The snow has turned to rain, and for once, I’m not thrilled to see it. By Tuesday afternoon, when the snow has become piles of gray slush and the gutters are overflowing, I’ve watched a season and a half of America’s Next Top Model, which I thought would be comfortably nostalgic but has only shocked me with how problematic it was. Still, damn it if I don’t hold my breath for the photo reveal at the end of every episode, and it’s nice to feel something.
I’m about to hit play on a go-see episode when an alert pops up on my phone, letting me know I have an appointment with Joanna in two hours. Shit. When I saw it there at the beginning of the week, I almost laughed to myself, assuming I wouldn’t have much to talk to Joanna about. Nothing to discuss! Everything’s swell, I imagined saying, because a few days ago, when everything was different, I could see myself becoming the kind of person who used the word swell in casual conversation.
I want to go to therapy even less than I want to be on camera wearing a dress made from human hair like the models did in Cycle 14, but I drag myself out of bed. And only partially because it costs $120 for a same-day cancellation.
Once I get there, wearing sweatpants that say GOOD VIBES ONLY on the ass that Alex got me as a joke gift years ago and a scarf so long it doubles as a blanket, I’m less chatty than usual. Joanna has to pry the breakup out of me, though I guess the pants probably gave it away.
“Do you think,” she says between sips of tea, “that maybe you were looking for a reason to end it? And this realization about the way Torrance and Seth interfered in your relationship gave you an out? You could tell Russell that you were questioning whether he could handle you at your worst without a safety net, because they gave you a reason to do that?”
I burrow deeper into my scarf-blanket. Joanna is the only one who won’t judge me for being a mess. “Why would I sabotage myself that way?” I ask. We’re twenty minutes into our session, and I’ve only just begun speaking in complete sentences.
“You tell me.”
“He said I wasn’t acting like myself, like whoever I was in that moment wasn’t someone he found particularly appealing.”
“What do you think he meant when he said that?”
“That I’m a terrible, draining person to be around,” I say. “That there are limits to the time he wants to spend with me, and he’d rather I be the happy-go-lucky person I am on TV.”
“Even I know you don’t believe that,” she says, which makes me let out a low grumble because she’s not wrong. “You haven’t always been that person with him, have you? That happy-go-lucky person?”
“No. I guess not.”
“I think,” she continues, “that maybe he meant that both of you were surprised and stressed out. And that maybe you needed some time to decompress and sort through how you felt about Torrance and Seth having played a small role in the beginning of your relationship.”
“That’s what he kept saying. That he wanted to take a step back,” I say. “And it felt like what he was really saying was that he couldn’t deal with me, the way I was.”
“Hmmm.” Joanna draws out the syllable. “I wonder if that was his way of working out, in real time, how he felt about everything. He was telling you what he needed, which unfortunately happened to be the opposite of what you were telling him you needed.”
“Which means there’s no point in trying to make this work. We want different things. Opposite things.”
“I actually think that ultimately, you wanted the same thing: reassurance from the other person that you two were going to be okay. And, well . . .”
“Neither of us got that.”
“Right.”
I sit with that for a moment, distantly annoyed by how comfortable these GOOD VIBES ONLY pants are. “So are you saying it doesn’t make us incompatible, the fact that we wanted to approach that situation in different ways?”
“What it seems to me is that you were focused on trying to get a very specific reaction from him,” she says. “That was the easiest out, the quickest way to justify how you feel about relationships—and justify why you’ve hidden your depression and your history with your mother. This was the validation you’ve been looking for, even if you weren’t aware of it. And that made it okay to shut down this relationship, even after you were open with him.”
“Isn’t that what I got, though? That validation? He hasn’t exactly been blowing up my phone, letting me know I misunderstood him, that he was wrong and that I can be as grumpy and bitter as I want to be around him.”
“I can’t pretend to know what he’s thinking, but I imagine his reasons for not blowing up your phone might be pretty similar to the reasons you’re not blowing up his. He has a past, too, Ari. Do you think it’s possible he’s also feeling vulnerable, having shared everything he shared with you?”
“I . . . hadn’t considered that,” I say, which makes me feel like a self-centered piece of garbage. She’s not wrong. I was so focused on my depression in that moment that I had no space for any of what he was going through.
“So I think it’s up to you,” Joanna says. “Do you want that easy exit route? Or do you want to do the work, even when it’s hard?”
Here is what I’m certain about, the belief that has guided me most of my life: I don’t want to turn into the mother I grew up with.
The mother who can change, I remind myself.
“I’m not sure yet,” I say honestly.
Joanna’s question lingers in my mind the rest of the week.
31
FORECAST:
Clouds parting to reveal the earliest signs of an epiphany
“LET THE ARTIST focus on her vision,” Cassie says as she drags a paintbrush along my face. “You need to respect the process.”
My niece and nephew are constantly picking up random phrases slightly too sophisticated for five-year-olds—see: gentleman caller, although I’m trying not to think about a certain sports reporter—and it’s the cutest thing. When I showed up at the house and asked where his parents were, Orion calmly informed me, “Having an existential crisis,” and Javier hurried to the door, assuring me he was fine, that he was just anxious about hearing from the chef he was trying to poach.
Then the twins asked if they could “give Aunt Ari some tattoos,” and Alex and Javier agreed as long as I was game for it and they used washable paints.
Now Orion’s perched on the leafy green rug next to me in Cassie’s jungle-themed bedroom, focused on the lightning bolt he’s drawing on my arm. “Hold still, Aunt Ari.”
“I promise you, I’m trying.”
Alex appears in the doorway, leaning next to a wallpapered giraffe. “Things must really be bad, because Cassie is making you look like some kind of swamp creature.”
“It’s probably an improvement.”
“Oh, it is,” Cassie assures me, the brush tickling as it swipes across my nose.
Somehow, I made it to the weekend. A small blessing: my schedule hasn’t overlapped much with Russell’s. Torrance and Seth, on the other hand, seem to have given up any pretense of acting like they’re not madly in love. Yesterday morning, there was a jug of oat milk in the fridge with a heart-shaped sticky note on it, and I spotted them cozied up in Torrance’s office in the afternoon.