Therapy (28 page)

“Seriously, cooking and now the guitar? My learning curve is not that advanced.”

“Oh, shut up! Here, take it. Just place it on your lap like this, and then hold here with your left hand. Now reach around from the back so your fingers are on the strings. Now, press down on the first string, the skinniest, with your ring finger here, just behind the third little metal marker—they're called frets. Now, reach with your first two fingers and put your second one on the fifth string at the second fret, and your pointer on the bottom string on the third fret, same as your ring finger.”

He has got to be kidding! He’s directing and pointing and gesturing as he imparts all this musical knowledge on me, but there is absolutely no way I’m following all that. He must sense my confusion because he scoots closer and puts his arm around me, covering my hands with his, showing me exactly how to do it. His body is warm and I tense a little at the sensation of his skin on mine.

“Here let me show you,” he says softly.

He begins to play, we begin to play, and it’s the sweetest, most amazingly erotic thing I’ve ever experienced. I can feel the vibration of the strings; hear the beautiful sound of the acoustic guitar. I soak it all in, including how incredible he feels pressed up against me. It makes for a very passionate moment. My breath hitches and I can feel my pulse start to kick up. Just when my heart starts to race, he pulls back. The music stops and my body nearly cries out at his absence.

“Sorry, did I do something?” I ask in defense.

He looks frustrated, but sad all at once.

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

He drops his head and avoids my eyes. I have no idea what’s going on, but I do know what makes most guys feel better. My need to please bubbles up, and I consider how my old automatic response could come in handy right now. So far, I’ve been able to keep myself in check with Kingsley, but tonight feels different.

Without a second thought, I reach over and gently rub his leg. I can feel how tense he is, so I rub my hand farther up toward the middle of his thigh. He instinctively moves his hand and covers mine with it. He squeezes my hand briefly and turns his head so we’re eye-to-eye.

“Let me make you feel good, Kingsley. You’ve been so good to me, it’s the least I can do for you.”

I lean in toward him for a kiss, but he stands abruptly.

The bitter slap of rejection stings.

“What’s wrong with you? You kiss me like it’s the last kiss of your life, now you don’t want me to touch you?” All at once, the feelings I’ve been trying to suppress about Jace start to rush in: doubt, fear, worthlessness, shame.

He lets out a huge sigh before responding. “Jessica, it’s complicated. It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a girl, a very long time.”

“It’s just sex, Kingsley. It’s like riding a bike, you aren’t going to forget what to do, and, after that kiss, I’m pretty confident you know what you’re doing.”

He looks at me, dumbfounded.

“‘Just sex’? Is that how you look at it? What on earth has transpired in your life for you to view the most personal act between two people as ‘just sex’?” Though his words catch me off guard, there is no accusation in them, just genuine concern. I don’t know how to respond, so I focus on my indignation.

“Yeah, just sex. Every guy wants it. Girls give it because we know it’s how we get you. That’s just how it works,” I say, all sarcasm now.

He shakes his head and looks at me intently.

“Wow, I can’t believe you just said that. If that’s what you truly believe, then you really haven’t ever had a real relationship. Sex is not how you get a guy, Jessica, and it’s not how you keep a guy. Giving your body is not how you win someone over, giving your heart is how you get someone,” he says kindly, and I can see the sympathy written all over his face, which just pisses me off more.

“Yeah? Well I tried that once and it got me nowhere but in pain. So fuck that,” I say angrily.

He walks over, drops down, puts one hand on each of my shoulders, and looks right at me.

“I don’t know what you’ve been through or what brought you to group therapy. I don’t know what that pain in your eyes that I always see is from and I have no idea what inner battles you face daily. What I do know is you are worth far more than being ‘just sex’ to any man.” His sincerity nearly breaks me.

I drop my head, feeling the tears fighting to fill my eyes, but I force them back. I refuse to be weak right now. He places his forefinger under my chin and pulls my head up so I’m facing him.

