27. Teddy
TEDDY
SEPTEMBER
Let the record show that I do understand how creepy it is to essentially stalk Indie through Europe. I’m not stupid; I know this isn’t normal. I know she’s well within her rights to tell me to fuck off.
She hasn’t told me to stop, and until she does, I’m going to keep making things easier for her from as far away as I can.
I know she saw me when she got on the elevator, but I just needed to make sure she got back safe. Then I realized that seeing me would only harm her, so I’ve stepped back even more, into the shadows—still watching over her, but also trying to heal myself.
That started with my old phone, which has now taken up permanent residence in the lake behind my old condo.
I was under my parents’ family plan and knew that was one of the first steps to sever any connection. After I blocked my mother, she took to using anyone’s phone she could to reach out to me. I’d get a call from one of my cousins, only to realize it was her.
So I got a new phone and a new number, transferring all my other contacts over.
Including Indie’s.
But I don’t reach out to her. I don’t text her, even though this number isn’t blocked on her phone. Like I’m setting boundaries with my mother, Indie is setting boundaries with me. And trust is built through respect.
It would be so easy to call her, and sometimes at night, I keep her contact open and just look at it.
It’s like a challenge of restraint, testing whether I can actually do what’s best for her and not speak to her.
And I don’t. Sometimes my finger hovers over the call button, like I’m playing chicken with myself, and then I place the phone down.
Instead, I pick up my sketchbook, and I draw Indie.
I’ve also been doing telehealth therapy twice a week with Dr. Meyer, who specializes in enmeshment, and it’s been helping me untangle my mother’s voice from my head.
That guilty feeling I get when I do something, or put someone ahead of my mother, doesn’t appear as much anymore, and when it does, I’m able to talk myself through it.
“Your mother’s safety is not your responsibility to manage, Theo.”
“But what if she does… it?” My throat tightened around the words. “Hurts herself. I don’t… I’m still scared to get that call—that she did it. And it’ll feel like my fault.”
Dr. Meyer nodded in understanding.
“What you’re feeling when you think about it—that panic and fear—is incredibly valid.
Because you love her. She’s your mother.
I’ve seen adults who were beaten bloody by their parents still admit that they love them.
It’s something that can’t be helped; what can be helped is how you respond to it.
Do you truly believe that she would harm herself? ”
“At one point, I did,” I admitted. “She was good at making me believe it.”
“Emotional coercion. That’s abuse.”
“She abused me,” my voice broke, before my jaw clenched. Even through the spotty connection, I could see Dr. Meyer’s kind eyes soften as clarity struck me like lightning. I spat, “And wrapped it up in a pretty bow and called it love.”
Dr. Meyer smiled softly, as if she were proud of my words.
“You are only responsible for how you respond, not for what she chooses to do. You cannot let her put that on your shoulders. It’s not your cross to bear.”
Dr. Meyer was concerned at first when I told her where I was and why, but when I also said I was staying out of sight and staying within Indie’s boundaries, she looked understanding.
“The minute she says for you to leave—”
“I’m gone,” I finished for her.
I don’t think she’s aware of my presence, besides the small gifts I’ve been leaving—which don’t feel like enough, but it’s what I can do for now.
I’m not proud of it, but I am following her to the restaurants she’s going to eat and paying for her meals.
It’s easy enough to duck in, point out the gorgeous blonde, and say, "I want to pay for her meal. Here’s my card. "
And I did it again and again.
Through Paris, Amsterdam, Berlin, and now Florence. Indie hasn’t paid for a meal or experience. The quick moments I do see her, there’s a smile on her face and a bounce in her step.
She looks truly happy.
And that’s enough for me.
It’s bittersweet being here, because I should be right next to her, holding her hand through the museums full of art that I’m not allowing myself to go into—my penance—and buying our dinners, and kissing her in the most romantic places in the world, making love to her at night, and getting excited to propose to her when we got to New Jersey.
I should be with Indie.
And I could have been.
Fuck, if only I had known how easy it would be to fucking stand up to my mother in the first place. That thought is stuck in my chest like a splinter I can’t pull out.
There is some good here, however.
Europe has made my muse come alive, and I’m convinced it’s because I’m in proximity to her.
