by Mj Fields
He leans forward and takes my hand. “Life has a way of making us feel that way. I see your heart, your soul, your—”
I pull my hand back. “I’m toxic. I ruined us, and …” I stop when a realization smashes into me like a fucking freight train. “I ruined him.”
“No, Tris. That is not—”
“Stop. Just stop.” I lean down and bury my face in the pillow.
The bed moves, and I feel him sit beside me and pull me into him. “My apologies. But, Tris, you were fifteen, and you’ve grown so much—”
I look up quickly. “How do you know that?”
He leans down and grabs his phone. I suspect he’s going to use his app, but I suspect wrong.
He opens his IG messages and hands me his phone.
“This is toxic and needs to be resolved before you can truly move forward.”
Four days ago, all the monsters came out to play in a near catastrophic storm where lightning bolts in all the colors of every one of my monsters were thrown from the ground up, from beneath the earth, from hell.
I know I was a mess, but I also know he held me together, even when in the darkest of moments.
Even through whispers from Momma Joe that he could leave, he refused.
Even when my parents showed up because I wouldn’t eat, sleep, or take my meds.
Even when I was on video chats with Marley, telling her I thought I was bipolar, in front of them all.
Even him.
The good news? I feel better, a whole lot better, because the biggest monster, the one who was hiding in plain sight, the reason I only want to look in foggy mirrors was … me.
The girl who opened an album that Marcello Effisto told me that we shouldn’t look at and I pulled him right into it all.
Marley, my parents, Momma Joe all told me that was not true. That he was obviously a willing participant. They begged me to believe that I was no villain.
But Matteo, who stayed even after my father told him to leave a million times, who sat silently, was the only person who made me feel like it was okay to feel that way.
Before we left to come back, before I started taking the new pills that Marley prescribed, when things were finally quiet, I sat beside him and thanked him. I even told him the truth about the past, coherently this time. I told him about the pregnancy, which was when things started to go really bad, then the baseball game where Marc told me that we were done and that he was dating my cousins—plural. I told him about the abortion and the fact that I paid some random chick, who I knew had a drug problem, to sit in the waiting room, something my parents don’t even know for fear that, in Dad’s quest to “fix the laws” in all the world that would allow a fifteen-year-old the ability to go through that alone, without more than a pre-counseling session and one aftercare phone call, he would seek her out and make her feel like this was her fault. I told him about the roses and fights—plural—at school and being institutionalized. And I told him about the day I wanted to die and how Dad had to basically stick his hand down my throat to save my life.
I cried, he held me, and Matteo Arias shed tears, too.
Before we left, he made me promise to go home and make peace with my goodbye or starting over with Marley or another therapist if I chose to be with Marcello.
I knew that was it. I knew it was goodbye, but I told him how honored I was to have met him and jokingly told him I was sure Zandor would pay him whatever he asked for pushing me far enough to see the true root of my issue.
Me.
When we left, I sobbed because I knew I would never see him again. And who held me? My dad.
Today, at my insistence, my parents and Sabato and Mel, agreed to allow Marc and I to talk with Marley to “make peace.”
Making Peace
Tris
When he walks in, dressed in khaki slacks and a navy Seashore blazer, I’m already seated in one of the six back-winged leather chairs in Dr. Marley’s spacious office.
He looks me over then stares me in the eye. “I’m assuming on your knees, pet, would be a little presumptuous since we’re in public.”
In a calm voice, Marley says, “I’m going to start by setting ground rules, and any time I feel like this isn’t a healing experience, we’re done.”
He rolls his eyes. “Then I’ll lead with I’m glad you saw the error of your ways and came back to where you know you belong.”
“Marcello,” she snaps, which is shocking because hello, ‘a place of healing’? “How about, hello, Tris? That’s always a good place to start.”
“Hello, Tris.” He shrugs off his blazer and throws it over the back of the chair.