“Listen to me right now. You deserve to have a man who falls in love with your mind, wants to undress your very conscience, and make love to your every single thought. You deserve a man who wants to see you slowly let down every wall you’ve ever built up.. You deserve a man that will work hard for you until you let him inside your heart.”

It feels as if all the air in my lungs is being sucked out with every syllable that he speaks. I can barely breathe and I have the strongest desire to run. I want to leave and never turn back, but at the same time, I want to reach out and hug him. Hug him hard for saying those beautiful words to me. Instead, I stand here with a pained look on my face. He leans forward and kisses my forehead. His lips are warm and soft. Very slowly, he pulls away and brushes my hair out of my face.

“Talk to me, Jessica. Tell me what it is, who it is. Where does it come from, that pain in those beautiful, sad eyes?”

Is it that bad? So obvious that he can see it?

I can’t handle this. It’s too much, too damn heavy, and I can’t do it. I have to get out of here.

“I have to go, Kingsley. Uh, I’m just... I’m sorry. I just have to go. I’ll call a cab,” I say as I get up, trying to collect myself.

“You don’t have to go. I’m the one that should apologize. I kissed you like that in the kitchen because I wanted to, and, trust me, I want more, but it’s not that simple. It’s a big step for me to get involved with someone again. It has nothing to do with you at all.” I hear him, but I don’t really hear him. I’m too busy focusing on getting the hell out of here.

“It’s okay, I understand. I still think I should go.” I walk over to where my purse is hanging and sling it over my shoulder, starting for the door.

“Please, don’t go. Stay.” His husky voice breaks when he says “stay” and I have to look at him.

He’s standing in front of the door with his hands in his pockets. His head is dropped a little and he kind of looks like a sad little boy. He’s so strong and virile, but right now he just looks like a guy who doesn’t want to be alone, a guy who’s in pain. I know that look all too well. It’s the same one I see every time I look in the mirror. He sees my pain and I see his. If I stay, we can sit together in our pain and be alone together, rather than alone and apart. I take a deep, cleansing breath.

I stay.

I put my purse down by the door, drop my arms to my sides, and look up at him. He cuts his eyes to my bag and then back to me. An uncomfortable silence situates itself around us while we both get ourselves together mentally.

“Thank you,” he whispers. Holding out his hand to me, he gives me a small smile and I reach out and put my hand in his. He gives it a little squeeze and leads me toward the door, out onto the front porch.

“Let’s sit a while.”

We sit down on the white wooden porch swing and he stretches his arms out on the back of it—one arm around me—and it feels very comforting. We don’t say anything at first and it’s okay. It’s okay just being still beside each other in the midst of the very loud wars that we both obviously have going on in our minds.

“I’m glad you stayed,” he says.

“Me too.” I lean my head over on his shoulder.

“This is nice,” he says after a few minutes.

“Yeah, it really is.”

“So, do you want to talk? Will you tell me why you’re in group?” he asks hesitantly.

I let out a sigh.

“I guess,” I tell him.

Now he’ll run and run far after he sees what a freak I really am.

“Being honest with others empowers you to be

honest with yourself.”

—Kathryn Perez

I CAN’T BELIEVE I just told him everything. Every freaking thing just came out like a dam bursting. Jace, my parents, that I have BPD. I laid it all out on the table. I don’t think I even took a breath. My heart’s pounding in my chest and my skin feels warm, my palms sweaty.

“Hey, it’s okay. That was a lot of shit to get out, darlin’. Damn, I’m so sorry about all of it. That’s rough. You’re strong, though, you haven’t given up, and you haven’t let it beat you down.”

He gently squeezes my shoulder and I shake my head.

