Chapter Nine
"YOU SEEM TENSE today," Dr. Travetti commented breathlessly. She had been running late again, and I was already seated in her office when she'd arrived. I watched her as she situated her mug of coffee on the table between our chairs.
"I bet you paid big bucks to develop those killer people-reading skills," I muttered sardonically, crossing my arms and slouching in my chair.
"Oh, I love when we start the session off with some sarcasm. I know it's gonna be a good day."
I nodded approvingly as my lips curled into a smirk. "Nice, Doc. I'm teaching you well."
A moment of silence passed as she sat and crossed her legs, assuming her professional position. I liked her more when she was rushing and out of breath. When she was more relatable, more human. I thought, if I was a therapist, that's what I’d do. None of this suit-and-tie, stick-up-the-ass bullshit. I'd get on the level of the people, meet at a cafe or some shit, and talk like a friend and less like a doctor.
But I'd never be a therapist. I couldn't even save myself—how the hell could I save someone else?
"So, I was thinking," she began, finding a comfortable place in her chair, "maybe we could pick up where we left off last time. Our session was so short, and I had to cut you off so abruptly ..."
"I'd rather not," I replied curtly.
"Well, I really thought we started to make some progress, so I thought ..." She shrugged innocently.
I shook my head persistently. "You know, Doc, I'd really rather talk about my shit-show of a weekend, if that's okay with you."
"Oh," she gestured for me to continue, giving me the floor, "of course. Go ahead."
"Shane mentioned me on Instagram and got me a whole lot of attention. Then, I went to the club and read one of my poems," I told her.
Her eyes widened with intrigue. "You've never shown me one of your poems."
"I don't keep them," I informed her with a nonchalant shrug. "I write 'em and toss 'em out."
"That's pretty sad," she commented.
I snickered. "Why is that sad?"
"You're never proud and want to keep them?"
"Nope."
"Okay," she nodded slowly, absorbing. "What made you decide to read this one, then?"
"I liked it."
"What was it about?"
"Myself. And that tattoo."
"I see. And did you see that woman ...” Her eyes dropped to her clipboard as she thumbed through the sheets of paper. “What was her name? Audrey?"
I cocked my head, suddenly suspicious. "How did you know I saw her again?" Had she been there, too?
"Just making an educated guess," Dr. Travetti replied, smiling gently. "So, what exactly was so terrible about your weekend? This all sounds fine to me."
"Well, first of all, I didn't want to see Audrey."
"You didn't?"
"Hell no. That's the last thing I wanted." Her lips trapped between her teeth as she eyed me with suspicion. I laughed easily. "What the hell is that look for?"
"Oh, nothing." Dr. Travetti dropped her gaze to the lapel of her jacket and brushed an invisible piece of lint away. "I just think you did want to see her."
"Oh, really?" I challenged. "And what makes you think that?"
She raised her eyes to mine, challenge igniting a fire within. "Because you read a poem that you never intended to keep, and it just so happened to be a poem about the tattoo you put on her. You sent out a Bat Signal for her, and she answered the call."
I chuckled at the reference. "Doc, I never would've pegged you for a DC girl."
She smiled fondly. "I'm a Marvel fan, personally, but I have a soft spot for Batman."
With a nod, I pointed at her. "Keaton or Bale?"
"Ooh ..." Dr. Travetti sucked in a breath and tipped her head back. "That's a tough one, but if I had to pick, I'd say Keaton."
I pushed forward with my fist extended. "Same, Doc."
With a laugh, she pounded her knuckles against mine. "How was your encounter with Audrey this time?"
Settling back in my chair, I considered the question. I remembered the push and pull of my desire to be in her presence. The internal battle. "It was hard."
"Hard?"
"Yeah," I sniffed and turned to look out the window. "It was nice, until I thought about what I was doing, and then I wanted to get the fuck out of there."
She nodded, slow and steady. "And why do you think you felt like that?"
