by Tijan
“Babe.”
He laughed. “Guys don’t like being called that.”
“Shut up.”
He sighed. “I deserve that.”
I wasn’t going to cry.
I wasn’t.
I wasn’t…I was crying.
Dammit.
I tried to keep the tears out of my voice. “Are you breaking up with me?”
He fell silent for a minute. “I don’t want to.” Another beat. “But that’s selfish, isn’t it?” His voice sounded stronger, but still bleak, if that was possible. “To keep you tied to me when I can’t be around you? You’re coming to college, and I know you’re excited. That’s not fair to you. I’d be holding you back.”
Okay.
I heard him, and he’d made up his mind.
So okay.
I’d gone without him for a month.
I could handle another month, and that’s all I would give him—except he didn’t know that.
“You don’t see anyone else.”
“What?”
I was firm on this. “You don’t fuck anyone else. You see a therapist, and that’s it.”
“That’s it? What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you breaking up with me to fix yourself. So I’m giving you parameters. You cannot fuck anyone else. Got that?”
He was quiet again, then, “Yeah. No problem.”
“You need to fuck, you call me.”
“What?”
I was on my knees now, and almost yelling. “Agree to that!”
“Fine. Yes. If I need to fuck, I’ll call you. But doesn’t that—”
“Agree to that!”
“Yes! I agree. If I want sex, I’ll call you. Of course I’ll call you. I’ll want to call you all the time. This—I don’t want to do this, but I can’t risk hurting you.”
“You go to soccer and you kick ass at soccer, and then you have therapy sessions. Every day.”
“Every day?!” His voice shrank to a whisper.
“Every day. You want to break up with me to get fixed? Then you fix yourself. Every single day. I am not fucking around with this. I want you. I love you. I am already aching for you, and then you wake me up and say this to me? If you’re breaking up with me for this, you do the work. Soccer and then therapy.” I barked orders into the phone like a drill sergeant. “Intensive therapy. Get it done, and then I will make everything right for you again. You got me?”
He was silent.
“You got me?!”
“I want to fuck you so bad right now.”
I closed my eyes and fell forward, my head hitting the bed. “Agh.”
“Can we video chat? Right now?”
I wanted to, but then it’d be even worse. More torture. I couldn’t. I couldn’t do that to myself. Or him.
I choked out, “One month. You got me?”
He groaned. “One month.”
“Do the work.”
“I’ll do the work.”
Oh, heart. Melting.
My knees shook.
A whole month? My heart was being squeezed out of me, but no. We could do this.
“Aspen?”
My hand squeezed my phone so tight. “Yeah?”
“I love you.”
Yes. A whole month. That was it. “I love you too.”
49
Aspen
July had been long.
August was longer. I think because there was more at stake, and because college lay ahead of me at the end of the month. Until then, there was more family time. Nate was around a lot, but August still seemed endless.
No calls from Blaise. No texts.
He was serious, and I was serious.
I was also going insane.
I missed him.
I wanted him.
I cried for him.
I bargained in my head so I could contact him.
But no.
In the end, I didn’t reach out, and he didn’t either.
If he wasn’t doing the work, I was going to kill him.
That was my new mantra, and it was getting me through the month—that and listening to Nate call my parents every night and ream them out for things he’d been holding in since his high school years. Guess he needed a couple weeks to process, but them forgetting my graduation had been like the dam breaking with him.
He got mad, and then he got furious, and then he’d started sharing. I loved it.
Our parents wished he’d stop sharing.
I didn’t.
50
Blaise
“I’m going to admit that when you first called and requested daily appointments, I thought you were insane.”
I sat in my therapist’s office, across from her, and she was laughing.
“I’ve never had a client request daily appointments for an entire month. It was a miracle I could even shift my schedule around to accommodate you. And then to have you actually show up for all the appointments?” She shook her head. “Usually the problem is clients who don’t show up.” She stopped laughing. Her hands folded in her lap, over her pencil skirt. I’d been envisioning Aspen in that same outfit. She didn’t dress like my therapist, but the skirt? Hell yeah. Put some glasses on her, maybe give her a ruler, and she could bark orders at me any day of the week.
My therapist sat up straighter.
Her name was Naomi. She was recently married and had moved from Washington down to Cain. I knew all this because her husband was the one who spoke to her for me. After Aspen’s command—fucking hot command—I did my research.
Naomi Ferrer was new to the area and setting up her private practice. She had the acumen, because I saw her degrees online, and I’d guessed she’d have the most open calendar for what I wanted.
I’d called and made my request. She’d turned me down flat.
Then I found out her husband was one of the professors at Cain, and he was a soccer enthusiast. That’s when I approached my coaches. I’d been hesitant, because shit like this wasn’t usually discussed on the soccer field, but my coaches had supported me. My head coach said they’d rather have a guy getting his head cleared than a hothead who could be a danger on the field. That made sense. One of them spoke to Dr. Ferrer’s husband, and he got her to change her mind. She was even amenable to my soccer schedule, which came in handy because we’d had three matches before classes started next week.