“No, that’s just it. I have let it beat me down. I’m a grown ass woman and I have nothing to show for my life. I have a shitty job, live in a tiny, shitty apartment, and have no car and no companion in my life. I have no friends to speak of and it’s all because I let all of the bad things in my life determine my path. Anytime something good comes my way I mess it up. That’s just what I do—I fuck things up. It’s like I can’t survive without drama in my life, like I need it to feed my impulsive jacked-up mind. It’s just a vicious cycle that’s on repeat. I let guys use me while I hang on to them for dear life, needing their attention. Then, the second it doesn’t go my way I screw it up. I want them; I don’t want them. I need them like I need food and water, and then I want them to leave me alone. It’s an I-hate-you-don’t-leave-me fucked-up cycle. I can’t keep a job because I can’t get along with my superiors to save my life. Same shitty cycle. All or nothing. That’s the way my mind operates. I hate it, and even though I know why I am the way I am now that I’ve been diagnosed, it doesn’t make it any easier to get through each day.”

“What about therapy and counseling? You said they offered you a special therapy, that DBT stuff. Are you doing it?” he asks, seeming genuinely interested.

“No, I’m not. Since all the shit went down with finding out that the doctor bitch is actually Jace’s fiancé, I haven’t been back to any counseling of any kind. I’ve requested a new psychiatrist because Jace said it’s a conflict of interest for me to stay there, but I haven’t been given a new one yet. I’m supposed to get some letter or something once I’ve been assigned to a different one,” I tell him, knowing that I’m dreading going back for individual sessions.

“Oh, I gotcha. Well are you gonna do it?”

“I guess I am. It’s very intimidating though, you know? That DBT stuff is intense, very involved. I’m not sure I can do it.”

“Of course you can do it. You can do anything; you just have to make a choice. Everything comes down to your choices.”

If only it were that simple.

“I don’t know. Most things don’t feel like choices in my life. They feel like musts. Musts that are usually on the negative side of things. Knee-jerk reactions with lifelong repercussions. So, are you ever going to tell me your story?”

He sighs.

“I guess I sort of owe you that now, huh?”

“Yeah, but if you’re not ready, it’s okay.” I tell him and I mean it.

“Okay, how about you come over again next weekend? We will cook a different meal and I’ll tell you my story,” he says.

It’s getting later and a little chilly outside. I rub my hands up and down my arms, feeling cold.

“Are you cold? You wanna go inside?” he asks.

“Yeah, I guess so. But I really should go soon,” I say.

“Nope, the night’s young. Let’s finish off that Chianti and play some Monopoly. Let’s get all of that depressing stuff off your mind.”

I just told him all my deep, dark shit and he wants to play Monopoly? Seriously?

“You want to play a board game that involves serious strategies while drinking?”

“Sure, sounds like fun to me!” he laughs.

“You’re full of surprises, Kingsley. Never expected this night to end with Boardwalk and Park Place.”

“You passed go, you collected two hundred dollars, and you royally kicked my ass, woman.”

We both laugh, and as I take the very last sip of my wine I realize we have finished off the entire bottle.

“Yep, looks like I did all right. I have got to go to the bathroom, though. Where is it?” I ask.

“It’s down the hall, past the closet where your purse was hanging.”

“Okay, I’ll be right back.”

I walk down the hallway, past the closet and there are three doors. I have no idea which one is the bathroom, so I just open the first one and flip the switch on the wall. Immediately, I know that it’s not the bathroom. It looks like an office or art room. Beautiful artwork adorns the walls and I’m drawn in by the splashes of color everywhere. I step in to take a closer look and see framed photos on a shelf of Kingsley and a beautiful black-haired woman. In one, they’re holding each other in a loving embrace; another has him kissing her on the cheek. Photo after photo of the two of them grace the walls, the desk, the shelves; every corner of the room features them, their love. My eyes land on one photo in particular with Kingsley kissing her belly, cupping it in what I can only describe as adoration. Her belly looks normal-sized but the way he’s touching and kissing it, you can tell what the picture represents. I’m suddenly confused, overwhelmed, and I know I’ve got to get out of this room. I don’t know what the hell I just saw, but I know I need to get out of here, now. I turn to go and just as I get to the door, I come face-to-face with Kingsley.

“What are you doing in here?” he asks tersely.

“Umm, I’m sorry. I didn’t know which door was the bathroom. I opened—”

“So when you see this isn’t the bathroom you just come on in here anyway and start looking at my private things?” he asks as he pierces me with his glare.

