by Brit Benson
If she wanted to share that story, I would already know where she disappeared to and why.
And truthfully, what it comes down to the most is that I’m okay with the secrets. They’re safe. I don’t push it because I don’t want to hear that I was the reason she dipped on all our plans. And I definitely don’t want to talk about what went down with me during that time, so I can’t expect her to play show and tell when I have no interest in joining. Am I willing to risk everything just to satisfy some juvenile interest that was sparked by petty jealousy?
No. I’m not.
This might be an instance where curiosity really would kill the cat, or at least our friendship. Sometimes, secrets are better kept secret. Fucking Preston.
So instead, we talk about Jacob. We sing along to the radio. We plan our next Netflix and Fill. By the time we pull back into campus town, the encounter with Preston is just an annoyance that I brush off.
My relationship with my best friend is solid. I’m stupid for even questioning it.
When I walk into my condo after dropping Ivy off, I find Jesse on the couch wearing the Cookie Monster pajama pants Ivy and Bailey got him for his birthday with a cup of tea sitting on the coffee table next to his basket of yarn. His foot is bouncing, his right hand is twirling a knitting needle, and his left is scrolling on his phone.
“Ay-oh,” he calls out when he sees me. “Come here, man. How do you feel about little poofy balls on your slippers? Yay or nay?”
I laugh and kick off my shoes. This is definitely the kind of company I prefer to keep.
9
Monday afternoon, I have a video call with Dr. Joyner. An assistant in her office responded to my early morning email on Friday within two hours and insisted we set up a check-in meeting. This was the earliest Dr. Joyner could see me.
Dr. Joyner’s image comes over the screen when the call connects. She looks exactly how she always does. She’s sitting at her desk, a bookcase brimming with books and her framed degrees and certifications can be seen behind her. Her short black hair is styled perfectly, not a flyaway to be seen, her red-framed glasses are perched on the bridge of her nose, and on her ageless face is the same warm yet serious expression I’m used to.
The familiar sight of her on the screen helps me to relax before I even noticed my own tension.
“Good afternoon, Ivy,” she greets. “I am recording this session. If you are not comfortable with that, I will turn off the recording and take handwritten notes.”
She starts every session this way.
“I’m okay with it.”
She nods. “How are you feeling today?”
Dr. Joyner is decidedly no-nonsense. She doesn’t beat around the bush and she doesn’t coddle. I think that’s why I was able to open up to her so quickly. I appreciate a direct woman. I was determined to get my head straight, and she was determined to help me.
“I’m feeling better. Much better, actually,” I say honestly. “I’ve been messaging with some women in the forum, and it’s helped to know that what happened isn’t unusual and doesn’t mean I’m backsliding.”
“That’s good. I’m glad you joined that group.” I can only see her body from the chest up, but I know she’s behind her desk with her legs crossed and her hands folded in front of her. “Have you been doing preemptive grounding exercises?”
“Yes. I start and end each day with a breathing exercise and reciting my mantra.”
“Good, good. I’d like for you to tell me what happened on Thursday night. What triggered your attack. Would you like to do that?”
I nod. I need this.
“I would. Jesse and I went to a fraternity party. While we were there, a guy got into my personal space. I handled it well, despite a bit of fear at first. I was prepared to use a self-defense move if I needed to. But then his cologne just, kind of, derailed me.”
Dr. Joyner nods again, her face stern and focused, but listening intently.
“Was the fraternity party meant as a CBT exercise?”
Dr. Joyner doesn’t ask this question with judgment, despite the fact that she was not exactly happy with my decision to independently attempt cognitive behavioral therapy. When she saw that I was determined, she warned me of the risks and provided me with some literature on how to effectively perform CBT. But she also made sure to state that she was not recommending the treatment. She’s been nothing but helpful, though, especially when I started making positive progress, and I am grateful for that.
“No. But my previous CBT exercises have been successful. I’ve noticed marked improvement. This is the first time in eight months that I’ve had an episode.”
