by Sarah Skye
I let out a shaky breath. “I have no idea how to be a good person—or a good partner. I feel like I’m only good at being a slimeball. And I hate myself for it.”
The last few sentences I speak come out a mumble. I can’t even look at Dr. Imana when I say them. I’m too ashamed.
“I appreciate you being so open and honest. It makes therapy so much easier when you’re willing to be vulnerable. You should be proud of yourself for that.”
I thank him, still unnerved at how supportive he’s being.
“I want you to know, Marco. You’re not alone in feeling this way. Sadly, a lot of people grow up in similar family environments, and it affects you when you’re an adult,” he says. “Your parents are supposed to show you love and affection consistently throughout your life, from the moment you’re born. It helps you develop as a human. But if they don’t, it can have a lasting effect on you emotionally. Have you ever heard of the avoidant-dismissive attachment style?”
I shake my head. He explains that people with this attachment style are wary of closeness to the point that they avoid emotional connection with others. It’s difficult for them to tolerate emotional intimacy. They value independence and freedom, and the more someone tries to get close to them, the more they withdraw. Their romantic partners often accuse them of being distant, rigid, and closed off. They minimize and disregard their significant other’s feelings, keep secrets from them, engage in affairs, and even end relationships to regain their sense of freedom.
My mouth goes dry as he’s speaking. All of this is me.
“People with this attachment style prefer fleeting, casual arrangements to long-term committed ones. You seek out significant others who are just as independent and emotionally distant as you are,” Dr. Imana says. “You think you don’t need close relationships or intimacy, but the truth is that all human beings do. Every single one of us is wired for connection. Even avoidant attached people want it—it’s just their fears of intimacy that have been ingrained in them that get in the way.”
That lump in my throat resurfaces.
“Avoidant-attached style often stems from a parent who was unavailable or rejecting during infancy and childhood. Your needs were never consistently or predictably met by your parents, so you subconsciously distanced yourself emotionally as a way to cope. Or you self-soothed,” Dr. Imana explains. “This can often instill a habit of avoiding intimacy, even when that causes distress.”
Holy shit. That’s me to a fucking tee.
“I—I’m pretty sure I have that.”
“I think so too. It doesn’t have to be like this forever though, Marco. It seems like you’re in a lot of pain, but there’s a way out of it. And that’s by continuing therapy, being open and vulnerable with your feelings, surrounding yourself with supportive people, and seeking out corrective emotional experiences,” he says. “All of these things go a long way in helping you feel more comfortable with expressing your feelings and helping you form secure attachments where you feel safe with other people. And that helps keep you from engaging in those defenses that cause you so much pain and distress.”
My head spins. That sounds like a hell of a to-do list, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to undo all that’s wrong with me.
But I want to try.
“Can I give you some homework before your next session?”
“Sure.”
“Give yourself permission to express an emotion you don’t normally allow yourself to express.”
“Okay…”
“I know that sounds strange. I just mean, if you feel like crying, cry. Or if you feel like laughing or smiling, do it. If you mess up, apologize. If you want to say something silly or corny, say it.”
I let out a small laugh.
“It can feel really scary letting yourself express emotion when you’ve been taught not to do it your whole life. But the more you do it, the more comfortable you’ll feel.”
“Okay. I can try to do that.”
The session ends. I thank Dr. Imana and set up recurring appointments on Friday afternoons with him. I stumble out of the renovated warehouse that houses his office in the arts district of the city, then drive in the direction of my condo in a daze. It’s like I’ve had an hours-long session at the gym, but all my exhaustion is emotional, not physical. I’m wrung out in a way I didn’t think I could be. But it feels good too, like I’m doing the right thing.
As I sit in traffic, I mull over the homework from Dr. Imana.
Give yourself permission to express an emotion you don’t normally allow yourself to express.
If only he had seen me last weekend, flipping out at my parents and brother at the restaurant. He probably didn’t mean lashing out in anger, though.