As disturbing as it is, in the wake of all my revelations over the past few days, I find him insanely attractive, and my body, trained by his touch, and ours together, reacts to him.
“Invisible strings yet to be clipped,” he says, pushing up his sleeves and sitting down.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Marley asks as she returns to her seat.
“Well, Dr. Matteson, I wouldn’t want to offend you, so—”
“My nipples. He was looking at them. They hardened. It happens.”
He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “Does it happen with him?”
“My friend, Matteo, no. I’m assuming, with you, it’s muscle memory or something.”
“So, you do remember those wicked little games we played,” he says in a deep rasp.
I look at him and am pleased that I can do so without glaring or getting turned on.
His scowl deepens. It obviously pisses him off, which, a few days ago, that would have made me happy. Now it’s a different story. It makes me sad.
“Friends don’t fuck friends, Tris.”
“I’m going to remind you why we’re here,” Marley repeats.
He swings his glare toward her. “How much would it take to make you sit there and observe rather than try to control something well beyond your ability?”
“Marc, shut up, okay? Just shut up and listen to me.”
Marley pushes back in her chair. “Tris, is this is too much—”
“Life can be too much at times, but this, this needs to happen. I need to heal. I need to be able to look in the mirror and see—”
“Me!”
“Me!” I shout back. “I need to be able to look in the mirror and see me, not a monster. She won’t diagnose me because she thinks I’m too young, but I am telling you there is something seriously wrong with me, Marcello. There always has been. I’m—”
“No, Tris.” Marley stands abruptly. “He doesn’t need nor deserve that information.”
“He does. He loved me once, and I loved him. I made him do things to me because it felt good. I moved, he felt betrayed. I promised never to do that—”
“Tris,” he seethes, “don’t you dare fucking cry.”
I look back at him and see him gripping the edge of the seat, physically holding himself back. I’m getting a glimpse of the Marc he was before me.
I bat away the first tear. “I won’t!”
“Fuck.” He starts to stand, and I hold my hand out, telling him no.
“Don’t. Don’t touch me.”
“Then stop fucking crying.” His eyes start to brim red.
“You were my first friend. My only one, my whole life, who wasn’t family. I loved you.” I hit my chest. “You felt betrayed because I was so damn depressed, and you didn’t understand it. How could you? I sure as hell didn’t back then.”
“I’m sorry, okay? Is that what you want to hear? Will that make this better? Will you come fucking home then?”
“I pushed you away, and you were hurt, and—”
“Hurt? I was fucking devastated!”
“I don’t disbelieve that, and I couldn’t manage that with you because I was a mess, and I was pregnant, and I had to deal with that.”
“I should have.” He hits his chest and begins pacing. “I fucking should have.”
“Well, you w
ere a bit busy with your little harem.”
“One wouldn’t have been enough to replace you. It’s still not,” he seethes.
“Then stop trying. Find someone to love, Marc. We crossed lines, dug trenches so deep and wide we’d be swallowed up if we tried. We can’t go back.”
“The hell we can’t. You just admitted you love me! Love doesn’t die, Tris. It doesn’t, and—”
“Love changes, Marc.” I hold my hand to my heart.
He holds his hand over his. “Like hell it does. Do you think I love any of those girls I fucked?”
“If you’re trying to hurt me by saying that, I’m going to ask you to stop. I don’t want to hurt anymore. I don’t want you to hurt anymore. And I hope maybe one day we can be best friends again, after we’ve healed.”
“I’m not fucking broken, Tris!”
“I broke you! Look in the mirror, Marc! I broke you! The Marcello I grew up with wouldn’t ever hurt me. But the Marcello I asked to inflict a little bit of pain once in a while, that Marcello couldn’t see past his hard-on to remember who he once was to me, and my needs superseded that, too. I couldn’t see we were no longer the little girl and boy who promised to one day be married, just like our parents. We became—”
“I see you in every set of eyes beneath me or above me. I still see you as mine. That will never change.”
