Holding Out for a Hero

by Victoria Van Tiem

  ‘Very different, yes.’ Just mentioning Jasper to Ollie feels like a betrayal – which is stupid. I mean, he’s moved on; shouldn’t I?

  Ollie’s voice lowers so it’s gravelly in his throat. ‘Does he know to kiss you right below the ear, or—’

  ‘Don’t be fresh, Ollie,’ I say, secretly thrilled and hoping he continues. The diversion is nice. Needed. Comforting.

  ‘He doesn’t, does he?’ There’s a smile in his voice. ‘I knew there was a reason you liked me above all others.’

  ‘And who says I like you at all? One, you have no taste in music—’

  ‘Because I prefer something with a bit more substance than bubblegum pop?’

  I half-laugh. ‘Two, you dress like a gentleman—’

  ‘Which we both know I’m not.’

  ‘And three . . .’ I’m mired by his comment. He’s nowhere near a gentleman, in the best way possible. I learned that after prom. His prom.

  The images flood through my mind, causing my skin to heat.

  The hall was decorated with blue streamers and pearled balloons hung everywhere. And just like the prom’s theme, ‘Forever Young’, I could have happily stayed there, because things were perfect. I mean, God, I was with Ollie. And yes, I was young, really too young, we both were; but I was in love.

  The real kind. The first kind. The only kind that mattered.

  At almost eighteen, he was different than the boy of sixteen. The long dark hair was cut and cropped close, the one diamond stud was removed as if he’d never had it pierced, and on normal days, he’d dress in jeans and school-emblem hoodie. He was, after all, regularly visiting colleges with his dad and had to look acceptable. ‘Like a gentleman,’ his dad would say.

  But that night? Decked in a black rented tux, he looked better than acceptable: he looked like a dream. One I’ve never really woken up from.

  We twirled and danced under paper stars that sparkled from twinkle lights. Near my ear, he whispered, ‘You look beautiful, Shortcake.’

  ‘Yeah?’ I smiled till my cheeks hurt. I really went all out. My hair was still a wild mess of red curls, but I had it pulled to the side so it waterfalled over my one bare shoulder. The other had a giant pouffe flower thing that covered the dress strap. I could only wear one oversized star earring because of it, but that was fine by me; I thought it was totally rad. The bodice was tight and carried over my hips, then flared at the thigh in an asymmetrical explosion of ruffles. Basically, I was a shiny, zigzagged mermaid. Oh, and it was pink. Completely awesome.

  As we swayed back and forth Ollie whispered near my ear, ‘What would you say if I told you we have a room for after?’

  I leaned back to see his eyes, my own rounded and wide. ‘Really?’ We’d talked about it before, but face to face with the possibility it was terrifying and exciting all at once.

  The rest of prom is only a blur. My memories begin with Dora and me getting ready, the limo ride there, the dance where he told me . . . and then everything else vanishes, until the point when we arrived at the room. Pretty sure that’s all I thought of from the moment he uttered the words.

  ‘We can just talk,’ Ollie said once inside, a sly smile curling the corners of his lips.

  For about five minutes, we did. He took off his tux jacket and set it on the chair by the small writing desk. ‘Did you have fun?’

  ‘Yup.’ I hadn’t moved.

  ‘Are you sure this is OK?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  He stepped up and slowly took my clutch purse with the matching pouffe bow, and tossed it aside. ‘What are ya thinking?’

  About a million things ran through my head, but mostly that he’d be leaving soon. ‘That I’m gonna miss you when you go.’ It was almost graduation and then he’d be gone. Then what? During the prom scene in Pretty in Pink, OMD’s ‘If You Leave’ plays in the background. This was prom and the lyrics – promise me just one more night, then we’ll go our separate ways – haunted me. I couldn’t bear the thought.

  He stroked my cheek. ‘Yeah, somehow I’m ending up just like the old man wanted, a yuppie wannabe attending law school. How’s that for irony?’ His eyebrows hiked.

  ‘It’s what you want too, though, right, to be a lawyer? That’s what you and Finn always talk about.’

  He shrugged. ‘Yeah, but still, did it have to be so obvious?’ He laughed.

  ‘I like that you’re obvious.’ I smiled ruefully.

