Someone to Love

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “I’m definitely not Mason.”

  Mom nods. “You’re your own person. Of course. I still worry about you. Mason was the kind of kid who wore everything on his sleeve. We knew he was having trouble. He acted out. You don’t talk to us. You just shut yourself up in your room.”

  “It’s not my fault that—”

  Dr. Larson puts up her hand. “No one’s blaming you. We have to try to avoid becoming defensive in order to communicate with each other. Your mother is simply voicing her feelings and observations.”

  I’m sick of this conversation. No one cared about my feelings before. Why do I have to talk about them now? Why do I need a complete stranger telling me how I should speak?

  “Fine,” I say. “I’m trying to juggle a lot and I get tired. Sometimes I just want to be alone when I’m at home. It helps me recharge.”

  It’s true. After being at school all day, I’m tired and I want to be by myself.

  It’s easier to be alone.

  “That’s a valid point,” Dr. Larson says. “It’s more important for some of us to have alone time than others. But it can also be a sign of depression or a variety of mental health problems.”

  I know I get depressed, but I don’t need to have that shoved in my face like I’m something that needs to be fixed.

  “I’m not crazy,” I say. “Plenty of artists spend lots of time alone. And I shouldn’t be punished for apparently being the only introvert in this family.”

  “This isn’t punishment,” Mom says, raising her voice. “Something obviously is going on with you. I’m trying to give you a safe opportunity to tell us about it.”

  “I came here to support you. Remember?”

  “Let’s try to keep this conversation productive,” Dr. Larson says. “It’s possible to share our emotions without becoming emotional.”

  She seems like a nice person, but I wish she would shut up. I don’t need therapy. I don’t need her telling me how to express my emotions. I don’t need any of this.

  “If you have a problem with me drinking sometimes, I’ll stop,” I say, looking at Mom. “But you could have saved your therapy time by talking to me by yourself.”

  “I would appreciate that,” Mom says. “I don’t want to be controlling, but I’d rather you be careful.”

  “All right, Mom. I get it. I’ll take care of myself. Can we start talking about what we were supposed to be here for? I’m done talking about me.”

  “I think Olivia’s suggestion is a good one,” Dr. Larson says, completely unfazed by my shutting her out. “We can follow up on her self-care at another time.”

  She probably doesn’t think I know what she’s doing. Mentioning self-care? I know she’s dropping hints. I know that next time she’s going to go there.

  “You told me you were worried that you’re overextending yourself,” Dr. Larson says to Mom. “Are there any tasks you can delegate to another person on the campaign?”

  We leave the session thirty minutes later with Mom telling me she’s made more progress than ever. “I’m glad you finally decided to open up, sweetheart. I know you’re a private person, but you can’t keep things in forever. It’s unhealthy.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way,” I say, getting into her car.

  I’m furious as she tells me how she hadn’t realized that she was manifesting some of Dad’s fears as her own. I start tuning her out as she says, “I need to do more for myself. I need to remember that the campaign isn’t the only thing in my life.”

  “Great, Mom,” I say.

  Yeah, I think. Quit trying to ambush me with your therapist.

  “Will you go with me again?” Mom asks as she drives out of the parking lot.

  “What?” I can’t believe she would even ask.

  How out of touch is she with how uncomfortable I am?

  “To the therapist,” she says. “Will you keep coming with me? I’d really like you to. It would be good for both of us.”

  “Maybe,” I say, barely listening. “I’m not really sure...”

  My headache is back. My stomach is acting weird. I’m dizzy with vertigo. I feel weak and cold and like all of my emotions are starting to shut down.

  I don’t want anything to do with a therapist again.

  Never, I tell myself.

  Never.

  t w e n t y - n i n e

  “Let us be grateful to people who make us happy, they are the

  charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.”

  —Marcel Proust

  I’m sitting on the couch, working on an English essay about whether the penny should be retired or not. After the conversation with the therapist, I agreed to Mom’s request that I spend less time locked up in my room so I’m spending more time in what she calls “shared family spaces.” Anything to keep her off my back.

  I have to maintain my goal weight. I can’t let her get in the way.

  I’m practically falling asleep from boredom when Sam texts me a string of worried-face emojis, with eyebrows pulled up toward the top of their little yellow heads and massive frowns.

  SAM: Help? :-( :-( :-(

  He follows that with suit and tie emojis. I light up as I look at his texts. He needs me. He needs a woman to help him make a decision. I can be her. I’m just happy Sam and I are back to normal again. We may not have our trifecta back, but at least I can prove that I can be a good friend.

  LIV: Sure, I’ll help you pick out a suit and tie.

  Sam picks me up fifteen minutes later and we’re off shopping for his upcoming debate championship. We go to the suit shop Dad goes to. I admit Dad can dress pretty hip when it comes to wearing suits, though I’d never tell him. His head would get too big.

  The clothing racks are endless.

  Everything I pick out causes Sam to crinkle his face.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t been to any of your debates,” I say.

  He’s been practicing nonstop, spending most of his time out of class in preparation. I know most of the debates are out of town, but there’ve been a few I could have made if it weren’t for helping out Dad’s campaign.