Is he crazy? I wasn’t snooping. I didn’t go through anything. I just saw some damn photos.

“I didn’t snoop, Kingsley. Don’t be an asshole. It was a simple mistake. It’s just a room for God’s sake.”

I see his fists clench and I quickly realize that in my effort to defuse the situation, I said the wrong thing. He’s really upset. I’m running all of the possibilities through my mind—who she is, where she is now, and what could’ve happened to her—but my mind is blank in the face of his anger.

“It’s not just a room! It’s my wife’s art room. My dead wife’s art room!” he screams at me. And in his scream I hear not just anger, but defeat, loss.

His dead wife?

Oh. My. God.

“Kingsley, I’m... I... I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.”

Not caring that I need to go to the bathroom, I push past him and make my way to the front door as fast as I can. I quickly grab my purse and bolt out the front door. I get my phone and scroll to the listing for the cab company.

“Jessica, wait, I’m sorry. Don’t leave like this. Please, let me explain.” He yells as he follows me down from his front porch.

I don’t turn around. I just keep putting one foot in front of the other.

“Jessica, please! You can’t leave upset. I’m sorry that I reacted so intensely.” I can hear him closer behind me now, and even though I want to run away from him, from my mess of emotions, from this fucked-up situation, something stops me. That’s what I always do—I run. Even if Kingsley and I are over before we’ve begun, I owe it to myself to stick this out. It’s my choice, just like Kingsley said earlier. Besides, he heard me out earlier when I unloaded all my shit on him, the least I can do is give him the chance to do the same.

I pause and take a deep breath before turning around to face him.

“Kingsley, you don’t have to explain anything to me. It’s not my business. I’m not upset, okay? I just think maybe I should go.”

He keeps walking toward me until he stops right at my feet. He’s so handsome, but even his good looks can’t distract me from the uncomfortable turn this night has taken.

“No, I want to explain. I want to tell you about her,” he pauses, “about Lily.”

Holy hell, this is some crazy, heavy shit.

Am I really up for this?

The wine has my head swimming and my emotions are bumping into each other at warp speed trying to figure out which way to go.

“I don’t know. I had no idea you were married or that you had a family in that house. It just feels wrong or weird. I don’t know,” I say again, nervously fidgeting with my purse.

“You don’t need to feel like that. I’ve never told anyone about her or what happened. I finally faced it all earlier today before you came over and, to be honest, you’re the reason I did.”

I look up at him in surprise.

“I’m the reason you faced it? What do you mean I’m the reason?”

“Listen, it’s all pretty damn complicated and it’s a long story, but spending time with you over the past few weeks has made me feel again. I haven’t laughed or felt anything since Lily died. It’s like I was living life, but looking at it from the outside in. It was just mundanely passing me by. Then, I met you and we’ve had a great time. For some reason, I’m drawn to you. I feel like we have a lot in common. I see your pain and the way you have all these defensive walls up—it’s exactly what I do.” His hands are on his hips and he shrugs, absently biting his lower lip before quietly continuing. “Today, I went in Lily’s office for the first time since she died. I cried for her for the first time today, I cried for our unborn child for the first time today. I finally let all of my walls down and allowed myself to feel something about what happened,” he says as he looks at me with sorrow in his blue eyes.

My eyes fill with tears and all I want to do is hug him. So that’s what I do. I just reach out and hug him.

We are back inside, sitting on the sofa. He’s just told me everything about Lily. Her suicide, the note he found today, and how he was looking for answers in the group. I’m heartbroken for him and his loss. He’s spent the last hour telling me all about her and their life together. They were high school sweethearts. He told me about the letter and what it said, how he blames himself for her death, and how angry he is that she made such a huge decision for him and their baby. Of all the times I ever considered suicide I never took anyone else into consideration, just myself. Seeing how broken Kingsley is and how upset and confused he’s feeling... Well, it’s just really hard for me to reconcile how taking your own life affects others in such a big way.