My mind drifts to Morgan, how we bumped into each other and had the most cringey version of small talk ever. But I’d been really annoyed at the valet bringing my car first. At least I’d said something, right? Would that count as a baby step to Dr. Imana? Maybe I’ll ask next time.
When I blink, I can picture the scowl on her face perfectly. She was absolutely disgusted at the sight of me, just like everyone else I know is these days.
Can I blame her though? Fuck no. After the way I treated Lily I deserve every scowl, every curse she could come up with. I came on to her best friend the night before I was supposed to get married. The thought lands like a kick to the gut. Bile creeps up my throat. I really am a piece of shit.
But you’re a piece of shit who’s in therapy. That’s something.
“Maybe someday I won’t be such a piece of shit.” I say it softly, like some messed-up affirmation.
Traffic crawls at a snail’s pace. I squint ahead, noticing how everyone is signaling to get over to the left lane. As I roll forward, I see a stalled car near the side of the road, hazard lights on. A woman in white yoga pants hops out of the car and crouches down at the back passenger tire. Must be a flat.
When I get closer, I do a double-take. It’s Morgan.
Christ, what are the odds?
She’s frowning at the tire, which looks shredded to hell. And then she leans back, rests her hands on her thighs, and shakes her head. I don’t miss that thousand-yard-stare in her blue eyes. Like she has a million things on her mind, and this flat tire is the last thing in the world she needs. Her mouth quivers. She looks like she’s about to lose it.
My chest aches. She’s struggling. And I want to help.
I pull ahead and park my car at the side of the road a few dozen feet beyond hers and turn off the engine. Then I hop out of the car and walk toward her.
If my dad were with me, he’d laugh. Or insult me.
The memory of him scolding me when I was a little kid resurfaces. I was sitting in the backseat, gawking at a car accident near an intersection as we drove by.
“Dad, should we stop and see if they’re okay?”
“Are you stupid, Marco?”
My voice died in my throat at the bite of his words.
“I don’t get paid to stop by the side of the road and rescue people. Do you?”
I knew better than to answer him. So I bit my tongue and tried not to cry.
“We’re late as it is. We don’t need to waste our time helping people. That’s what the police and paramedics are for.”
My blood turns hot the longer I think about that moment. I’ve never once stopped to help anyone on the side of the road because of just how jolting and painful that experience was.
But I’ve cut my dad out of my life. I don’t have to continue ignoring people like he does. I can help them if I want. Fuck him and his selfish rules. It’s the right thing to do—and I actually want to.
When I walk up, Morgan’s wiping her cheeks, still gazing at the tire. That ache in my chest deepens.
“Hey. Need help?”
4
MORGAN
Okay, Universe, seriously. What the fuck?
My gaze walks up the pressed chinos to the gingham button-down and finally settl
es on freaking Marco’s face. Again. His lips are set in a grim line, probably because he’s annoyed and afraid that some dust from the road will blow by and sully his outfit. His brows are knitted, but I can’t see his eyes thanks to reflective shades in his aviators.
I jump up and wipe my eyes quickly, damning the tears that leaked out. Gram isn’t answering her phone, my tire is blown, and here I am weeping instead of doing something about it.
And here he is, bearing smug witness to it all. “What’s wrong, Morgan? Did your tarot cards not predict a blown tire this morning?” would be a classic Marco Woodruff line. We interacted at a total of maybe a dozen get-togethers when he was dating Lily, but more than one of those meetings ended with both of us drinking more than we should and trading insults for sport.
The first time it happened, I wasn’t prepared. I had been bemoaning my Saturn Return since my 29th birthday was just around the corner, and he snorted into his cocktail and made a crack about the absurdity of planets having anything to do with our lives. My reply had been a scowl and eye roll. Weak sauce to be sure, but I’m not used to trading barbs at a friendly dinner.