Louder, I finish my sentence, “We became toxic.”
“You know I love you. You know you’re still mine. You know, when shit gets straight in your head, you’ll be enough for me. You know when this Marley or the next shrink finally fixes you—”
“You can’t even say you’re sorry for fucking my cousin, Marc! Jesus, listen to you. Admit you need help and find it! I have. I’m bipolar and—”
“Tris.” Marley, who had just sat down, gasps as she stands.
“What? I need him to see that it’s okay to be fucked up, but healing doesn’t start until you recognize it.” I look back at him. “I tried to kill myself, Marc. I wanted to die so I wasn’t hurting my parents, my siblings, my cousins, or you! I wanted to die, and my father had to reach his hand down my throat and make me throw up the handful of pills I tossed back. Before that, I was in a psych ward for the rose incident, for fuck’s sake. This isn’t just a little game. I have mental health issues, and I can promise you that they were here before our ‘wicked little games.’ Think back, and you’ll remember. I hide from crowds, I was anti-social, I had to focus on—”
“She’s lying,” he cuts me off and looks at Marley.
“Oh my God. No, I’m not. I’m batshit crazy and owning it. Hell, Brisa is so fucked up because of me that she’s seeing Marley, too.”
“Tris,” Marley whispers.
“I’m sorry. Let me clarify. She’s not crazy; she’s an empath. The fairy princess of mental health disorders. Me? I’m the black cross loving loner with suicidal tendencies because finding a way out of that dark was impossible.”
“Until now,” Marley interjects.
“Until music became my passion.”
He sits down, staring at the wall over my head, shocked maybe? Pleased? Who the hell knows anymore with him?
Marley clears her throat. “While things are quiet, I’d like to remind both of you that things shared in this space are safe. Marc, Tris just trusted you with things that even those closest to her don’t know. I’m not sure why she chose to share that with someone who has outed her to any male or female who she kisses to end her show, because, to me, that’s not something I would have advised and—”
“Who knows?” he cuts her off and looks back at me.
Marley answers, “That’s not information I’d share, either.”
His eyes aren’t cold, and his perma-scowl has softened, so I will. “My parents and Momma Joe.”
“You should have told me.”
“Really?” I wrinkle my nose.
He closes his eyes and shakes his head while sputtering curses. When he opens his eyes, they’re red again. “Yeah, Tris, really.”
I smile as my own tears begin to build again. “Those sandbox confessions were a lifetime ago, Father Efisto.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Someday, when My and Brisa are done with school, I may tell them, but—”
“I’m not saying shit to them, Tris. I still haven’t told My you broke his first MVP trophy or Brisa that you cut her doll’s hair.”
“Thank you.”
He stands and grabs his blazer. “Look, I’m not sure what to say, how to act, or what to feel right now, but I do know this; you can’t be dead, so don’t pull that shit again. You just can’t”
“Accept my apology and wish me well on my healing journey.” I hold my hands up and pinch my fingers together, like a Buddha statue.
He lifts his chin then looks at Marley. “Nice to meet your acquaintance.”
When he turns to walk out the door, my chest tightens, and I feel the fastest anxiety attack ever is brewing inside of me.
“Marc.” I gasp out his name.
God why did I call after him? Why!
He looks back and God how he looks like my Marc. “Yeah?”
“I’m probably going to show up and surprise My at the game tonight.”
He nods.
“No one knows I’m home.”
“Understood.” He turns again.
I have hated him for so long now, yet here he is, the Marcello who loved me and who I loved.
A sob escapes me, causing my whole body to shutter.
He stops, and I’m so afraid he’s going to turn around that I yell, “Just go!”
Ever the rule breaker, he does what I asked him not to, knowing it’s exactly what I want, sputtering, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” as he hurries toward me.
When he wraps his arms around me, I cry out years of pain, hurt, anger, shame, and guilt.