I knew what she was doing. She wanted me to look deep within, to chisel out the secrets from the darkest corners of my heart, and then reveal them to her. Because it was her job to figure me out and fix me. But I already knew the answer to her question, and without hesitation, I stated, "Because I don't deserve nice things, and Audrey is ..." I blew out a drawn-out breath. "Well, she's a nice thing."
"And this brings us back to our last session. You don't give yourself a chance. You don't allow yourself to feel good, proud, happy ..." She shook her head and tapped the tip of her pen against the clipboard. "We need to—"
"I'm not done telling you about my weekend."
She sighed and shifted her gaze to the clock ticking away on the wall. "Okay, I'm sorry. Continue."
I swallowed and hurried to speak before she could weasel her way in again. "I had a good time with Audrey while it lasted, and then I got the fuck out of there before I could do anything really stupid. And you know, I started to regret that the next day, on Sunday. I started asking myself, why couldn't I hang out some more? But then, I went over to my parents’ place for dinner. Jake threw a fit, you know, I told you about his mood swings."
"Yeah, you’ve mentioned them," she nodded sympathetically.
I gripped the back of my neck with a sweaty palm. "It'd apparently been a continuation of something that had been going on all day, and my parents told me they think he needs to be put into a place,” I spat with disgust.
"What kind of place?"
A sour taste flooded my mouth as I choked out, "An assisted living facility or some shit."
Dr. Travetti eyed me with concern and sympathy. "You don't agree."
"No, I don't fucking agree."
"Why?"
My palms clapped to the chair's leather arms and my fingers dug into the upholstery. "Because he’s fine! He likes his teachers; he likes the daycare. He needs a routine, and we have one, and I don't know what the hell it'll do to him to change."
"Are you more concerned about him, or you?"
"What?" I balked, flabbergasted. "Him!"
"Are you sure about that?"
I thrust forward, mashing my elbows to my knees as I pointed at the good doctor and her pantsuit and that know-it-all mouth of hers. "Don't act like you know better about this than me, Doc, you understand me? I know Jake better than anyone. I know what he needs, I know what he wants, and I know how to deal with him. He needs me, okay? Not some fucking strangers at a place that’s gonna treat him like a nuisance. He needs me."
I pushed my back into the chair and tucked my shaking hands into my lap. I returned my glare to the window and the world outside. To a sunny autumn day and pedestrians free to live their lives as they saw fit.
"Blake."
"Yeah, Doc?" My voice scraped against my throat and I wanted to claw at my flesh, to relieve the itch. To feel something other than this relentless tugging at my heart that hurt so goddamn badly.
"Let's do something, okay?"
I smirked at the sky. "Isn't it against the rules for a doctor to do something with a patient?"
"Very funny," she drawled. "No, seriously, let's try an exercise."
"Yeah, fine. I'll play."
"Excellent. Okay. I'm going to ask you a question, and you're going to answer with the first thing that comes to mind."
I laughed. "How is this different than what we always do?"
"Because you're not going to contemplate your answers for once."
I sighed and turned away from the window, fixing my glare on hers. "Okay, fine. Let's do it
."
She picked up her pen and placed the tip on the paper. "Why do you hate religion?"
"Just a week or so ago, you asked me why I hated my brother. Now, you're accusing me of hating religion. Maybe you're the hateful one here, Doc."
Exhaustedly, her pen flopped to the paper. "Do you hate your brother?"
"No."
"Do you hate religion?"
"Yes."
"So, it's not simply that you don't believe in anything; it's a hatred."
I nodded. "Yes."
"Why?"
And so, I told her that a god who was good, a god that was just, would never have allowed a horrific accident to happen to someone as talented and wonderful as Jake was. That a god painted to be so righteous and fair would’ve instead punished me, the bad egg, the black sheep. Dr. Travetti wasn't expecting the answer, her surprise made evident in her wide-eyed stare and softly parted lips. I wanted to ask what she had assumed I'd say. That I’d had an awful upbringing in the Church? That my parents shoved the Lord and His book down my throat until I couldn't recite a passage without gagging on my own tongue?
"So, you blame God for what happened to Jake."