After that, I’d be damned if he got the best of me. Digs about yuppies and lawyers stayed in my back pocket, ready at any moment. A time or two, our shade-throwing got to Lily, so we’d flash tight smiles and assure her it was all in jest.
It was definitely not in jest.
“I asked if you needed any help.” Marco drags the tip of his pristine sneaker through the gravel.
I cross my arms. My slack-jawed surprise hardens to a set jaw. “I wouldn’t ask you to piss on me if I were on freaking fire.”
“I didn’t know you were into that,” he mutters, one furrowed brow quirking above his shades.
An unexpected giggle bubbles in my throat, but I cough to cover it. “What I meant was, why the hell would I ask for your help? Get out of here, Marco. You don’t want to help me unless you want some kind of favor in return.”
That tiny trace of humor evaporates. I’m not sure, but it seems like he flinches. “I don’t want anything from you, Morgan,” he mutters as he takes half a step back. One hand lifts from deep in his pocket and threads through his black-brown hair. “It was stupid of me to stop. Forget it.”
Suddenly, that thin line of his lips doesn’t read as disgust. It reads as nervousness. His shoulders are at his ears, and he radiates a caged-animal energy similar to when I saw him at the restaurant the other day. Something about it relaxes my jaw just a little, but I’m not about to ask for help.
“Forgotten. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to… to…”
But that’s the problem. What do I do? Pull up a YouTube video, try to put the spare tire on, and pray it carries me the next sixty miles to Gram’s house? Call 911 and have them go check on her just because she didn’t answer my call this morning and my intuition—and the fact that our check-ins happen at 10 a.m. daily without fail—says something is wrong? Pay through the nose for an Uber and leave my car where it is for now?
“I have to figure this shit out. I don’t know what to do, but I know damn well I don’t have time to stand here and talk to you. My grandmother is—something is wrong and I—I need to do something and I don’t know what it is, alright?”
The words tumble out in a messy stream at the same time fat drops of rain begin to splat on my hair. I look up and bark a laugh at the sky. “Nice touch,” I mutter to the clouds.
“I can give you a lift.”
Marco pulls off his shades as I process the fact that he’s not joking. He stashes them in his breast pocket and glances up at the rain that’s picking up tempo. “I’ll take you where you need to go. You can call a tow on the road.”
“It’s like an hour and a half away. Across the state line.”
“I have nowhere to be.”
“We hate each other.”
“Your grandmother needs you. Which is more important?”
The jerkoff can make a point.
He tilts his head toward the dark blue Mercedes parked a few feet away. “I can drive fast. I don’t want anything from you, I swear. This is,” he huffs a laugh, “the very least I can do, after all I’ve done to the people you care about.”
And I don’t know why, but that self-deprecating truth makes up my mind. I grab my purse from my car, lock it, and hurry to follow him.
He pops the passenger door open and actually stands there waiting to close it for me once I’ve slid in. I perch on the leather seat. I’m a bundle of nerves, certain this is a mistake but more worried about Gram than what kind of mess I’m getting into with this guy. On top of that, the rain has soaked my shoulders and done a good job on my hair, too; I shiver when a droplet rolls down my scalp.
Marco drops into his own seat and glances over. “Buckle up.”
“As if you care about my safety.”
“As if I want to get sued.”
“That’s more like it.”
“I thought you’d think so.” He flips the paddle gear shift and checks his mirrors while I sit back enough to secure the belt. Then, he exhales hard and mutters, “hold on.”
We rocket into the lane so fast that I’m pressed back into the seat. The engine roars, and in seconds we’re flying down the right, then the left lane. I can’t see the speedometer, but I’m very sure we’re in call-for-backup territory if a cop with a radar gun happens to be lurking anywhere nearby.
“Stop holding the oh-shit handle,” he says when we hit cruising speed. “I know what I’m doing.”
I don’t remember his voice being like this. I remember him with a perma-sneer and a super-chill glide to his words that always made him sound like he was flirting or impressing a client. Now, he seems to speak in a perpetual mutter, as if he knows he’s the last person I want to listen to.
