I see them, the many questions inside her head. I don’t know if I want to answer them or just leave.
“You’ll find a woman who will make you happy and give you that family you long for,” she whispers, handing me the deed of the brownstone I bought to start our family. “Just remember to get to know her before you offer her the world. Maybe date her for a few months before you drop down on one knee handing her a rock-pop ring.”
I wish it had been her. I wish I could have saved the little girl from those lonely and terrifying days. I wish for many things. Most of all, I wish she can learn to live with her disorder and find herself.
BETTER THAT WE BREAK
Fall seven times, stand up eight.
~ Anonymous
Willow
THE DOOR CLICKS, closing on what I believed could’ve been my future. The man barged into my life, showing me what I thought was my safe haven. But who showed me hell. I believed in his promises, in those scattered dreams he drew in the air. I believed all of them, not because they were true, but because I needed to continue breathing. His leaving forever feels like a punch to the gut. Someone is squeezing my chest so tightly my lungs can’t seem to grasp air. That thick, smothering air inside my bedroom.
When the door wiggles and opens my heart beats fast, slowing when I see my sister’s face peeking through. “May I come in?”
I nod. She marches inside, tackling me, and giving me one of those I don’t want to lose you hugs. “You scared the fuck out of me, Willow Renee Beesley.”
Earlier today, I explained that it wasn’t my intention to kill myself. Of course, no one knows I headed to the terrace because I wanted to jump off the building.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, hugging her back.
I close my eyes, ignoring the door that won’t bring him back. I shouldn’t be expecting him to rush in and tell me he’s wrong, that love will prevail. It won’t. He didn’t say it out loud, but what happened between us was infatuation, not love. It was the desire to find a person who can fix what only we can cure by ourselves. I’ll miss his sweet gestures, our long talks, and the feeling of peace inside my soul when he was around. If there’s a man out there for me, I hope he’s like Hunter Everhart. Underneath those walls and the demons haunting him, there’s a good man. A wonderful guy, and how I wish he had been my somebody to love me deeply. So deeply that he was the only feeling lingering in the raw surface of my psyche.
“You and me, Willow. You can’t just leave like that. I might not need you to clean up my scrapes, but I still need my family with me.”
I ask her to tell me everything that happened while I was asleep. She begins by telling me about Scott knocking on her door. Her first thought had been our grandfather. But when he said my name, she lost her composure. “It’s not like I want Gramps to die, but he’s much older than you.”
“I couldn’t breathe during the two-hour flight,” she continues. “Every second I prayed that you were fine. I know things have been difficult between us.”
“It wasn’t only you, Bee.”
“How many times have I said, I’m an adult?” she sighs. “Many, and as an adult, I should have reached out to you too.”
She continues giving me a play by play. Gramps and Fitz were already at the hospital. She remained by my side, even when Hunter wouldn’t leave either. There was talk about sending me to a mental institution, but my grandfather refused to accept it. He wanted me diagnosed or discharged. Grandpa was ready to fight anyone who would want to keep me away from him.
“He loves you, you know?”
“Do you have to go back to school?” I transition the discussion. Right now, I’m not ready to discuss Grandpa.
“Nope, I sent an email to the dean. Gramps is working a deal with them to validate my current grades and . . .” She releases me and grins widely. “I’m transferring to Columbia.”
The grin doesn’t erase the worry on her face, but she’s doing her best to show me a silver lining is right there. That’s my sister, always finding a positive to the negatives.
“You’re welcome,” I joke, rolling my eyes. “I think you owe me something for finding a way to do what you wanted.”
“Well, thank you for that and for the extra weeks off I have now.” She exhales. “We can always go on a vacation.”
“Where?”
“Hawaii. I’m thinking you haven’t surfed in a long time. It’ll help you find your balance.”
“Surfing?” I huff. “Not therapy, surfing.”
“Both. Surfing will come after a few months of therapy. I’m thinking Hawaii or Australia.”
“You miss surfing?”
She lifts her shoulders, taking a deep breath and twisting her lips. I can’t imagine her surfing without Elliot. He taught her how to ride the waves. She was only five when the lessons began. That was their thing. There wasn’t a day they didn’t wake up early and hit the water. One of the advantages of living in Santa Cruz right by the Pacific Ocean. The place is a paradise for surfers.
My sister doesn’t give me an answer right away. I know she’s having a conversation with herself.
“It’s not a game of chess, Hazel. Either you miss it, or you don’t.”
“Actually, I don’t.” She plops down on my bed. “There’s a place on Long Island where I hit the waves every other weekend. Sometimes I take the three-hour drive to the Outer Banks to surf. It’s in my nature—something I love to experience as often as possible. The relationship between the waves and myself is real. It has nothing to do with what I had with Elliot. It takes growth and time to find who you want to be from the debris.”
“Hunter and I were nothing like you and Elliot,” I blurt because that last sentence sounds like she’s comparing us. Maybe I’m being just my usual paranoid persona.
She chuckles, shaking her head. “Nothing in this world compares to what Hunter and you have.”
“It was an illusion,” I say out loud, tasting the sour words.