"No," I corrected her with a lift of my finger. "I don't believe there is a god. I'd have to believe in something to blame him or her, or whatever."
"But your disbelief is derived from hate and anger."
"What does that matter?"
Dr. Travetti shook her head. "It doesn't. I'm just making sure I have everything straight. So, because you can't blame God for what happened to your brother, because God doesn't exist, you blame yourself."
"There’s only me to blame, Doc," I agreed with a nod. “It’s all my fault. All of it.”
"When did this start?"
"Start?" I laughed, dark and bitter. "Doc, I caused the fucking accident that—”
"No, I got that. But at what point did you decide you were going to punish yourself for as long as you live?"
I wedged my bottom lip between my teeth and bit down hard. A hint of copper flooded my taste buds as I hesitated to answer. Dr. Travetti leaned forward and met my eye.
"Blake, what happened?"
I stood up, moving away from her eyes, and paced the room. “There wasn’t one pivotal moment, Doc. Lightning didn't strike one day and I just decided, hey, I'm going to be miserable for the rest of my fucking life. It was just, I don’t know, a compilation of shit that just kept piling up. I realized my mother was angry all the time and my dad couldn’t even look at Jake anymore.” I faced her with a melancholic smile. “They were way different before the accident, they were awesome, but one stupid decision changed everything. And that was my doing, you know? And it all felt so wrong. Like, I was growing up, and he wasn't. I had a girlfriend, and he never would. I graduated high school, and he couldn’t remember basic addition and subtraction. I learned to drive, and he could barely ride a fucking bike."
"You were leaving him behind," she assessed softly.
I turned to her, thrusting my hands out. "Yes! I was! And how the fuck is that fair? Why should I get to go out and live my life, when I'm the fucking reason he can't live his? It's fucking bullshit!”
I dropped back into the chair. "People used to always tell me it's awesome that I have a twin, that it's so cool I have someone who looks just like me and knows what I'm thinking all the time or some bullshit like that. But then, he got hurt, and now, when people meet him, all I get is sympathy. Like, poor Blake, look at what he has to live with. This guy looks just like him, but he still wets the fucking bed. People still compare us, the way they used to, but there’s no fucking comparison anymore. And that’s when I started to realize that ... sometimes it blows to be a twin, and that if I had never fucked up … if I never even existed … he would've had a fighting chance." My throat tightened and my voice broke. Fucking hell, was I actually going to cry?
Dr. Travetti put her pen down and clasped her hands over her knee. "I think we've done enough for today," she concluded in the most anticlimactic way possible. I nearly snickered and rolled my eyes, because after a performance like that, I'd hoped for more. An applause, a tear—something.
"But, Blake?"
"What, Doc?"
"This was the most critical session we've ever had; I want you to realize that. You've been coming to me for years, and we have never made as much progress as we have today."
"Oh, I'm so thrilled," I muttered dryly.
"Well, you can be sarcastic all you want, but I really am. Thrilled, I mean." She offered me a genuine smile, and I tried to return the gesture.
"Well, Doc," I stood up and pushed my hair back against my scalp, "it's been—"
"I have an assignment for you this week."
I gaped at her. "You're giving me homework now?"
"Yes." Her mouth lifted in a little smile. "I want you to find Audrey and ask her out."
I gawked at this smirking woman. "What the fuck? Why would I do that?"
"Because you like her."
"That's a stupid fucking reason," I grumbled with a roll of my eyes.
Dr. Travetti tipped her head and met my gaze with sincerity. "But what better reason is there?"
Chapter Ten
"HEY, BLAKE, what do you wanna get for lunch?"
"Whatever, it doesn’t matter," I grumbled, tracing the lines of a sternum piece. The dude under my needle flinched every five seconds and I was about ready to send him home with a half-finished tattoo.
"Come on. Do you want Chinese? Or uh, we could order from—"
"Cee," I interrupted with an exasperated huff. "Just decide what you want, and we'll get it, okay?"
"Fine, jeez ..." She shot me with a sour look and turned away to head back up front.
