed the class to pick any color and draw any animal. I chose to draw a spider—always my favorite of all the creatures—with a black crayon because it was also my favorite color.
I was incredibly proud of that drawing and couldn’t wait to show my mom, excited about how lifelike it looked compared to some of the primitive stick figures a few of my other classmates had scribbled on their sheets of construction paper. But when I showed my teacher, she gave me an F on the assignment before proceeding to hold my drawing up to show the rest of the class what not to do.
All because I’d chosen black instead of a color .
I was seven years old and made to look like a fool in front of a classroom of kids who’d already decided they hated me.
I’d thrown that drawing out on my way back to my seat, and I seldom allowed myself to draw again, no matter how much I’d enjoyed it then as a kid.
But the thing about experiencing immense trauma and grief was that nothing that had happened before seemed to matter anymore. And those horrible, soul-consuming emotions had a way of making a guy feel like a boiling pot, full and ready to bubble over, and that was exactly what had happened shortly after my parents died.
I had been fifteen years old and pulsing with unimaginable pain, desperate for a release that nothing else could provide. So, on a rainy night a few months after I'd last spoken to Mom and Dad, in a fit of tears and snot and blubbering sobs, I grabbed a black permanent marker from my desk and scribbled exactly what I’d been feeling inside onto the back of my white bedroom door.
Luke heard the outburst from down the hall—in the middle of fucking Melanie, I was sure, since that was all he ever seemed to do those days—and knocked, asking if I was okay. Of course, I wasn't okay—neither of us were—but when I let him in, I expected him to yell at me when he saw my ruined door. Toddlers weren’t supposed to color on walls, let alone teenagers, and I had once again broken the rules.
But instead of getting mad, he was silent. He stared at that door with his hands on his hips, his eyes growing wide and his mouth hanging open, before breathlessly uttering only one word. “ Damn .”
I didn’t say anything in reply, unsure of how to take his single-worded response. He’d said it the way one did when they were impressed by something, and I tried to understand why. I stood back and stared at the graffiti—a black-and-white sketch of a long-legged spider trapped inside a wild and chaotic storm. Drenched in rain, surrounded by bolts of jagged lightning, the spider wore a look of devastating horror—and I knew exactly how he felt. But I still couldn’t understand what Luke was so taken aback by. Yet, after the initial shock wore off, he told Melanie he’d be right back and took me out to buy a box of Sharpies and a few cheap sketchbooks. Then, on our way out of the store, he said to start drawing and never stop.
“But I'm not good at it,” I had said, looking into the bag from the local craft store.
Luke snorted, shaking his head from behind the wheel of his truck. “No, Charlie, you're not good at it. You're fucking amazing, and that’s something to hold on to. Shit, I wish I had something like that. I’m not good at anything but fucking up.”
The compliment stirred something else inside me as my eyes welled up with unexpected tears. But these tears weren't like the ones I'd cried while destroying my bedroom door. These were pulled from a feeling that wasn't anger or grief or loneliness.
For the first time in months, I actually felt good.
Maybe even happy … if I even knew what happy was anymore.
So, I had done exactly what Luke had said. I didn't stop drawing, and two years later, I was sitting on my bed, filling the page of my sketchbook with a black-eyed portrait of my mother. Ghostly in figure, she stared out from the page with sadness written in her unshed tears.
I liked to believe she missed me as much as I missed her.
I liked to believe she'd cry for me if she still could.
“Hey.”
Luke's gruff voice startled me, and I looked up from my drawing to find him in my open doorway.
“Hey,” I parroted, holding his gaze for a second before looking back to finish the damp, limp strands of her hair.
“You ready?”
“Not going.”
He sighed and entered the room, dropping down onto the end of my bed with a huff. “Dude, come on.”
It was only three o’clock in the afternoon, and I noticed that his breath already smelled like booze. Luke wasn’t an alcoholic—I didn’t think so anyway—but I was starting to wonder when it was he’d begun drinking for the hell of it and not just when he was hanging out with his friends. Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember when he’d last hung out with his friends at all.
“Mom never thought I needed therapy,” I countered, knowing that using the mom card was cheap and easy. But it was no less the truth.
Mom had looked at my anxiety and nerves as just being a part of who I was, and in what way was that a lie? If I was supposed to be an awkward loner, meant to deal with the occasional panic attack, then why should I push myself to be anything else? But Luke and Melanie didn't agree, and they thought they were the boss of me now.
“Melanie thinks—”
“Oh, is she my mom now?” I fired back, stilling my marker and glaring up at my older brother.