“Sorry about Hunter,” she apologizes, I arch an eyebrow, not understanding what she’s trying to say. “I did it too soon. You weren’t ready.”
“Ready?”
She nods, sitting up and swinging her legs to the sides playfully. “Never mind, why don’t we discuss your plan of action. You have one, don’t you? We can create a vision board and begin to trace your—”
“I’m going to have to stop you right there,” I protest, scared of what sounds like a boot camp to recovery. Planning on seeking help and having a five-year plan are two different things. Some days I want to rip apart those vision boards of her. Is this what the doctor said earlier?
“Your emotions are so intense when you’re angry, when you hate them deeply, you want to rip someone apart or just hurt them.”
And I hurt myself because by doing it to others will see what their actions created. “Why don’t you let me do it at my own pace?”
She frowns at me, but nods. “Gramps plans on paying for therapists, counselors, and even retreats.”
Hazel is in a hurry to get this done. That’s my sister, a person with solutions who wants to fix everything right away or disregard it if she doesn’t see any possible resolution. She doesn’t grasp the magnitude of what happened last night. Her plan to erase everything by moving forward is five steps away from the place I’m in today. If only I could find the middle between what I need and what I want to do.
“That’s nice of him. I’ll start by calling some of those therapists and find out what I need to do to get better. I do want to heal my external wounds as much as the internal damage.” Reaching out, I squeeze her hand. “I promise, this time I’ll ask for help and keep you updated.”
She smiles. “I’ll be right by your side.”
I roll my eyes.
“I promise to be quiet.” She crosses her heart like we did when we were kids.
The last statement makes me laugh because my sister is anything but silent. She’s hyperactive, loud and everywhere she goes you can f
eel her energetic presence. But I appreciate her efforts. I love her because of that.
“Fitz fired his assistant.” Hazel changes the subject with a much different one, walking around the room and caressing the vases where the bouquets sit. She holds a thick manila folder. “They found the envelope buried under her messy desk with all the birthday cards and the order in which the flowers had to be delivered.”
“They shouldn’t have done that.”
“She didn’t do her job, Willow.” Hazel hands me the envelope, pointing at the writing. “Plus, she was out of line over the phone. We believe she had a thing for Hunter.”
I nod. That makes so much sense. Unlike the note on the envelope.
Willow,
Only read when you feel you’re ready.
Thank you for those special days,
~ HNE
BETTER DAYS
There’s no emotion without thought, therefore stop thinking.
~ Fitzhenry Everhart
Hunter
“WHERE THE FUCK are you going?” Fitz stops me, raising an eyebrow.
“My daily doctor’s appointment,” I respond, annoyed at his attitude. My brothers have taken turns babysitting me since I broke up with Willow. They don’t comprehend that I don’t fucking need babysitting. Harrison requested two weeks off from work. Thank fuck he’s gone. Day and night, he followed me everywhere I went, except to the bathroom. “My schedule is clear until nine in the morning. Why do you care?”
“You know what you need?”
“Clearly, I have no fucking idea,” I growl at him, expecting what Harrison had suggested. Go fuck a few women and you’ll be cured. “Would you like to share your wisdom?”
“Stop thinking. Once you combine thoughts and feelings, your emotions just fuck with your head. If you avoid one, the other doesn’t affect you.”
He pulls out his wallet, handing me a wad of bills. “That’s cheaper than the three hundred dollars you’re throwing into the trashcan every fucking day.”
Staring at the money, I place it inside my wallet and turn around. “I don’t understand your point, but don’t ask for your money back.”
He laughs hard. “You go spend it all, little brother. Hey, do you want to go clubbing with Hazel and me tonight?”
I halt in my tracks, turning around. “It’s Tuesday.”
“You noticed, huh?” Fuck I hate that smirk.
“Isn’t she in North Carolina?”
“She’s transferring to Columbia. She’s focusing on Willow’s recovery—without Willow knowing.” He rubs the back of his neck. “To be honest, I think she’s focusing on herself and kicking the ghosts in her head. She wants to be strong for Willow.”
I nod, waiting for more information about the sisters. Hazel and I haven’t spoken since Willow’s birthday. It’s strange, but I want to give her some room. That’s what I tell myself when in fact I’m a fucking coward, and I fear she’s going to rip my balls off for not staying by Willow’s side.
“Is Willow going with you tonight?”
“Why don’t you just ask what you want to know?”
Tapping my chest with my right hand, I think about his question. What do I want to know? Nothing. She’s free to go wherever she wants. Even to a place I avoid at all cost. “As I said, I want to know if she’ll be going with you.”
He gives me his fucking I might not tell you stare. “Fuck, Fitzhenry. Either you tell me what the fuck is going on, or you keep your shit to yourself.”
“No, she’s not going. She’s in Sedona at a retreat.”
“For the record, I only want to know if she’s doing better.” I give him a sharp nod and leave the house.
I think I hear him say “fucking liar.” He’s wrong. That’s part of what I want to know. In reality, I want to know everything that’s happening to her. Be by her side. Fitz barely discusses the Beesley sisters. Harrison doesn’t understand why I broke up with her if I’m moping for her. Still, he’s happy with the outcome. Scott’s only comment has been, “what a relief.” He feared I’ll do something stupid—like buying a six-million-dollar brownstone in Brooklyn.