“Don’t, Beatrice, please don’t. I can’t breathe when you fucking cry.” He hisses the name he used to call me because he said ‘I was more than four letters’, in my ear as I bury my face in his neck.
“I’m”—sob—“so”—sob—“sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry; be okay.” He grabs the back of my hair and pulls my head back and screams at me. “Don’t you ever wanna die again! Don’t you ever do that.”
“Let’s step back from—”
“Fuck you,” he snaps at Marley. “Call her fucking father now so I can get the fuck out of here!”
“Don’t”—sniff—“be”—sniff—“mean to her!”
He presses his forehead against mine, his eyes narrowed, as he yells in my face, “Fuck her. Don’t you ever, you hear me! Not ever!”
“Fine! Just go! Go now!”
“I will!” he yells back but hugs me so tightly that it almost hurts. Then he lets go.
As soon as he leaves, I crumble to the floor, Marley grabs me, and I take her down with me.
Over my sobs, I hear Dad’s voice and yell at him. “Please make sure he’s okay, Dad! Please.”
“You’re my responsib—”
“Go!”
I’m not sure how long I cried, how long Dad was gone, or when Mom joined the breakdown, but I do remember when the tears dried up, yet the sobs didn’t stop.
Somehow, I pull it together just in time for the game, and Brisa whips out her magic makeup brushes and manages to make me look halfway decent.
There is an emptiness inside of me now, a part I shouldn’t miss, not at all, but I do. I wonder if when someone has a tumor removed, they feel a void.
I wear one of My’s old jerseys with a hat pulled down over my eyes because, even though Dad and Mom assure me that I’m not going to get kicked out of the game since I was kicked out of Suckshore, I’m not one hundred percent sure that’s accurate, but I am too exhausted to give a shit.
Brisa sits beside me, her pinky linked with mine like when we were younger, and as much as I want to pull away, because it makes me feel like a baby, I don’t.
When the guys
come out, Amias looks up and sees me, and his face about busts in two because he’s smiling that big.
Right then is the first time that I don’t care that everyone outside the “steel wall” surrounding me is no doubt buzzing about the “flower girl,” as they used to call me, behind my back and on the app.
Fucking Suckshore Sound, the devil app.
When the headmaster, dean, whatever the fuck he is approaches us, I pull the hat down farther over my eyes. “Fuck.”
Uncle X leans over my shoulder and whispers, “I got a Benjamin on you.”
“You better cancel that bet; I’m exhausted today. Not a lot of fight in me.”
He starts humming “Fight Song” by Rachel Platten in my ear and I look back.
“And I’m the touched one in the family?”
“Trouble, you are in good company. Me and you.” He winks then chuckles. “What the hell do you think he’s doing? Asking your old man for donations?”
I shrug. “Wouldn’t doubt it.”
“You fucking kidding me right now?” Dad snarls and Mom scrunches her eyes shut and her face begins to grow redder by the minute.
“Bygones, Mr. Steel,” what’s his nuts says and smiles up at me. “Tris, would you do us the honor of singing—”
Dad starts to stand, and Uncle Jase grabs his knee. “My niece just got off transatlantic flight to see her brother’s last game. How about I sing it for you?”
“That fuck seriously just ask you to sing the anthem?” Uncle Cyrus asks loud enough for everyone around us to hear.
“You better ask my agent, my label.” I look back at Uncle X. “What are you?”
“I’m your favorite uncle. You wanna sing, go for it. You wanna tell him to eat a di—”
“She’ll do it,” comes from behind me.
I look back and see Rain.
She smiles. “We’ll do it together, yeah? Some good PR?”
“Good guys don’t have to prove they’re good. This fuck is just using you,” Cyrus says.
Rain, now in front of me, reaches out her hand. “Nah, we’re using the stiff for some good PR.” She looks at him as she pulls me up. “You’re welcome, and yeah, you owe her. From what I’ve heard, you owe all of them.”