“I want you to describe the episode for me,” she states firmly, and I take a breath and swallow.
“Okay. Yes. So, it started the same as usual. Sweating, rapid heartbeat, pounding in my ears. I tried to do a grounding exercise at first, but it intensified quickly, and I couldn’t focus. I started to feel like the room was shrinking, and then I started to get the flashes of memory. The curtains. The clothing. The voice. But this time, there was a new memory. The cologne. I was able to isolate myself in a bathroom where I threw up, and then did breathing and visualizing exercises until I was able to take medication.”
She steeples her brown hands under her chin, her red lips pursed, surveying me.
“The vomiting is new.”
“Yep. The scent of the cologne, it was so strong. Stronger than it should have been. Even after I was in the bathroom, after I’d vomited, I could still smell it. It was suffocating.”
“What do you think that means?”
“I think it’s a memory from that night.”
She nods again. “And how do you feel about that?”
“Kind of relieved, actually. I feel like it’s another clue? I know that we’ve moved beyond my quest for justice, and I have moved past that, but this feels like a step toward clarity. I’ll probably never have all the answers, but now I have one more, and that makes me feel powerful.”
“I like that you’re choosing to see it that way. Have the nightmares returned?”
“Twice,” I say, and I can’t keep the defeat from my voice. No matter how hard I work on controlling my fight-or-flight responses while I’m awake, I relinquish that power as soon as I fall asleep. “One Thursday night after the panic attack, and one last night.”
“There is a chance you will have more in the coming weeks, but it’s important to remember that this is not a failure. These nightmares do not mean you have regressed in your progress.” Dr. Joyner speaks this with conviction, and the tightness in my chest, the disappointment I’ve been feeling with myself, eases a bit. She doesn’t say things just to pacify me.
“I’m very pleased with how you’ve handled everything, Ivy. You did everything right in that situation, and you likely made the attack less severe.”
I take a deep breath and smile grimly. It’s nice to hear, but it’s a bittersweet kind of praise.
“Ivy. I need you to understand and accept that there will always be a chance that something will trigger a panic attack or nightmares. There is no true cure for PTSD or for anxiety. We can use what we know to manage the symptoms, but we cannot cure it.”
I jerk a nod and stare at my hands. I hate this fact. It never gets easier to hear.
“Ivy, I would like your eyes on me for what I am about to say, if you’re comfortable with it.”
I take two deep breaths and raise my eyes to hers.
“This is not a failure. This is not a loss of control. You are not a failure, Ivy. You are not out of control. I’d like you to nod if you believe me, and I’d like you to repeat that back to me if you agree.”
I grit my teeth and take two more deep breaths, letting the truth wash over me.
“This is not a failure. This is not a loss of control. I am not a failure. I am not out of control.”
“Thank you. How do you feel about our meeting?”
“Good. I feel mostly good.”
&nbs
p; “Do you feel you would benefit from a prescription to aid with sleep? I could contact your psychiatrist.”
“Not yet. I’ll email you if I change my mind.”
“Have a good day, Ivy.”
“Thanks, Dr. Joyner. You too.”
* * *
On Tuesday, I head straight to the firm instead of attending lecture. Ms. Pierce told me I didn’t have to make up the hours I missed this weekend, but I’d much rather be helping out here than sitting in a class that I currently have an A in. I figure, the experience at my internship will be much more valuable to my future career than my ECON elective.
“How was your weekend?” Amelia asks when I walk into the conference room, a stack of file folders piled high in my arms.
“Good. It was good to see Jacob and Mom. I feel a little better now, you know, about everything with him at school.”
“Mmhmm. Middle schoolers can be little assholes. I’m sure he was glad to see you too.”
“Yeah, I think so. How about you? How was your weekend?”
“The usual. Devon is still on nights, and I had homework to catch up on. But Sunday we were able to have some family time, which was really nice and much needed. Destiney had us play a board game and then we watched some documentary on climate change.”