Fuck, what was I thinking when I finalized the purchase? I was hoping that she’d say yes to my impromptu proposal and would be moving in with me within a week. What kind of guy does something like that? The average male doesn’t care whether they have a steady relationship or not, or if they get married and have a family.
“Would you like me to drive you?” Jensen is already downstairs, waiting next to the car.
“Why haven’t you married?” I counteract his question.
“I was in love once.” He opens the door, closes it, and when he slides into the driver’s seat he smiles. “No, I’m still in love. It just wasn’t meant to be.”
There’s no sadness, only longing in those words. Can I be capable of being content with my life? I might find my answer today when I present my case to my therapist.
“You want to start dialectical behavior therapy?”
He’s done with you, Everhart. Fuck, Fitz just said it, you’re throwing your money away. This is overkill.
I’m trying to find a new way of treatment.
It’s an excuse to cover the compulsion to fix what you fucked.
I didn’t fuck anything!
You broke up with her, why couldn’t you just shut your fucking mouth and pretend to be normal?
Pretending and lying are two different things. Willow saw my flaws, witnessed my episodes and would never believe I’m not broken. Pretending for her would be lying, and we were past appearances. We have stepped into I show you my scars, and you show me yours.
Coward, you couldn’t handle her scars!
Exactly, I am not capable of tending to my own wounds; I can’t possibly care for hers.
“Are you okay, Hunter?”
Sighing, I give him a sharp nod, breathe deeply, and get on with my explanation.
“I understand it was created for people with borderline personality disorder,” I say. My research began when I tried to understand Willow’s condition. While doing so, I discovered the treatment has also been effective for other disorders. Requesting a referral to join a DBT group is the next step. “But if you review the latest papers, you will be able to find patients with different diagnoses have benefited from it as well.”
We go into technical terms, and some examples I’ve printed from the forums I’ve been reading in the past couple of weeks. Cognitive therapy is effective for most, but sometimes patients need something more intense, like DBT. Whether this is true or not I don’t know—I’m a lawyer, not a doctor. At least, I have to give it a try.
This therapy will help me comprehend that there’ll always be good and bad. Heaven and hell. Willow is both. She’s the biggest storm I’ve encountered. It comes at you violently without warning, total darkness prevails for a minute, and just as it arrived, it leaves behind a calm sensation. The angry waves leave a devastation of immense proportion. The sunshine deters our view from the debris. I only had eyes for her. She engulfed me inside the eye of the storm. I was so determined to have her that I never noticed the wrath and tempest, nor the spontaneous changes in her.
Yet, I’m here discussing technical terms I have to Google. Discussing the probabilities of going to a specific therapy that might not be for me. All because, if I’m lucky, someday she’ll be ready for me, and I’ll be ready for her. Knowing how to handle my demons, ready to teach her how to navigate my world while I help her hold a light in the darkness that’s her mind.
How can I stay away?
My mind and heart continue to be confused about my feelings for her. Was it love, an infatuation, or just a simple attraction? A fucking magnetic attraction that continues. Even when she’s not around, I feel like she’s right beside me. I see her everywhere. The woman awoke my soul. I can’t understand what that means or if there’ll ever be something beyond what we shared. She made me feel like I was the only star illuminating her darkest corners—t
he one who breathed air into her lungs. And for one moment, I believed she loved me—hard.
She sent me a text that became my inspiration.
WILLOW: Our meeting wasn’t an accident. It was my wake-up call. Thank you for showing me what I can have.
HUNTER: What is it that you want to have?
WILLOW: The calm you created when you were around me. Your arms were my safe haven when the wind arose, pushing my mind toward the gates of hell. You placated the hurricanes that threaten my sanity. I want that, to feel safe . . . to create my own shelter.
If anything, for the rest of my life, I plan on being deserving of her or at least learning how to deal with the shit inside my head. To stop wishing for what I had instead of enjoying life.
The good doctor smiles when I share the statistics of DBT. I’m just trying to find the best resolution to what I call my problem.
“You’re obsessive, Hunter. I am not sure this fixation with DBT, and your anxiety, are helping that part of your psyche.”
“Probably not, but according to my findings, DBT is based on Buddhism.” I open my notes and read about being Zen and learning how to stop choosing, and instead, going with the feel of relativity. “That in itself is a step forward to adjusting my compulsion. Win, win, Doctor.”
He scratches his eyebrow with the tip of his index finger, exhaling loudly. “We tried medication, CBT, and many other treatments. I don’t see why we can’t give it a go. I just want you to do it for the right reasons.”
“Me too, Doctor, me too.”
There’s no right or wrong. There’s only the will to change myself. But I don’t say anything else. I leave with a phone number to call, and a promise that he’ll email the group to ensure I have a spot. Apparently, there’s always a waiting list, but he assures me, that in my case, they’ll make an exception. And no, it isn’t because of my money. It’s because I’m part of the club. The club of orphans who lost a parent during the nine-eleven attack. We have a label, and nothing we do will remove it.
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