Melanie seemed to be calling a lot of shots lately. Some of them weren't all that terrible—like insisting we clean the bathrooms once a week and making sure we had dinner every night, even if those dinners were simple and cheap. But some of the shit she thought was a good idea was really starting to piss me off, like suggesting I see someone to manage the demons that'd had ahold of me since I was a child.
“Oh, knock it the hell off, Charlie,” Luke grumbled, shaking his head. “Stop acting like she’s a fucking bad guy, okay? I thought you liked her.”
“I didn’t say I don’t like her,” I replied defensively. Which, for the record, was true. I didn’t dislike Melanie. But there had been a time when I liked her more than I did now.
Luke ignored me and continued, “She just thinks it would help you to talk to someone, all right? Like, I don’t know if you realize this, but Mom coddled the shit out of you—”
“Don’t talk about Mom,” I warned him, leveling him with a look that I wished would make him decide to leave me alone.
He released a sigh and glanced at the drawing in my lap. “I’m not saying she did anything wrong , okay? I’m saying, we— I just think that maybe it’s time to try something different. And would it honestly kill you to give it a shot? Like, seriously? Because if you really think you're gonna croak the second you walk into her office, then let me know ‘cause I'll—”
“God, will you shut up?” I rolled my eyes and dropped the sketchbook on the bed and capped my marker. “I'll freakin' go, okay?”
Luke stood up, grabbed both sides of my face, and pulled me in to plant a sloppy kiss on my cheek. “Good boy.”
I shoved him away and climbed off the bed, ready to stuff my feet into my sneakers when he stopped me.
“Wait. You're wearing that?”
I looked down at my black sweatpants and black Type O Negative T-shirt. “Uh … yes?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Could you, like, I dunno, throw on a pair of jeans or something?”
“Oh, is that one of Melanie’s rules too?”
“No, wiseass. I’m just thinking the doctor might appreciate it if you don’t waltz into her office with whatever the fuck you have stuck to those pants you have on. Like, fuck, Charlie. When’s the last time you changed your clothes?”
I sighed and trudged my way through the piles of laundry on the floor until I spotted a patch of dark blue peeking out from between a heap of black T-shirts. I pulled off the sweatpants, leaving me in nothing but boxers, and then I snatched the dirty jeans from off the floor—at least I thought they were dirty—and stepped into them.
“Happy?” I asked, zipping the fly and buttoning them up.
“Thrilled.”
“Great.” I stuffed my feet into my sneakers and brushed past him on my way out the door. “Now, let's go.”
***
I hated to admit it, but talking to the psychologist—Dr. Sibilia—wasn't as bad as I'd thought it would be.
She walked into the room, wearing jeans, a Grateful Dead T-shirt, and Adidas sneakers. She didn’t look much older than Luke or Melanie—even though she probably was—and she began the session by fanning herself with the sheets of paper in her hand and mentioning how much she fucking hated the heat.
I barely laughed, barely curled my lips into a half smile, but dammit, it happened, and I knew she had noticed.
“So, you are … Charles Corbin, I see,” she said as she plopped into the chair across from mine, her eyes scanning the paper.
“Charlie,” I muttered, leaning back and widening my knees.
She looked up. “What’s that?”
“Ch-Charlie,” I stammered, speaking a little louder. “N-nobody calls me Charles.”
“Gotcha.” She plucked the pen from behind her ear and scribbled as she enunciated slowly, “Char-lee. All righty, great. So, Charlie, what brings you in here today?”
“My stupid brother and his girlfriend made me.”
Dr. Sibilia nodded as she continued to write. “Note to self: brother and brother’s girlfriend are stupid.” She looked up from the paper and offered a smile. “I see. So, why did they make you come in? There’s gotta be some kinda reason, right? Other than them being stupid.”
I lifted a hand off the arm of the chair and gestured in lieu of a shrug. “I-I don’t know. They think I’m depressed o-or that I n-need to-to do something about my panic attacks or, um … or something.”
“Well, let me ask you this: do you think you’re depressed?”
“Maybe.”
She cocked her head. “And what makes you think that?”
“Both of my parents died in a car crash two years ago, and I was on the phone with them when it happened,” I said easily for some reason I couldn’t quite put my finger on. “So, I dunno. I think that’s a pretty good reason for someone to be depressed.”
Her eyes took on an expression of deep sympathy. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Charlie.”
I dropped my gaze to my fidgeting hands and swallowed at the violent rise of emotion in my throat. I wouldn’t allow myself to speak, afraid that I’d cry in front of her. So, I just lifted one shoulder in a pathetic excuse for a shrug, like my parents being dead didn’t matter—but it did, and she seemed to know it.
