Phoebe Berman's Gonna Lose It(59)

He never texted me, Alex. It’s over with Matthew.

Though I find myself fudging the truth more than I’d like to, there is one person who I vowed never to lie to:

Sandy.

In part because therapy doesn’t work if you’re dishonest with your therapist. I read that online somewhere. And I need it to work.

But mostly because, and I learned this early on, there’s no point. Sandy can see right through any lie I throw her way. Which is why when I finally give her a chance to ask about the wedding after spending forty minutes breathlessly recounting my incredible afternoon with Finn, I tell her the truth. I admit to everything that happened with Matthew, down to the two unanswered texts I have from him sitting on my phone.

“I want you to really consider why you’re not answering those texts, Phoebe,” she says. “I don’t think you’re scared that he’s going to reject you. I think you’re scared that he’s not.”

I brush her off. “What difference does it make? Things are going so well with Finn. Not to mention that tomorrow is the Fall Ball. It’s the middle school dance, but all the teachers are strongly encouraged to chaperone. Cheryl makes a spiked punch to keep in the teachers’ lounge. I’m thinking of asking Finn for a ride home. You know how it goes with dropping someone off at home at night.”

“I do?” Sandy asks.

“Those final few moments when you’re pulling up to the house and getting ready to open the passenger-side door…it’s always sexually charged. A perfect opportunity for a kiss.”

“Hmm,” Sandy hums. “I guess I can see that.”

I nod, glancing at the cat clock on the wall. With only three minutes left in our session, and in the spirit of honesty, I feel like I’d be remiss not to mention what’s going on with Jonathan.

“Also, I got in a fight with Jonathan yesterday,” I admit.

Sandy looks back at the clock, raising her eyebrows as she scribbles something down on her notepad. This strikes me as odd, considering I haven’t even told her what the fight was about. “What are you writing down?”

“I find it curious.” She pauses, placing her pen down while looking at me intently. “You’re having issues with two people who I know mean a lot to you, and yet you spent almost the entirety of today’s session talking about Finn, someone you’ve only known for a few weeks.”

“So?” I ask. “I had a big moment with Finn today. I had a lot to talk about.”

“I just want to make sure your fixation on Finn is coming from a healthy place, and not an avoidant place, that’s all.”

Fixation.

Crush.

Why is no one taking me and Finn seriously?

“It’s not a fixation,” I push back. “It’s a real, mature connection. And it’s all very healthy. I promise.”

She nods, and when she walks to the door and opens it for me, it’s with a slight air of resignation.

“You’ll see, Sandy.” I walk through the open door, adjusting my tote bag on my shoulder as I turn back to her. “When I see you next, everything’s going to be different. Between the Fall Ball and Noah’s birthday party, something’s going to happen this week.”

“I look forward to hearing about it. Get home safe,” she says before closing the door.

I can tell she doesn’t believe me. It doesn’t matter, though, because this time next week, I’ll be right back here, sitting across from her and saying, I told you so.





17


I’m half asleep on the couch by the time the apartment door finally opens.

“Hi!” I yell across the room. Jonathan drapes his sweatshirt across the back of a kitchen chair, eyeing the pizza box on the table, its contents already cold.

“Hey, Pheebs.” He smiles with the corner of his mouth, fiddling with the lid of the pizza box until he finally decides to take a slice. He sits down at the table, which is unusual. We usually eat on the couch. Together.

“Sorry it’s cold. I thought you’d be home a few hours ago.”

“It’s all good,” he says between bites. I nod, searching for something to say, but he beats me to it.

“I think I’m gonna turn in early tonight,” he says, rapidly inhaling a single slice and pushing his chair away from the table. “I’m exhausted.”

“Oh, really?” I do nothing to mask my disappointment. “I thought maybe we could hang out for a little.”

His expression softens. “Sure,” he responds with a weak smile.

I pull the Monday crossword up on our TV as he plops down next to me. It’s common knowledge among the New York Times crossword community that the Monday puzzles are the easiest. I can usually speed through one of them in less than ten minutes, with Jonathan offering an answer here and there. Our personal best is five minutes and eight seconds. But tonight, we call it after half an hour and an only partially completed grid.

“I guess my head wasn’t in it tonight,” Jonathan says with a sigh as I lead the way up the stairs.

“Yeah,” I agree. “Mine either.”

“We’ll get our groove back,” he insists.

“Will we?” I ask, turning around to face him, looming over him slightly from the top step.