On the drive home, winding through deserted city roads, I thought again of my footsteps, the cursed clomp of my boot. The giveaway that kept me from skulking through the night, unbothered. The irony: I’d been thrilled when Aaron noticed me, and when, tonight, he called me his girlfriend. But on the street, I tried to creep past any other male gazes, ghostlike. That’s womanhood, I suppose, both craving and feeling repulsed by attention.
And not just from men. Take my parents—I skimmed past them like floaters in their vision, a refraction of light in the retina. It wasn’t until college that I began to see their disinterest for what it was: emotional neglect. And yet a dude on the street moaning, “Mm, good morning,” as I passed could curdle my stomach, sour my mood. Which was worse, being invisible or being seen? It was exhausting: the ego, the desire to be noticed—even admired—always dilating and contracting, flapping open and crumpling closed, over and over and over.
What did I look like to Sebastian when he backed me against the wall, pinned me in place? I pulled into my driveway right as the awful highlight reel looped: a crash of fury and adrenaline as Sebastian’s flesh yielded beneath my teeth; Kristen with the floor lamp; Stop. Stop. Stop.
The sudden give when his body left our arms and tumbled toward the blue-gray water below.
God, I was broken. Tears pricked my eyes one more time as I climbed toward my front door.
Poor Aaron.
He had no idea what he’d signed on for.
CHAPTER 13
“I feel like I shouldn’t be here.”
Adrienne Oderdonk, LMFT, was in her late fifties or so, with curly gray hair and kind brown eyes. A nondescript therapist in a nondescript building with pediatricians and realtors and dentists dotting the directory near the front door. She smiled serenely. “And why’s that?”
“I guess I…got the message that therapy is for the weak.” I’d grown up with negative knee-jerk reactions to it, in fact. When, fifteen years ago, a cousin had switched careers to get her PsyD, my dad had sneered at the concept over breakfast.
“Shrinks are charlatans,” he’d said, as if deeming water wet. He shook open his newspaper and turned the page. “Charging two hundred bucks an hour to listen to suckers talk about their feelings. But hey, more power to her.”
“Do you think it’s for the weak?” Adrienne asked.
“Well, I’m here because I think I should be stronger, so I guess that confirms it.” My laugh was like a bark.
“Let’s try to keep ‘should’ out of the conversation.”
“Right.” I took in the spiral-bound notebook on the side table next to her, the clock ticking down our fifty minutes together. The box of tissues on the coffee table, anticipating snot and tears.
Priya had recommended Adrienne, and I’d skulked into her waiting room like a kid sent to the principal’s office. I felt weird about going to a therapist after Kristen warned against it last year, but I wasn’t sure I had a choice: I was almost thirty, in my first grown-up relationship, and on the brink of screwing everything up.
“When you say you want to be stronger, what do you mean?” she asked.
I looked away. Strong enough to stuff my panic into a box. Strong enough to get through the day—an hour, even—without a slap of fear that Paolo will be found. Strong enough to hear a ringing phone and not freeze up assuming it’s the Chilean police. I’d looked into it after Cambodia—though there was no guarantee the U.S. would extradite me, if I was charged I’d have my face in the news, my passport flagged. My life ruined.
“Uh…more in control of my emotions, I guess. Like…like other people are.” By other people, of course, I meant Kristen. What was I doing here? I couldn’t tell her the truth: that it seemed likely, even inevitable, that we’d be caught. Kristen had been the mastermind last year, and of course her plan worked—we got away with it. But in Chile, I’d been in charge, and I was shaky and shortsighted, my confidence feigned. Any day now, they’d triangulate Paolo’s last known whereabouts, his very visible night out in Quiteria. What’s the proper way to ask a therapist to assuage your realistic concerns?
Answer: Tell her about another realistic concern. “So, last year, I…I was attacked, during a hookup, and I had a rough time recovering.”
“I’m so sorry that happened to you.”
“Thanks. I—I was a mess at first, to be honest. I could barely get through the day. But my best friend, she lives in Australia, but even so, she was there for me every single day during that period. Piecing me together until I started to feel like myself again. But then…”
Adrienne was fixing me with the kindest, most intense listening face.
“Last week, she had a similar thing happen to her. While we were on vacation together. And now I want to be strong for her, but…”
“Wow, Emily. Seeing her go through that must be pretty triggering.”
I bit my lip. With enough time and Kristen’s support, I’d sealed off the horrific Sebastian incident with a satisfying thump, like closing the lid of a coffin or a book’s heavy back cover. I’d gotten back to my life and doubled down on my friendship with Kristen. But to suddenly reconceive of that once-in-a-lifetime nightmare as not so one-time-only…now Sebastian was back in the corner of my vision, and the feel of his cool, dry skin was mingling in my mind with Paolo’s hairy flesh.
Paolo—they might be unearthing him this very minute.
“Did you report the attack?”
“We didn’t, no.” A beat. “Neither one.”
Adrienne nodded. “What’s often hard for survivors is that there’s no closure. The perpetrator gets off scot-free, and you’re left knowing he’s still out there.”
Alarm bells, red flashing lights: Sebastian wasn’t roaming the streets, unpunished—Paolo, neither. Could she tell I was holding back? Was she testing me? Why the hell are you here, Emily?
“What’s going on? I see the wheels turning.” Adrienne tapped her temple.
“I’m…really nervous, honestly,” I said. “I’m not even sure how therapy is supposed to work.” Lord, I was an idiot. I’d had some vague, half-baked idea that Adrienne could teach me to control my anxiety over being caught—some magical technique for containing the fear. And that sorcery would allow me to act normal around Aaron, to deserve his affection, to be likable—lovable. I’d smooth things over with Kristen, too, and from there on out it would be nothing but flowers and rainbows, a life as beautiful as a cruise-line commercial. But it was like Kristen had said: Therapy doesn’t work like that. Now I was dancing around the real issues, wasting Adrienne’s time and making myself look dodgy.
“Tell me about this friend—the one you want to show up for.”
I ran Adrienne through the basics.
“What’s interesting to me is that when people are experiencing trauma, they tend to go inward,” she said. “They’re not thinking selflessly because they’re just trying to survive. And yet you want to work on being a better friend to Kristen. Why do you think that is?”
Crap—she could see right through me. “Well, Kristen’s done so much for me. I feel like I should—I mean, I want to become less of a taker and more of a giver. I want to step up.”