“And I’d have to agree,” she continued gently. “That’s actually an excellent reason for someone to be depressed.”
I gave her a little nod as I chewed on my bottom lip, waiting for the lump in my throat to drop back down to wherever it had come from.
“You know, Charlie, I understand that we just met and all, but I do want you to know that you are safe to do or say anything you want in here. I won’t judge you if you wanna cry or scream or beat the living crap out of that really, really ugly chair you’re sitting in.”
The lump slowly began to ease up, and I sniffed a nearly silent laugh, then nodded.
“Cool. Okay. Now, why don’t you tell me a little about these panic attacks? When did they start?”
Just as I’d started to feel comfortable, I began to tense up. Even though it had felt like a lifetime ago, I remembered that one time Mom had taken me to a doctor—that old guy who looked like Grandpa with a mustache.
He’d thought I was crazy.
Even now, I clearly recalled the word psychotic , although I couldn’t recall in what context.
Dr. Sibilia cocked her head and eyed me with concern. “What’s wrong? Is there something you’d like to tell me? Or something else you’d prefer to talk about instead? We’re getting to know each other right now. You can say or—”
“No,” I answered flatly.
“Okay,” she replied, just as friendly as before. “Can you tell me what about discussing your panic attacks made you shut down just now?”
I picked at my jeans. They were definitely dirty. Something dry and crusty was stuck to one of the thighs, but I couldn’t find it in me to be embarrassed about that.
“M-my mom took me to a doctor once,” I said. The words came out mumbled, but she seemed to understand as she nodded and encouraged me to go on. “He thought I was crazy.”
“And you’re afraid I’ll think you’re crazy too. Is that right?”
I shrugged.
Dr. Sibilia laid her clipboard and pen onto her lap before resting her elbows on her knees and clasping her hands together.
“Charlie, I will never use that word in this office. Do you understand that? I will never think you are crazy.”
My eyes met hers with a challenge. “What about psychotic? Do you like that word?”
“Is that what he called you?”
My silence was response enough, and she shook her head.
“I can see now why your mother never wanted to take you to another doctor,” she said softly. “And she was right to protect you. But I want to protect you, too, Charlie, and I can promise you I will never make you feel bad for the way you are. You have my word.”
And then the most amazing thing happened.
I believed her.
I knew in that moment that I could trust her, and I nodded before telling her everything I could in the two hours we had. I told her about my panic attacks. I told her about the anxiety I had in social situations and the bad feelings I’d get in my gut that often turned out to be founded in truth.
And you know what?
Not only did she seem to believe me, but she never once called me crazy.
***
After our parents had died, their life insurance policies had covered what was left of their mortgage on the house while still leaving a sizable chunk for Luke and me to split. We each opened bank accounts to use the money as we saw fit—and I know you’re probably thinking that one or both of us blew it all on stupid stuff, but you’d be wrong. My money at this point had been left untouched, and contrary to what might be popular belief, Luke wasn’t a complete idiot. He realized before I did that whatever money we’d gotten from our parents wouldn’t last forever, so he made the very mature and very surprising decision to quit his job at the pizza place, skip his high school graduation, and go to work at Melanie’s dad’s auto repair shop.
He’d started in the office, pushing papers and organizing the files, while he went to trade school at night and moved on to fixing cars. And now, two years later, he was still enjoying the work he did there, even if Frank—Melanie’s dad—still wasn’t all that thrilled that his daughter was living with us instead of him.
Anyway, the money that Luke made at the shop was decent enough, but he pinched his pennies, ensuring he got the most out of every single one. It was because of this that we hardly ever got the chance to do frivolous things, like eat out unless it was a special occasion.
But I guessed Luke considered my first successful day of therapy to be a special occasion because after my appointment, we swung by Melanie’s job at the local drugstore to pick her up, and then we were off to Friendly’s for a rare dinner outside of the house.
I was in the middle of eating my cheeseburger when Luke kicked my shin underneath the table with his steel-toed boot.
“Hey!” I grunted and kicked back. “What the hell, dick? That hurt.”
“Did you just kick him?” Melanie asked, shoving against Luke's shoulder.
Luke ignored both of our protests and complaints and leaned over the table, gesturing for me to come closer. I rolled my eyes and sighed before bringing my face to his.
“What?” I hissed.
“There's a chick at that table over there—”
I followed his gaze and looked over my shoulder, but Luke just as quickly kicked my shin again.
“Will you cut it out?! Fucking hell, Luke,” I whined, reaching under the table and rubbing the spot that I knew would bruise by the end of the night.