I giggle. “Destiney picked the documentary, didn’t she?”
“My little world changer.”
Amelia’s family is perfect. Her husband worships her, as he should, and they have an amazing eight-year-old daughter, Destiney. A marriage like theirs, a little family that is happy and loved—someday, I’d like to have that.
“I looked over the work you did last week. Your notes are good. Concise.” Amelia hands me a packet of papers. “There were some places where your verbiage needed to be cleaned up. I highlighted them. Also, I printed out some examples of estate cases that were contested and went to court. I want you to look over those documents and write up the links to the Harrison case.” She levels me with a no-nonsense look. “This has the potential to get messy.”
“Are we thinking it won’t be settled in mediation?”
“My guess? Definitely not. You spent last time organizing assets, so you haven’t gotten to the will yet.” Amelia raises her prefect eyebrows to punctuate her cryptic message, then takes her coffee and saunters out the door.
After a few hours, I’m in disbelief and calling Amelia back into the conference room.
“Mr. Harrison wants to leave everything, absolutely everything, to his thirteen-year-old grandson?”
“That’s right.”
“Nothing to his only son?”
“Not a thing. And that’s not all. Did you look at the notes on the trust?”
“Yeah. He wants to put everything into a trust for his grandson and make the trustee the kid’s mom. His daughter-in-law. Doesn’t want the kid’s dad, his own son, to be able to touch any of it.”
Amelia nods slowly, and my wheels start turning. This could be tricky.
“I’ve got some ideas,” I say absently, my mind whirring while I jot down some notes on my legal pad. “I have to do some research.” Then, I get to work.
* * *
Bailey and I pull up to the intramural fields at 6:50 on Wednesday evening. Kelley’s scrimmages usually start around seven, so the teams are just finishing up some warm-up drills. As we head toward one of the scattered sets of bleachers set up along the edges of the field, I hear my name shouted and the distinct sound of sprinting shoes on pavement behind me. I know what’s about to happen, and I have just enough time to drop my messenger bag, freeze, and brace myself for impact before I’m scooped up and thrown over Jesse’s shoulder.
“Ivy Bean has brought the par-taaaaay,” Jesse shouts as he runs in circles around Bailey with me giggle-shrieking and gripping his waist for dear life.
“Put her down, you menace, before you trip and drop her on her head,” Bailey yells. Jesse stops running, and I hear him gasp as if he’s offended.
“I would never trip. I’m far too coordinated.” He puts me back on my feet and lunges for Bailey. “I’ll show you.”
Bailey squeaks and kicks her foot out at him.
“Hernandez, I swear to god, if you try to pick me up, I will kick you in the dick.”
“Ow, no.” Jesse jumps back, one hand cupping between his legs and the other thrown up at Bailey likes she’s a wild animal. “Loud and clear, Barnes. But if you put me out of commission there will be some very disappointed people on campus, feel me? This is the best thing I’ve got goin’ for me.” Jesse wiggles his hips a little and winks at us.
“You’re disgusting.” Bailey laughs.
“You love me.”
“Ew, no.”
“Hush, you two,” I cut in. “Let’s sit.”
When we’re settled on the bleachers, Jesse sitting between Bailey and me, I covertly reach into my messenger bag and sneak a bundle of yarn to Bailey behind Jesse’s back.
I pull another out for myself and then clear my throat.
“Brrrr, it’s getting a little chilly, isn’t it, B?” I say, making a show of wrapping the scarf around my neck.
“Yeah, I’m a little cold, too,” Bailey says theatrically and does the same.
“You guys are nuts,” Jesse mumbles as he scrolls his phone, one leg bouncing quickly. “It’s like sixty degrees out.”
I clear my throat louder. “I said it’s chilly,” and when he doesn’t look up from his phone, Bailey swats him on the back of the head.
“Ow, B, what the fuck! That hu—hey wait! Those are my scarves!”