“I’m impressed with you, Blaise,” she told me.
I nodded. “It’s a good thing you didn’t know me a few months ago.”
“You’ve made progress. I was initially worried about the emotional duress I’d be putting you under daily, and the ethics of that, but you handled it. And you did it well, and again, I’m impressed. For an incoming freshman, you’re setting up a phenomenal foundation to build upon. But…”
There was always a but, I was finding.
“You still have not confronted your mother about why she wasn’t honest with you all those years. That’s a problem.”
We’d been through everything else.
Eye movement desensitization and reprocessing therapy—EMDR. That’d been enjoyable (insert heavy, heavy sarcasm). But the post-traumatic stress crap I dealt with was better. Someone could touch my arm when I was in the middle of a flashback—and I’d had a few more over the month—and I could check myself.
I now recognized the state when I was in it, and I was also hopeful that eventually, the flashbacks would stop happening. For now, though, I could navigate my way out of them using the tools Dr. Ferrer had taught me.
That was all I wanted. It meant I wasn’t such a danger, but my head was still messed up. Sometimes I felt like the more therapy I got, the more crap we dug up, and the worse I got. That had lasted until this week when, surprisingly, some of that shit had started to lessen.
Dr. Ferrer said I could slow down my therapy, but she wanted to see me for another six months. Turns out, a childhood of abuse and trauma really fucks someone up.
&
nbsp; “I have a guess as to why you haven’t confronted your mom, but I want you to tell me your thoughts. Because you do have them, right? You have some idea, don’t you?”
God, I missed Aspen.
Right now. I wanted her here. In my arms.
I wanted to hear her voice.
“Blaise.”
“What?” I hadn’t meant to wander off. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine, but I would like you to answer my question.”
I didn’t want to answer, and not because I didn’t know. I’d thought about this; I just didn’t like saying it out loud. That made me feel…more raw, if that was possible.
More exposed.
I was getting tired of this daily shit.
Every day I felt exposed, vulnerable, emotionally stripped, and then every night I had to regroup from practice and from counseling. Aspen wanted me to do the work, so I was, but it was hard. The hardest thing I’d gone through… No. That wasn’t true.
Surviving him had been the hardest thing.
That’s when I knew I had to answer.
“Because if I confront her, I will hate her.”
Naomi shifted in her seat, her mouth tightening. She didn’t seem to have expected that answer.
“That door is shut right now, but I know it’s there,” I continued. “I’ve been angry at everyone except her. Been wanting to tear into everyone, hurt them, except her, and part of that is because she was all I had growing up. I had no one else—and yeah, I didn’t fully have her either, but she’s my mom. He broke her too. She didn’t know the extent of what he was putting me through. I hid it. He hid it. She hid from herself, drinking. Then this shit that he wasn’t my real dad came out, and I was relieved. I was thankful. But…”
I rubbed my hands over my face. “I try to sit and think about the ‘what if.’ What if she’d told me? What if she’d told Stephen? I don’t know who wins going down that path, so I don’t. Nothing can be changed. I survived. I used to think I was like him, that I was the lowest piece of shit on this earth, but I’m not. This—doing this shit, keeping focused with soccer, having Aspen in my life—I’m not him. I won’t be him. And I don’t know, a part of me is grateful I attacked Stephen, because I have that clarity now. I didn’t have that before. I couldn’t have that before, so maybe I should yell at my mom. I don’t know. Is that the right thing? Lash out at someone who was hurting right alongside you? Lose the one person I had during all that hell?”
I shrugged, no longer seeing my therapist. I didn’t feel the chair I was in. I wasn’t aware of the room around me. I had no concept of time or day or anything. I just saw my mom after one of the last times he’d ripped into her.
“She was crying so hard. The words he said to her, no one should ever hear those words. But he said them. And she took it, and I realized she’d been taking it for years. Fucking years. And she was still standing too. So I don’t know. I honestly don’t. I have enough bad shit inside of me. I don’t want to let myself think further about the ‘why’ of her putting me in that situation. If she knew what we’d end up in, I don’t think she would’ve done it. That’s obvious. She would’ve told Stephen she was pregnant, but she didn’t. She told him, and he loved her, or that’s what he said, and I have to think it hurt her something fierce to go with him, to decide to keep quiet about everything. We’ve never talked about it, but I know it eats at her. And I know she’ll tell me. She’ll have to, and I know she’s sorry, and I know she’ll apologize for lying to everyone, but… I don’t know. I’m still healing. She’s still healing, and we’re not there yet. We will be one day. I have to believe that. But I’m tired. Of all of it. I’m tired of being a dick. I’m tired of lashing out at people. I’m tired of hurting people, but I also know I’m still me. I’m still an asshole. I know I will say shit to hurt people, and I hate that now. I don’t know. Who am I to judge her, you know? Who am I?”
Naomi leaned forward. “Her son.”
“She said she’s in counseling.”