  Sam shrugs. “It’s not like I go running to hear Mr. Blakely give a speech.”

  “You could at least show up to watch me stand there playing with my hair.”

  He laughs. “I’d be too tempted to make memes.”

  “Hey!” I lightly punch his arm.

  I love Sam’s sense of humor. He’s the only person I know who can tease me and make me laugh at the same time. He never lets me off the hook.

  Sam pretends to be hurt. “You true-love wrecker!”

  We both laugh even though I know it’s true. This is my generation. What we do to each other walks the fine line between bullying and ultimate sarcasm.

  “Some of it’s funny,” I say honestly as I pore through a rack. “But I really hate it. Why should I have to make so many sacrifices for his career?”

  I tell him how controlling Rich Nguyen has been.

  “Can’t you just say that to your dad? He seems reasonable.”

  “Believe me, I’ve tried. But then he starts spouting about my place of honor in the family and our calling to serve this great nation. I think he uses what he says to me in his speeches at the House of Representatives. Or maybe it’s the other way around.”

  “I guess I’d call him out,” Sam says.

  “It’s not that easy.”

  I hold up a navy suit with a double-breasted jacket.

  Sam cringes. “What do you think I’m going to be doing in this suit? Smoking pipes and discussing the advantages of investing in stocks versus bonds?”

  I put the suit back on the rack.

  “You know what I really missed about you?” I say.

  Sam raises his eyebrows goofily.

  “Your stup
id sense of humor.”

  “I think the word you’re really looking for is...refined. Yes.” He imitates holding a pipe up to his lips.

  “We can’t let our lives interfere with our friendship.” I pull out a weird pinstripe suit with oversized collars. I immediately return it to the rack.

  “So...I didn’t just call you to come help me pick out a suit. I mean, your choices are pretty atrocious. For being a politician’s daughter, your taste...” Sam teases.

  I give him a death glare. “What?”

  “Oh...you know what, it’s nothing,” he says.

  “No. You were about to say something. Spit it out.”

  “I guess I have a confession to make.”

  “Whaaat?” I draw out the word like it’s stuck in my throat.

  “Nina and I are dating.”

  By the look of her face that one time in the library, Nina probably hates me, but I try to act excited anyway. “That’s great,” I say, trying not to choke on my words. I really am happy for him. Mostly. Sam deserves all kinds of happiness and all that.

  It’s just that...I don’t know how I truly feel. My feelings for Sam have always been complicated. On a certain bench in Marina del Rey, he’s always been my boyfriend. Or practically my boyfriend. Our sphere just never expanded from there into the real world.

  “And Zach,” Sam says. “He’s not such a bad guy. If he makes you happy, I can’t argue with that.”

  “Yeah,” I say, holding up another suit. “He’s been good for me.”

  I’m strangely glad that Sam has warmed up to Zach. He’d hardly said a word about him before. In fact, these may be his first words about me dating him.

  Sam makes that face again.

  That means no.

  “We have a lot to look forward to, don’t we?” I ask.

  Am I reaching by saying this? We do, right? I’m praying inwardly even though there’s this awful thing staring me in the face called GOVERNOR BLAKELY.

  Sam rests his elbows on a rack. “Yeah,” he says. “I think. Senior year is supposed to be the best year of your life.”

  Now I’m thinking about everything I’ll have to leave behind.

  I suddenly change the subject. “Do you still hang out with Antonia?” I ask.

  I wonder why that came out. I guess she’s still on my mind.

  Just when I think Sam is going to slip into lecture mode, he only offers a few words. “We talk sometimes. Maybe you should try and fix things with her.”

  “Yeah...like that’s easy to do...”

  Sam sighs. He probably hears the same words from her. “I really think she’s just waiting for you to make things right. She wants to be friends again. I can tell. That’s why she blew up at you. She can’t handle it either. Don’t be as stubborn as she is.”

  “Oh look!” I grab a slim, cobalt blue suit off the rack that I’m not even sure I like. I hold up the hanger. Sam’s eyes go wide. Both his thumbs go up as he grins.

  Mission accomplished. Finally.

  t h i r t y

  “Mostly it is loss which teaches us about the worth of things.”

  —Arthur Schopenhauer

  When Sam drops me off, I find Royce’s car parked in the driveway.

  Why is my brother here? Dad said he wasn’t coming back for a week or two. In fact, now that I think of it, I heard Royce say the same thing—that he’d be in school.

  It hits me. Mason told him. I suddenly want to melt into the cracks in the driveway, turn into a tree so I can hide in plain sight or, better yet, poof into a cloud so I can be an untouchable mist melting over the ocean.

  If Mason told him, then Royce would come straight down here to talk to Mom and Dad. He would never be able to keep quiet. He’s not like that—he has to get all his emotions out right now. Maybe that’s why he and Jasmine aren’t working out. You can’t tell your significant other everything. Some things you have to keep to yourself.

  Why can’t I be eighteen already?

  Why can’t I have an apartment of my own?

  I just want to leave. But I can’t.