I shook my head and continued to work, diving headfirst into the hum and vibration of my machine. I coaxed my lungs to breathe, to settle the tension winding me up tight and leaving my shoulders rigid. I listened to the music playing from the sound system, Marilyn Manson's "Coma White," and drowned in my work. Until my client moaned and shifted beneath my hands and my reflexes sent me upright in a flash.
This was the fourth time in twenty minutes and my patience was wearing thin.
"You okay?" I asked, keeping my tone even and calm.
Ryan was his name and he smiled apologetically. "Yeah, man, sorry."
"You wanna take a break?" I offered, hoping he'd accept, and to my delight, his eyes lit with gratitude.
"Really? We can do that?"
"Yeah, sure, let's take a breather." I rolled backward to the trashcan and pulled my gloves off as Ryan sat up.
"I didn't think it'd hurt so much," he admitted, grimacing.
"Anything right over bone can be pretty tough," I informed him, brushing my annoyance away with sympathy and understanding.
"I feel like a wuss."
I stood up and clipped my knuckles against his shoulder. "Nah, you're fine. Give yourself a few minutes and we'll get going again."
I left him at my station and went up to the desk to find Celia. She had her nose in a takeout menu from Bonchon Chicken, refusing to look up when I approached.
"Cee," I coaxed, tapping my fingers on the countertop.
"Go away, Blake. You're being a whiny bitch today and I don't wanna deal with your shit."
I chuckled lightly. "I deserve that."
"Oh, good. I'm glad you know you're being an asshole. That makes me feel so much better."
I folded my arms and peered over the counter's ledge at her. "I'm sorry. I had a shitty session with my therapist this morning, and—" I caught myself and stopped talking. I'd never admitted to my therapy before and nobody knew. Celia made that evident by the shocked expression she revealed as she glanced up at me.
"Wait, you're in therapy?"
"Uh, yeah ..." Uncertainty coated my voice and I scrubbed a hand through my hair.
"Why didn't I know this?"
I shrugged. "I don't know ... I guess it just never came up."
&n
bsp; "How long have you been going?"
"Um, a couple years."
"A couple years?" She dropped the menu and gawked at me. "I mean, it's none of my business, but how have you been seeing a therapist for years without telling me?"
I laughed tightly through my shame and humiliation. "It's really not a big deal, Cee."
"No, it's not, but ... I don't know. It's just weird you've never mentioned it. I'm like your best friend."
I cocked my head at the declaration. My best friend? Celia and I had been working together for years, developing a strange relationship based on craft, casual conversation, and the rare occurrence of sex. She was one of the few people to know Jake, to know my moods, to know me. Yet, I had never thought of her as my best friend before. Maybe I’d never thought that I deserved a best friend. Maybe I never thought I could have one, with my world being the way it was. But turns out, it had happened anyway, and it was fine.
You're fine.
So are you.
"Sorry," I said again, unsure why.
"It's okay," she brushed it off. "Anyway, you want chicken? I'm in the mood for Bonchon."
"Bonchon's good," I agreed.
"Cool. You want your usual? I'll pick it up while you finish up in there."
"That works for me." I reached over the counter and ruffled her dreadlocks. "Thanks, Cee."
"You're welcome," she mumbled, and I headed back to work, feeling just a bit happier and lighter.
I have a best friend.
***
"Blake, Blake," my brother ran down the stairs from his bedroom in a hurry, clutching a Blu-ray disc in his hand. I turned from opening the front door to give him my attention.
"What's up, buddy?"
"It won't play. I keep putting it in and it won't play. You gotta fix it, Blake. Fix it."
"Okay, let me see."
He thrust the disc into my hand and I didn't need to look closely to see hundreds of tiny scratches etched into its surface. It was his favorite movie, Gremlins, and I knew he'd have a fit if I told him it was broken. "You know what, Jake? I think I'm gonna need to fix this tomorrow, okay? It's gonna take too long right now and I gotta get home.”
He eyed me with worry and a dash of panic. "But you're gonna fix it? I need it fixed, Blake. Can you fix it?"
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