  ‘You know what I like about you?’ He jumped on the bed and kicked his shoes off. ‘What I’ve always liked?’

  Still smiling, I stepped closer to the edge, my thighs bumping his bent knees where they hung over. ‘My great fashion sense and musical expertise? Or the fact that I put up with your lack of both?’

  Sitting up, his hands grabbed my waist and pulled me closer. ‘I like that you don’t play games. It’s real. You’re real. And no matter who I’m trying to be for my dad or anyone else, when I’m around you, I’m real. It’s always been that way.’

  It still is.

  A million years later, and his words still melt my heart. I blink and realize I’m smiling. Did I fall asleep? I think I at least zoned out pretty good. ‘Sorry, Ollie,’ I say to myself, then dig around the couch for the phone. I should call Finn. I know it’s late, but I need to talk with him. I push the main button, accidentally summoning Siri, who asks what she can help me with.

  ‘Flash me back to prom,’ I say, and sigh.

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  Yeah, me either. I select favourites, Finn, and wait for him to answer.

  ‘Libby?’ He clears his throat. ‘Are you stranded somewhere?’

  ‘No. Is that how you answer the phone?’

  ‘It is at this hour, when I know it’s you.’

  ‘Did you turn over my lease and the eviction notice to your work colleague? Seth Merri-whatever.’

  ‘Yes, I did, like I said I would. And it’s Merriweather.’ Finn pushes out a breath and moves, creating a rumpling through the line. ‘He wants to meet with you sooner rather than later. Looks like they have every legal right to force you to leave.’

  ‘What?’ My heart slams my ribs. ‘I really have to move? You said he could work magic.’ Starr jumps into my lap to steal my attention from Lucky, but right now neither cat has it.

  ‘No, I said if . . .’ He yawns. ‘I don’t know what I said. Just what Seth did, and ya have to move. Sorry, Libbs.’ His voice is crackly. ‘Oh, he wanted me to ask if you’ve considered selling. I was gonna call you in the morn—’

  ‘Sell what? Pretty in Pink?’ I sit up, pushing both cats away, suddenly jolted wide awake. ‘No!’

  ‘Or we can talk about it now.’ He clears his throat again. ‘Look, he thought the property owners might be interested in taking it on, since it’s already established on their lot and if it’s profitable—’

  ‘Forget it. It’s not for sale.’ I’m shaking my head adamantly, not that anyone can see.

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s what I told him you’d say, but he wants to review your profit and loss and business plan just to be prepared. It might be worth seeing what they’d offer, right?’

  ‘No, forget it.’ My heart’s beating fast in my chest. ‘I didn’t even think I’d have to move, and now to consider selling? Then what would I do?’ Falling back onto the couch, Starr jumps and stalks away, miffed.

  ‘Libbs, really, can we maybe talk about this in the morning?’ he asks through another long yawn.

  ‘Fine. At least one of us should sleep.’ I click off and chuck my phone across the couch. It falls onto the floor and bounces once. I leave it there.

  The shock of his words and my situation roll over me in a series of small, building waves. I know the tide’s coming and I have to move or I’ll be underwater, but I can’t. No loophole. No escape.

  I’d rather die than sell my shop.

  CHAPTER 8

  ‘True’

  Spandau Ballet, 1983

  Truth is overrated

/>   After last Saturday’s Eighties intervention spiel on top of the eviction notice, I found myself back at Dr P.’s. And now, learning I have to legally move or sell Pretty in Pink, here I am again not even a week later. So embarrassing.

  I flip through magazines blindly while he finishes up with a patient. Maybe they’ve already left, I don’t know. There are two doors. Patients wait in one area and exit out another. Privacy is valued, after all, and really, it’s appreciated. I’ve left several times upset and emotional.

  The door opens. ‘Libby.’ The smile pulls up, crinkly, making his eyes half-moon slits. ‘Come in, come in.’ It doesn’t matter what the weather is; as always, he’s dressed in trousers, button-up and sweater. Today’s selection: long-sleeved burgundy with frayed sleeves.

  What’s new is the beard. I thought last week he’d just forgotten to shave, but I can tell now it’s intentional. Maybe Finn’s right and there is a men’s movement. I still don’t like it, and blended with his untrimmed hair, he resembles a lion. I stand, my smile fixed, and step inside, feeling every bit the sacrificial lamb. Yeah, within this den there’s no escaping the roar of truth, but it won’t stop me from trying.