Which, I guess it makes sense if he does know.
But it changes his whole demeanor, and although he’s handling the car with effortless control, I’m more convinced that his aura is, in fact, thin.
I sneak my gaze sideways to investigate further. His hands are at 10 and 2:00 on the wheel, shoulders leaned casually back against the seat, but his eyes have dark circles underneath. His beard is untrimmed. Dark stubble creeps from his sharp cheekbones down his neck. His olive skin seems pale.
Weird.
“See the button on the door that looks like the car seat? Press it for the seat warmer.”
“What?” My quick reply game needs serious improvement.
He glances over at me and, since I’m already peeking at him, our eyes connect. One dark brow quirks again. He’s good at that move, but so am I. I mirror the look and purse my lips, but Marco just shakes his head and puts his attention back on the road.
“You’re shivering from the rain. The seat warmer is right there.”
It’s a good reason to stop gawking at least, and in a few moments the seat is soothing my chills. Something about the cozy comfort takes my attention off the awkward situation and puts it on logistics. I call Gram again, and again get no answer. Cursing under my breath, I call a tow company and arrange for my car to be hauled to a garage that afternoon. Then I give Marco Gram’s address, which he plugs into the car’s nav system. At our speed, it will be forty-five minutes to her house.
After that, there’s not much to do but sit and worry. I rub my hands up and down my legs to stay busy. I bite my tongue because my default when riding with someone is to talk, but not with this guy.
“What’s wrong with your grandma?” he asks out of nowhere.
“I don’t know, or I wouldn’t be in this car.”
I refuse to look at him again, but I sense him shake his head in my periphery. “I meant what do you think is going on?”
My fingers knot in my lap. “I don’t know. She had surgery last year, on her hip and her knee, but rehab was tough at her age. She got through it fine though, so I came back to the city. I mean, she has diabetes, but she’s managed that for years. But, I don’t know. She didn’t
answer her phone today. She always answers. I call every morning.”
“Hope it’s not an embolism.”
My blood runs cold. “What the fuck, man? I’m trying to tell myself she forgot to charge her phone!”
“My grandma died of an embolism when I was a kid. I’m sorry, I just—I guess I just thought of it. That was shitty, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sure it’s not. I’m sorry.”
I bite my lip. “Your grandma died like that?”
He nods.
“Were you close to her?”
He swallows so hard I can hear it over the engine’s hum. “Yeah. Uh, yeah. I was young, but. Don’t really think about those days much, but… yeah.”
I try to imagine baby Marco and fail completely. Before I’d have just pictured a miniature lawyer, making deals on the playground. But now? No clue.
It’s my turn to fill the silence, so I clear my throat and say, “Gram raised me. My dad left when I was a baby. Mom, she… well. She had problems. They got the best of her.”
“Drugs?”
“Yeah.” I hang my head, my throat thick with emotion for a woman I barely knew. Thick like it gets any time I think of my mother. Thick with sadness at how troubled she was. Thick with bitterness that she couldn’t be a parent to me.
But I have Gram.
My heart twists. “Can you go any faster?” I mutter.
“Yep.”
And, somehow, he does. Cars blur past at a speed I’m sure I’ve never traveled before. It’s the distraction I need from that moment of remembrance. “Aren’t you worried about a ticket?”
He laughs. “Not really.”
No explanation. No, “I’ll talk my way out of it,” or “I know a guy in the DA’s office,” or “He’d think twice before writing me a ticket.” Nothing else.
Until this:
“Figure it’d be worth it if it means you get to your Gram a little quicker.”
Didn’t see that coming. “Um. Thank you?”
He shrugs. “Again, the least I could do.”
But it’s not. Because the least he could’ve done was not stop. And, barring that, he could’ve called a tow company or given me a lift to a gas station. But he’s driving sixty miles to take me to her. That’s definitely not the least he could do.