Page 97 of Only and Forever
Time to stop avoiding the unavoidable. Time to get to work.
—
Charlie said I might have to shop around before I found a therapist who was a good fit for me. I didn’t like the sound of that. I worried that with each failed attempt, I’d lose my nerve and chicken out. Thankfully, I had no need to worry. My therapist, Linda, the first one to email me back after the handful of contact forms I filled out two weeks ago, had an opening the very next day.
She’s maternal in the way I imagined maternal would be but never knew myself. She’s softspoken, silver-haired, always bundled up in a cardigan and thick socks, even though it’s hot as hell as we start to crawl our way through June.
After our first session, she gently suggested we meet three times a week. I didn’t balk, didn’t blink. I know I’m fucked up. I’ll take all the help I can get.
Linda has early appointments, and I now hold her eight a.m. slots on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. It’s the hardest thing I’veever done, opening up to a stranger and sharing my deepest pains, allowing her to guide me into uncovering even more pain that I didn’t even know I had repressed, trusting her to help me feel safe in processing all of it.
But I do it. I feel braver, stronger, almost fearless.
Almost.
Because once I step out of that quiet room and cool air-conditioning, into the blaring, blazing-hot reality of life, my confidence dips. It’s one thing to do what I’m learning to do in therapy. It’s a whole other thing to do it with people I care about. People who matter to me. People who I want to be close to.
The shop opens at ten, so I have time to collect myself before working.
Viggo is always around when I get home, lingering in the kitchen, fresh coffee waiting, another delicious treat on the counter, carbs calculated per serving, scribbled tidily on notepaper, so I can bolus the correct amount of insulin before I eat them.
That’s where I find him as I shut the door behind me, feeling drained yet unburdened. Hip leaning against the counter, nose in a romance novel. He lowers it just a little, his eyes meeting mine. “Hey there, Lulaloo.”
“Hey.” I hang my keys on theHome, Sweet Homehook, then bend to greet Romeo and Juliet, who offer me happy barks in greeting, lolling tongues and wagging tails as I pet them. I give them both hugs, soothed by those warm, sweet bodies, their steady, loyal affection that always makes me feel better.
I stand, the dogs following in my wake, and stop by the sofa, where the kittens sleep, like little ants on a log, snoozing across the length of the sofa. I slide a hand down each of their backs, feeling soft, fluffy kitten fur, tiny purrs rumbling their ribs. Pet greeting complete, I stroll into the kitchen.
Viggo sets his book aside and opens his arms. I step into them,wrapping myself around him until my fingers clasp low on his back and my cheek rests on his chest.
“How ya doin’, Lu?”
“Exhausted.”
He nods. “Therapy is exhausting. Proud of you.”
“Thank you.” I smile against his chest and sigh, savoring the comfort of his embrace.
The past two weeks, since the grand opening, we’ve been on our best behavior, kept our touch safely to hugs and the occasional movie-night cuddles. Every day, the store is busy from open to close. I work on my book early in the morning and all evening, while Viggo bakes and restocks the store. We haven’t kissed once. Haven’t made out. I tell myself it’s because we’re too busy, but that’s not really true. We have quiet moments in the morning like this, on the couch in the evening, before we part ways for bed. We don’t take advantage of them. I think, by some unspoken agreement, we’ve recognized and decided to respect that, until we figure this out, figure out who we are, we’re both too fragile to risk going where kissing seems to take us.
My gaze slips down to the historical romance he’s reading, the couple’s longing clear in their embrace. Not for the first time since that night, since I woke up the next day, determined to get this fix-my-shit show on the road, I battle a profound wave of insecurity. In going to therapy, in the way I’m writing the last of the book, I’m trying first and foremost to make myself healthier, to open myself to healing. But I am also definitely trying to be someone who can have a healthy intimate relationship. With him.
Except Viggo’s not just some ordinary person who wants an emotionally open partner. He’s a romantic who has so many ideas, feelings, hopes, for something I’m entirely ignorant of. How can I ever meet his expectations?
“New recipe,” he says, reaching with one hand for the plate ofcookies. “Peanut butter chocolate chip and oatmeal breakfast cookies. You said you were craving something with peanut butter and chocolate.”
I scrunch my eyes shut, battling a sudden rush of tears. He’s so damn sweet.
“Those look great,” I whisper, hoping it hides the lump of emotion thick in my throat. “Thank you.”
He nuzzles my head with his chin. “You’re welcome, Lu.”
I’m quiet again, holding him tight. I know I need to let go, to move forward into today, tomorrow, the next two weeks. But it feels harder, every time I hug him, to let go.
Viggo is unfazed by my behavior. Six sessions in, he’s learned to expect my quiet when I get back from therapy. He stands there patiently, holding me tight, breathing slow and steady, as I cling to him, silent, my mind racing. I take a deep breath and try to calm myself, settle my thoughts. I can’t worry about what might happen between us when I reach my goal, my destination. I have to focus on where I am on the path right now.
One step at a time, Linda reminds me often. I remind myself now, as I pull away and peer up at him.
He smiles down at me, tinged with that familiar vibrant energy, but this feels like more. Like he’s got a secret he can’t wait to share.