  Dr P.’s still smiling as he takes his seat and motions for me to take mine.

  I sit across from him in the wingback chair, swallowed-up and small. ‘Thanks for seeing me without an appointment,’ I say, not sure how to begin.

  ‘Sure.’ His hands fold, one on top of the other, and rest on his plump middle. ‘Do you have the who am I essay?’

  With its mention, The Breakfast Club instantly comes to mind, and the line from the letter to Mr Vernon: we think you’re crazy to make us write an essay telling you who we think we are. It is crazy, because I have no idea who I am. And yes, I realize I’m at a shrink’s, but that still doesn’t make me the Basket Case. ‘Yeah, I don’t have that yet.’

  Instead, I tell him about Dora’s fitting earlier in the week. How it affected me, how over-emotional I became. However, saying things out loud makes them seem trivial. I forgot that. My insides are jumpy, and it’s stupid I’m here. I should go. I start to stand, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, I’m fine . . . you’re busy and—’

  ‘Libby.’ With both hands he motions in the air for me to sit back down, so I do. ‘Have you been sleeping?’

  Without meeting his eyes, I shake my head. It’s probably obvious, what with my bloodshot eyes and dark circles. I’m a zombie from Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ video, specifically the one that’s walking towards the camera and loses its arm. Clunk. It just falls off. Mine’s actually fallen asleep. I shake out the pins and needles.

  We sit in silence for a few moments before he starts poking around. That’s his mode of operation. He digs until he finds something buried. ‘So did you end up going out with any of the dates your friends set up?’

  My eyes snap to his. ‘Oh yeah, but . . .’ I fill him in on the Brain and all the ridiculous details. I don’t even have to embellish to make the story funnier; I mean, between Theo thinking I’m a mute with an infection and the sign-language lady, it’s more than enough.

  He’s laughing until he has tears, and my overwhelming urge to shed my own subsides.

  Whenever I’m in that dark place, it’s as if my emotions are carbonated and I’m shaken. My chest and the back of my throat ache as the pressure builds and takes up every available space. Talking is the gentle tap that releases the trapped and distorted feelings along the sides. He knows this. It’s a needed device. An effective technique. A weird analogy.

  ‘Oh, and then I broke out in hives, which was crazy.’ I’m shaking my head, remembering. ‘Seriously, my arms were on fire.’ I describe the charades, and get him going again. ‘It really was that bad.’

  Dr P. dabs at misty eyes, his laughter quieting. ‘Has that reaction happened before?’

  ‘The hives? Yeah, a few times after my accident. They just came out of nowhere.’

  ‘And no allergies?’

  I shake my head. ‘Nope. None that I’m aware of, anyway.’

  ‘That’s interesting.’ He leans way back in his chair, locking his hands behind his head. ‘Did you know emotions can trigger allergic reactions, much like a panic attack?’

  I didn’t.

  ‘Yes – in fact, it’s a stress reaction.’ After a pause, he switches gears. ‘OK, well, how do you feel about your friends declaring that you need to change and setting you up, now that you’ve had some time to think about it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Part of me is annoyed, and the other part is . . .’ I blow out a fast breath. ‘Annoyed more. I mean, who cares what I wear, or who I date, or if I even do?’

  Dr P.’s fuzzy brows are drawn.

  I rub the permanent tension that resides above mine, then add, ‘Anyway, I’m done with the whole thing.’ I lean forward. ‘I mean, come on, it wasn’t even a real date. And I didn’t know they meant the dates would literally be like The Breakfast Club characters. Dr Theo was too skinny, a total nerd, and boring. He went on and on and on . . .’ So do I, because he’s not saying anything. ‘Although, Dora said under normal circumstances he’s all right.’ I stop my rant short and glance at Dr P. for a response.

  He still doesn’t have one.

  ‘So yeah, I’m done. ’Cause what’s the rest going to be like?’ Actually Bender wouldn’t be bad, but . . . I continue to fill the space. ‘And even if he is a great guy, seriously, he didn’t seem open to dating or really that interested. I mean, how hard is it to find a single, emotionally available man?’

  ‘Are you emotionally available, Libby?’