Jesse goes from irritated to elated in a blink when he notices what Bailey and I are wearing. He’s grinning like a goofball and grabs the end of mine, inspecting his handiwork.
“Hey, these are some sexy scarves. I did good.”
“You did,” Bailey says and nudges his shoulder playfully.
“You’ve come a long way from potholders and tea cozies,” I add.
“Yeah, especially since those potholders didn’t work for shit.”
“Yeah, sorry about that, B.” Jesse widens his eyes at her and makes a face that can best be interpreted as whoops my bad.
“I think I still have a scar,” Bailey jokes, looking at her palm with wide eyes.
“Oh shit, really?” Jesse makes a grab for Bailey’s hand, but she snatches it away with a laugh.
“I’m just fucking with you, J.”
“Not funny. I still feel bad about that.” Jesse pouts a moment, then returns his attention to the field, shouting through cupped hands. “Let’s go, Kelley Baby! Kick some ass!”
I can hear Kelley’s laughter from the field, and he throws both fists in the air. We watch as the teams move into position, a student ref blows a whistle, and the other team takes the kickoff.
Watching Kelley play has always fascinated me. Truthfully, I’ve never been able to keep up much with the actual game because I spend most of it with my eyes glued to my best friend.
The way he moves? It’s criminal. It puts everyone else out there to shame.
Kelley weaves in and out of the other players with speed and precision. When everyone else seems to be chasing the ball, the ball seems to bend to Kelley’s will.
His instincts are unmatched. His skill, expert.
And his body? Well, it’s masterfully shaped and honed from years of athleticism and training. Simply put, Kelley is hot. A testament to the fruits of hard work and dedication. I watch the way his quad muscles bunch and stretch as he pushes his legs down the field, the way his arms pump and his biceps bulge.
Jeebus. Absolutely criminal.
Halfway through the game, Kelley takes off his shirt, and I can’t help but stare at the planes of his defined abs. The way they contract when he kicks long sends funny tingles through my body. He really is a thing of beauty. Unfortunately, I’m not the only one to notice, and when a group of girls along the sidelines starts tittering and pointing at him, I bristle and have to temper my stare.<
br />
“Just go tell them he’s off limits,” Jesse snarks from beside me. “I don’t think your death glare is getting through to them.”
I huff. “Those women can drool over whomever they please, Kelley included. I don’t have a claim on him.” I tear my eyes away from the group of girls, and Jesse snorts.
“Sure, V. That’s why you growled and started frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog protecting her favorite squeaky toy.”
I shove Jesse’s shoulder. “That’s not true.” I start to protest just as a cheer comes from the field. I whip my eyes back to find Kelley staring right at me, a triumphant smile on his face and his arms raised in celebration. He scored. I clap and cheer proudly, my smile likely bigger than his, and giddy butterflies do laps in my tummy.
“Mmhhmmm.” Bailey chuckles from beside Jesse. “No claim.”
“Hush,” I scold, then tune them both out, ignoring the way my heart skipped under Kelley’s attention.
He’s my best friend, and he’s an amazing soccer player. It’s completely acceptable for me to be proud of him when he scores.
Kelley should be playing soccer for BU on scholarship. It’s the only reason he came to Butler in the first place. I got an academic scholarship, he got a soccer scholarship, and we were supposed to brave freshman year of college together.
Except we didn’t.
Instead, I spent a year at the community college near Bowen, leaving Kelley to experience the college life as a star athlete without me. But when I transferred back, I found that Kelley was no longer on soccer scholarship. He’s never told me why, and I don’t press.
We both have our secrets, and I don’t know when, if ever, I’ll be ready to share mine.
No, Kelley and I are solid just how we are. Our friendship is pretty perfect as it is. Why do or say anything that could change that?
The game wraps up with Kelley’s team scoring the final goal off of his assist. Bailey, Jesse, and I cheer loudly and watch as the teams do their good game fist bumps or whatever.