She nodded, leaning back. “She is. I asked you earlier if I could reach out to her therapist. You both signed waivers so we could talk, and your mother has made progress as well. Great progress. I’m aware that your biological father was in counseling too, as was your half-sister.”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“It’s an intense situation.”
I laughed, the sound hollow.
“I heard everything you said, but I don’t understand why you won’t ask your mother. I want to push you to do it, but I’m trying to respect you and meet you where you are, so help me. Help me understand.”
It was goddamn simple.
“Because if I do, I open that door to all the other demons in there, and I’m not ready. I’m not ready to hate my mom, and I know that’s what will happen. If I hate her, he wins. That piece of shit won’t ever win and get between my mom and me. I won’t let him. I won’t lose her.”
She drew in a breath, as if seeing me in a different light. She nodded. “Okay. I got it now.” Another slow bob of her head. “So when you’re ready, you’ll ask her. And Blaise, you won’t lose her. Ever.”
My throat swelled up. It was an irrational thought. I could recognize that, insight was a bitch, but it was there. I’d treated my mom like crap the last few months, but that would’ve been different.
I slumped further into my chair. “Or when she’s ready, she’ll tell me.”
“And until then—”
“He can’t win,” I told her again. “He doesn’t win.”
“Got it.”
“Good.”
Because that made one of us.
I didn’t get it. I didn’t know if I’d ever get it.
51
Aspen
I was excited, but sad and also nervous, all at the same time.
It was move-in weekend. That meant I’d found my dorm, and my room. I’d met my roommate and my floormates. I’d met my resident advisor. And even though I already knew the campus and had done a tour last fall, I got my schedule and walked through all the buildings. My parents were with me. Nate came too. But shortly after we arrived, he disappeared. He said he knew a few people who had remained local, so off he went.
He’d wanted to show me the house he used to live in when he went to Cain, but I already knew about it. It was now rented to Blaise’s brother, Bren, and their group of friends. They’d had a shindig there last night, and I knew Blaise had gone with Zeke, who—according to social media—had found out two days ago that he was attending Cain after all.
I wasn’t sure what had happened there, because I’d thought he was going here all along, but he seemed happy in his post. I was glad Blaise would have him here too. There were other pictures with both Blaise and Zeke in them, but I was trying not to think about it. Blaise had said he wouldn’t fuck anyone else, and I had no reason not to trust him, so I was trusting him.
I also knew he’d had a soccer match earlier today, and the girls were going to be a thing. Just going to the bathroom on campus, I’d overheard girls talking about the soccer team. “I know football is always a big deal,” one had said. “But I swear, we’ve never had that hottie on our soccer team before.”
Blaise had said he was a big deal in the sport at his other high school, and it only took an email for him to get into Cain because of soccer. I mean, I saw him play and he’d only been kicking the ball around by himself so I got it. I understood the excitement.
This was a preview of what was to come.
Nervousness, excitement, and sadness chased each other through me once again. Could I be overthinking things? Maybe.
I just missed him.
“So…” My roommate turned to me, a wide smile on her face.
I’d just come back up after goodbye hugs and kisses with my parents. Nate had texted that he was still around and would see me for brunch tomorrow before heading off, but until then, here I was. Back in my room. Saturday evening—nowhere to go and maybe a guy I should be calling, but I kin
da wanted him to call me. But he didn’t know I was even here, so I was being a little irrational, and I didn’t care.
“So.” I smiled back at my roommate.
Her name was Jade, and she seemed super cool. Straight black hair that hung at her chin. Dark eyes. An angular shaped face that could’ve stepped off a Bravo television show. I knew some girls might’ve hated her, but I’d never been like that.
I’d been around models before, so I could instantly read who was going to be catty and insecure. Jade wasn’t like one of those girls. There was a laid-back aura about her.
Her closet door was open, and once I closed the door to the room behind me, she wheeled backward on her desk chair. She had a bottle of Jameson in one hand and a bottle of rum in the other. “What’s your drink of choice, roommate?”
Seriously. So awesome.
I smiled. “Rum and Coke, please.”
“Hell yeah!” She stood up, lifting the bottles over her head, and went to the fridge.
I went over and hit my playlist. “Settle Down” by Chaptabois filled the air, and soon both of us were bobbing our heads to the beat.
We were on our second round when someone knocked on our door.
“Come in!” Jade called.
The door opened, and two more girls I’d briefly met on our floor came in.
We introduced ourselves again. One was a shorter Latina girl, and that’s how she introduced herself. She stuck her hand out and said, “I’m Veronica, and I’m Latina. I have an accent, and I’m not going to tell you where my family is from, because I’m from Texas, and that’s it, girl. Got it? We’ll move forward from this, and all you need to know is that I’m a hella good time. Also, I don’t do nicknames. My name is Veronica. Not Ronnie. Not Rica. Not Ver. Veronica. Got it?”
“Got it.” I nodded and smiled. I liked this one already. “I’m Aspen.”
Then she melted. “Oh, man. One look and I know you’re the sweetest and shyest girl ever. You remind me of one of my sisters, Crystal. Heart of gold.”