Stars in Your Eyes(67)

I clear my throat. “What do you think happened last night?”

“What do you mean?”

“I freaked the fuck out.”

He puts down his toast and thinks for a second. Maybe he’s trying to figure out the best way to say what he wants so that he doesn’t hurt me. “I think it’s all the trauma,” he eventually answers, slowly. “Stuck in your body, you know? I thought it was a good thing, seeing you cry like that. I don’t know. I can’t tell you what your experience was.”

“But?”

“It just made me wonder if you don’t let it out enough. All of the pain that’s built up inside of you.”

I barely cry on my own if it’s not for a film. The last time I remember crying was in scene with Mattie. It’s ironic. I remember getting on him, saying that he needs to let himself feel anger. That it would let him become a better actor. I was hiding emotions from myself, too, in the end.

“Sorry,” I tell him. “It was embarrassing.”

“I was happy you felt safe enough for that to happen.”

“Yeah. Maybe it was a mix of being with you and getting away from the city.”

“Good. It’s important to release that kind of thing, you know?”

We’re quiet again for a while, long enough that we both finish eating. I get up and grab our plates to take them to the sink. “Whatever happens,” I tell him, “I hope we can keep coming back here.”

“Do you want that?” he asks. I look over my shoulder at him. “I’ll come back. I’m game.”

“Once a year,” I say. “Same month and date, next year.”

He’s giving me that look again. All vulnerability and trust and love. “It’s a promise.”





Notes of Amy Tanner (Confidential)

Patient: Logan Gray

Age: 25

Diagnosis: CPTSD



Logan has increasingly made positive breakthroughs. Without prompting, he speaks about how his history with sexual abuse, assault, verbal abuse, and neglect has affected his ability to create secure attachments. He speaks with awareness on his various trauma styles, ranging from fight, freeze, and fawn. He has displayed a range of emotions, expressing more anger for his father and mother in particular, who he says “should have done more to protect” him.

Today, Logan spoke about his regrets with former partner Matthew Cole, and the way that their relationship ended. He stated, “I wish I had worked harder to heal before now, to make our relationship work.”

Logan expressed a desire for more closure with Cole. When I suggested he reach out, Logan said, “I doubt he would want to hear from me.” I did not push him to see that this was said in fear. I trust he will come to this realization on his own with time.





Mattie




When I fly into Atlanta, it takes my brain a second to get used to the slower pace. I get into a car and begin the drive back to Decatur, the sleepy neighborhoods with front yards, sunlight shining through the large trees. I’d invited Logan home with me for the holidays—I didn’t want him to be alone—but he promised he’d be all right in LA for the rest of the month. I texted Logan to let him know I landed safely and that I miss him, but I still haven’t gotten an I miss you, too. We’ve been texting, calling, or meeting up every day for the past couple of weeks since the cabin, but I noticed when his messages slowed down and got shorter, when we only kept in touch because I reached out first. It’s hard not to give in to insecurity. We got so close so quickly because of this movie, but now that filming for Write Anything is over…What if he starts to realize the feelings he’d had for me were because of his character? With some space, he could realize he doesn’t care about me after all.

I pull up and swing into the driveway behind my dad’s car. The house has pale blue siding. My mom’s garden and hedges are doing well. I step out and slam the door shut just as the front door opens and Emma runs out, tears in her eyes as she leaps into my arms and hugs me so tightly I can’t breathe. I laugh, eyes also welling up.

“Did you get taller?” I ask, pulling away.

“No,” she says, wiping her cheeks and grinning. “Just gained weight.”

“You look really great, Em.”

“I know, right?”

My mom’s come out, too, waiting in the doorway. She’s radiant as I walk up to her and give her a hug, the sort of hug that could last a full minute and I still wouldn’t want to pull away. “Welcome home, Mattie.”

*



I settle in so quickly that it feels like I never left. I return to my old childhood bedroom. The closet’s been taken over as storage for some of my mom’s old clothes, but that’s okay. I have more than enough space for my t-shirts and jean cut-offs. I go back to playing video games on my old Switch and watching TV in the living room and messing with Em, like I did when I was in high school, flicking Cheerios at her when our mom isn’t looking.

“Stop being so immature!” she yells, but she’s laughing, too.

Something else hasn’t changed. My dad barely leaves his office now that I’m back. He’s a warm brown and has those freckles that grow around the cheeks and eyes with old age and a mouth that’s set into a scowl. I don’t remember him ever laughing. I used to wonder why my mom would marry my father, but there were smaller moments peppered throughout my childhood, too: them sitting together silently in the living room, holding hands for hours without any need to speak.