  And bam, he strikes. I swear Dr Papadopoulos is a ninja shrink; somehow he always pulls up the past when I’m not looking and attacks me with it. I should’ve quit while I was ahead. This time it’s me without the response.

  ‘I have a theory on this. It’s actually twofold . . .’ Dr P. waves a hand to emphasize his thoughts. ‘I think you keep everyone at an emotional distance as a safeguard. By identifying their quirks as flaws, it gives you the excuse to keep them back from yours . . . because yours are worse, right? So you push them away.’

  My heart stutters. Forget ninja, he’s an assassin, always going in for the kill. My eyes glance to the wall, trash can, bulletin board . . .

  Dr P. lowers his voice, leaning forward. ‘If anyone knew you, I mean really knew the true you, they might actually care about you. You might care about them. And they could leave, like Oliver did.’

  That’s going too far. I stare at nothing. Say nothing. I’m not ready to talk about this. I’ve had enough. With folded hands, I dig my thumbnail under another, pressing hard, the pinch a needed distraction.

  ‘Do you still talk with Ollie?’

  ‘Sure.’ That’s all I say.

  ‘And do you think that helps you to move on?’

  I stab a glance in his direction. ‘So, what, I’m not allowed to talk to him any more? That’s a bit severe.’

  ‘I think in order to give a fair shot to any of these dates—’

  ‘Dates? You want me to continue with my friend’s intervention thing?’

  He nods, brows arched high. ‘Oh yes; in fact, I’m recommending it, but . . .’ He lifts a hand and holds the gesture mid-air. ‘To give yourself and them a fair shot, you may need to create some distance between you and Oliver.’

  ‘I don’t think there could be much more distance,’ I mutter and look away, not liking this so-called suggestion.

  ‘Tell me why you’re really here.’

  I flick my eyes to his. ‘I told you: I’m not sleeping again.’

  ‘Sure. You’re under a lot of stress. You need to relocate your store. Maybe having to sell—’

  ‘I’m not selling.’

  Dr P. keeps going as if I haven’t interrupted. ‘You’re about to turn another year older, and your friends are pushing you out of your comfort zone to date new and different people. Lots of changes, lots of stress. Now tell me why you’re really here.’

 
God, isn’t that enough? Lifting my chin, I hold his unrelenting gaze. He’s waiting to see if I’ll bite. It’s like Rockwell’s ‘Somebody’s Watching Me’, only instead of the neighbours or mailman, it’s Dr P.

  I know what he wants me say, what he’s waiting for, but . . . ‘You said so yourself: if I’m not willing to have that conversation, therapy can’t work. I’m not here to try that again. That’s where we stopped last time.’

  ‘You stopped.’

  ‘Fine, I stopped. Whatever.’ My arms cross to block his judgement. ‘We started discussing things, and it backfired. You pushed and it failed. Miserably. Things just got worse, not better. So what was the point?’ What is the point? Why am I here again?

  ‘What triggered your hives, Libby?’ Dr P. asked. ‘What happened on the date that really set it off?’

  My mind spins back to my own words. I’m perfectly fine. How it reminded me of the EMTs in the ambulance. How they kept asking me questions, how they wouldn’t answer mine. Tears of frustration fill my eyes and I start to scratch my arms, only to notice him watching me.

  Dr. P. narrows his eyes. ‘Libby? Why are you here?’

  ‘I just want to sleep, OK?’ It comes out quick and staggered, but it’s the truth. I need to sleep.

  He doesn’t like my answer. His jaw ticks. He knows it’s only partly true.

  The silence lasts longer than I’m comfortable with, so I fill it. ‘Look, I just need some help sorting the everyday: like you said, lots of stress and lots of changes. And I need to sleep. I can’t function without sleep.’

  ‘No, you’re right, you can’t.’ Leaning forward, elbows to knees, he softens his tone. ‘Libby, what you need to understand is, your everyday is linked to your yesterday.’ His fingers steeple and he narrows his eyes. ‘So again, I ask . . . why are you here?’

  Oh my God. I run my tongue over the back of my teeth. My jaws clench. The pressure builds again. ‘Do you want me to leave?’

  ‘No. I want you to come back on Tuesday prepared to do the real work this time.’ He shrugs. ‘Then you’ll sleep.’