  I unlatch the gate, make my way around the back of the house. If I can just slip into the house without him noticing, maybe I can buy some time to figure out what I want to tell them. I don’t want to walk right into some kind of intervention meeting.

  The back doors are locked.

  They’re never locked.

  Royce knows. He’s trying to trap me. He knows all my tricks and probably locked my bedroom window too. Without even checking, I take a few deep breaths and go around to the front door. I take off my shoes and slip in as quietly as I can. Mom and Dad don’t seem to be home. That’s a good sign. Maybe Royce wants to talk to me alone.

  No Royce in the foyer.

  No Royce in the hall.

  No Royce in my bedroom.

  I look everywhere in my room. It’s empty. If he were in my bedroom, I’d kill him anyway. As soon as I slump onto my bed my door flies open. It’s Royce.

  “There you are.”

  I jump. My stomach drops.

  There’s something in his eyes.

  He knows. He knows. He knows.

  “You scared the hell out of me,” I say, panicking. I want to jump out the window. “Can’t you knock? Do I show up to your apartment and just walk in?”

  Royce can see I’m furious. He softens. It’s not what I expect.

  His eyes change too. I’m confused.

  “I just want to talk to you about Jas,” he says.

  My heart slows. My panic quickly subsides. “Jesus, Royce.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been on edge for a long time. It’s this breakup.” He doesn’t step into the room yet. “Can I come in?”

  “Yes,” I say, my tone still angry. “Close the door, idiot.”

  He’s like a sad little boy as he looks around like he’s never seen my room before. “Haven’t been in here in a while.” He makes his way to my couch. “You still have this?”

  “Yeah. So what?”

  He shrugs and thumbs through a book on my couch, then sets it aside. “Liv, I really don’t know what to do. I still love Jas. And I know—I know—she loves me...”

  Now I feel bad. Royce doesn’t want to get me in trouble. He just wants to talk about his own problems. What can I say to comfort him?

  My mouth opens, but words are hard to get out. It’s like I can’t articulate anything. “So...what are you gonna do?”

  He thinks hard. His wheels really spin. “I don’t know. Everything was going great. We were making all these plans. Plans for after graduation. Travel plans. Possibly getting engaged... She just...she’s like you, so independent.”

  “And that’s a bad thing?”

  He backpedals. “I don’t mean it like that. I really don’t. I just mean...”

  “Aren’t you independent? What’s wrong with people being independent? I don’t buy this whole ‘she’s independent’ thing as the reason you broke up. I don’t think she would leave you because she wanted to just be on her own.”

  He pauses a moment, then says, “I think she’s scared to admit that one of us might have to sacrifice our dream for the other. I guess maybe I am a little too.”

  I’m shocked that he would tell me any of this. I’m no relationship fixer. I can barely face my own problems. I don’t know how to fix myself any more than Royce knows how to repair his relationship. All I know is, they seemed perfect for each other. They really did.

  “When I saw you and Zach at the fund-raiser,” he says, “it reminded me of when Jasmine and I first started dating. We were in high school too.”

  “Why does that matter?” I ask. “You’ve been together a long time. You and Jas have been through a lot more than Zach and me. That must mean something.”

  “I’m trying to g
et in touch with what made things work for me and Jasmine. Maybe you know something.”

  “I don’t know anything,” I say. “I haven’t talked to her lately.” Maybe that came out too harsh. I actually do miss Jas. I want to talk to her. But I’m also kind of mad at her. It feels like she broke up with our entire family. Like, now that she’s not with Royce, maybe I won’t mean anything to her either.

  “I don’t mean like that,” he says. “I just want to ask about this thing with Zach. Maybe it will help me understand what Jasmine and I were all about. When you first start dating, is it really just this comfortable honeymoon?”

  Nothing about our relationship has been a comfortable honeymoon. At first I thought dating Zach might be slightly glamorous, but the fact that his job and my family put us in the public eye makes everything more difficult.

  “How am I supposed to know that? We’re still getting to know each other. And I have all this...” I stop for a second, thinking of how messed up I’ve been for practically this whole year. “Stress. How’s that a honeymoon?”

  He nods. “Yeah...that must be hard. I mean, so like, what do you see in Zach? Why do you like him?”

  I’m already uncomfortable with these questions. Why did I agree to talk to Royce? What do I say? That Zach’s attractive? Talented? Charming? That he’s a success? All those things?

  “I need someone to love,” I say.

  “Does he love you?” Royce asks. He seems so lost.

  “He said he does. I don’t know—it’s what people say.”

  Royce shakes his head. None of this is helping.

  Things have been sort of strained between us since Zach started acting weird at the LeFeber show a couple of weeks ago. I don’t know where we stand right now.

  “Look, I can only say this. Maybe you need to let Jasmine know that people do sometimes make each other better. I know it sounds cheesy, but you have to ask yourself, ‘Do I make Jasmine a better person?’ You said that she was afraid that one of you might need to make a sacrifice for the other. Maybe she’s afraid of having to give up everything she worked so hard for? If you really love her, maybe you have to consider giving up something for her.”

  “But...”