That first night after seeing Indie at the pub, I went back to my hotel and drew Indie as a queen and me as her humble knight, bowing before her, obeying her, guarding her, respecting her, loving her as she deserves.
Then I went hunting for the best gluten-free donuts I could find in the city, and it took five bakeries, circling back to the fourth to find the ones I knew Indie would like. And yeah, I couldn’t resist the bear claw, because I would crawl on broken glass just to hear her call me Teddy bear again.
I left it at the front desk, and I was glad William was hesitant to give food to another guest. I told him that if she refused it, he could just have the pastries. I bought large document envelopes at a nearby shop and slid the picture inside, hoping she might at least appreciate it.
If she tore it up, it would be alright. It’s up to her. That’s what I need to understand. Indie is in full control, after months of catering to me and my grief and my family and my mother.
Indie is my priority, the way she should have been from the very beginning.
I didn’t hang around to see if she took it. That felt wrong, but taking care of her felt amazing. I went back up to my hotel room and tried to figure out what else I could do to make this trip as enjoyable as possible.
Googling fun things to do in London brought up plenty of options, but the one that caught my eye was Moulin Rouge! The Musical. Indie loves that movie; it’s her absolute favorite, and she told me so.
So I bought her a ticket, the best I could get, and left it at the front desk, not even realizing I was humming Come What May as I headed back upstairs.
William told me she looked “a bit miffed,” but took the pastries and drawing anyway.
So, I told him to say the ticket was from the hotel.
Indie is smart; she’ll know who it is from, but I want to distance myself from these gifts as much as I can.
The point is making her life easier, and I can’t do that if my name is attached to it.
I’ve been following her at a distance just to make sure she’s okay.
I know Indie is capable, I know she’s independent, I know she can take care of herself.
But she doesn’t have to. That’s all she’s been doing her entire life.
Even when she was with me, but not anymore.
She deserves to be taken care of. She deserves an easy life.
I just want to be the lucky son of a bitch to give it to her.
I groaned and bit my fist when she walked out of the hotel in that dress.
Fucking hell—that beautiful black dress that showed her long back, her hair down and curled.
She looked dressed to kill—me in particular.
A happy death. Then my heart jolted when I saw the necklace, my Pop’s ring on it, next to the moonstone I bought her.
My chest burned when I saw that I wasn’t the only one appreciating her, too. Men and women’s heads turned as she walked by, as if a goddess had just appeared in front of them from the heavens. Tall, long, blonde, beautiful.
My Indie, my honey.
I deserved the torment. And then some. Because I knew exactly what I had when I had it, and I still failed to protect her.
I sat outside the theater, and when she walked out, she made my breath catch. Her beautiful blue eyes were red-rimmed, but her smile was pure happiness.
And that made me feel ten feet tall.
I put that smile on her face. I did something good for her and only her.
At the lounge, I followed her just to make sure she was okay. It was in a crowded area, people all around drinking and celebrating, so I slipped in through the back and sat in a dim area where she wouldn’t see me.
Then watched as that blonde, pretty boy saw her, his eyes lighting up with interest and desire, and approached her at the bar. I wasn’t close enough to hear them speak, but I could see their faces reflected in the glass behind the bar, and I could see his eyes trail up and down her form.
They spoke casually, him leaning toward her, Indie not moving away. She smiled a few times, and he grinned back. It was like watching my own personal horror movie.
My heart was hammering in my chest, and my fingers dug into the table when he said something that took Indie by surprise. She paused and turned, looking at him, eyes trailing over his face, studying him.
And then he leaned in slowly, toward her perfect face.
My blunt nails scratched against the wooden surface.
“Please, no, no, no, no, no,” I whispered, begging, unable to look away. “Please, don’t.”
Then he pressed his lips to hers.
And she let him.
My Indie was kissing someone else.
I knocked over my water glass, sending it crashing to the floor as I rushed to the bathroom, where I violently vomited into the toilet. I retched until there was nothing left, tears burning my eyes. The scene replayed relentlessly in my mind.
Indie kissing him.
Him kissing Indie.
Following that, every single moment when I could have chosen Indie replayed in my mind like a taunting loop.