“You're not supposed to look , you freakin’ moron,” he whispered harshly. “She's been staring at you since we walked in here.”
I snorted, returning my attention to my dinner with a disbelieving huff. “Yeah, okay.”
Melanie's blue eyes flicked toward the table Luke had been referring to. “Oh, no. She definitely likes you,” she whispered in a teasing tone, reaching out to nudge my wrist. “And you know what? She looks like your type.”
“Yeah,” Luke agreed, bringing the straw of his Coke to his mouth. “Like she spends all day sucking the blood from her victims while deciding what color shirt to wear tomorrow—black or blacker.”
I couldn't help my smile as it reluctantly spread across my face, knowing my cheeks were burning scarlet. Melanie wouldn't have lied. She might've crossed a couple of lines recently—making decisions that weren't her business to make, even if they were for the better—but she didn't lie. Luke might’ve just to tease me and feel bad about it later, but not Melanie. And the thought of a girl actually staring at me and maybe even liking what she saw …
I didn't know how to deal with that.
It had never happened before.
“So?”
My eyes lifted from my cheeseburger to meet Luke's taunting gaze. “Huh?”
He glanced at Melanie, incredulous. “I dunno what to do with this kid.” Then, he looked back at me and nudged his chin in the direction of the table behind us. “You gonna talk to her or what?”
My jaw fell open as I shook my head incessantly. “What? No, I'm not gonna talk to her.”
Luke didn't look amused. “Seriously?”
“That'd be weird!” I glanced at Melanie, begging her with my eyes to back me up. “Right?”
But she didn't seem to agree. “Well, I don't know. I guess it'd be one thing if she wasn't the one interested, but …” She shrugged helplessly, dodging her eyes quickly toward the other table and back again. “She looks pretty interested to me, Charlie.”
“Oh God,” I groaned, dropping my burger and thrusting my hands into my hair. “I can't just … talk to her. What would I even say? I don't—”
With an impatient groan, Luke took a hefty bite of his sandwich before dropping it back onto the plate. Then, he stood up and began sauntering in the other direction before I could finish talking.
“Where are you going?” I hissed, turning in my seat to stare at his broad back. “ Luke ! What are you—”
My older brother stopped, and that was when I saw her. A girl, about my age, with shiny black hair pulled into a fancy, long braid cascading over one shoulder, dressed in a black sweater and black jeans and black boots. Her eyes were rimmed heavily in onyx, and her lips were painted a deathly shade of pale.
Melanie was right; she was my type. And really freakin' cute.
“Excuse me. I don't mean to bother you, but my name is Luke Corbin,” my older brother said, pressing his hand to his chest before thrusting that same hand in the direction of our table. “I couldn't help but notice that you were staring at my freaky little brother, Charlie, over there, and because he's too shy to say something himself, I'm here to ask what your name is and if you’d like to give him your number.”
Her eyes looked about as surprised as mine, and then she looked at me. My heart hammered wildly, attempting to jump out of my chest and up my throat. I swallowed repeatedly before turning away, horrified and completely embarrassed, and looked across the table at Melanie.
“I hate him,” I whispered—and why the hell was my voice so high?
Melanie smiled apologetically, but there was also excitement twinkling in her eyes. She found this amusing. She found it adorable. But, Jesus Christ, I was so humiliated and freaked out, and why would a girl want me to have her number anyway? She would probably go back to her friends and laugh about the loser at Friendly's in the Type O Negative shirt. Maybe they'd look up our house number and prank call a few times, come up with some ridiculous plan in which they'd torture me for a while with promises of dates and long walks on the beach or something, and then they'd forget all about me.
Girls didn't want guys like me; they wanted guys like my brother. Confident. Cool. Good-looking. I wasn't any of those things. I was the loner with the sketchbook, dirty jeans, and a brand-new shrink who apparently didn’t think I was psychotic.
What a catch.
A moment later, Luke wandered back over to the table and dropped a napkin in front of me. “Her name is Amanda, and that's her number. She says to call tomorrow night when she's not at work.”
I stared at the napkin and the handwriting scribbled onto it. It was bubbly and neat, so much nicer than mine, and she had written the first A in her name as a star. Something pinched in my chest, something maybe close to excitement, and I felt the good kind of nerves you got when you were about to do something you'd always wanted to do.
Luke dropped back in his seat across from mine and lifted his sandwich to his mouth, resuming his dinner. “Oh, and, hey, Charlie?”
“Huh?” I looked up, stunned and bewildered.
“You're welcome,” he said with a smirk and a wink, then took a bite.