It started with little things, like he thought my college friend Kelly had an annoying laugh. He worked slowly from there, sowing the seeds of criticism. Her laugh was annoying…then it was her jokes that were annoying…then she was annoying. Then the requests started that we not hang out with her anymore. After a while, I stopped taking her calls, never noticing that it wasn’t my idea.
Yeah, that was a whopper to unpack in therapy.
I resent myself so much that I fell for it. How could I not see what he was doing? How did I not see the way I was changing? But I guess, over time, it’s like all these little pieces of yourself get chipped away. Like a piece of glass, tumbling along the bottom of the sea floor, you change. You get harder, you close yourself off. What once shined with brilliance becomes dull.
And then it’s ten years later and you suddenly realize you don’t laugh anymore. You stopped telling jokes because he never liked that you were funnier than him. And you wanted him to feel good, feel like the man. Funniest one in the room. But the joke’s on you both, because he’s not funny, so neither of you laugh.
And god, but I really love to laugh.
There’s definitely nothing funny about the man you once loved harassing you and calling you a whore for daring to move on.
Tears sting my eyes, and I want to scream. Damn it, I am not going to cry over Troy while dressed as a sexy devil at Shelby’s birthday party. I step away from the circle of people I’m chatting with, making some muttered excuse. I find my way outside, looking for a quiet place to collect my thoughts. Following along the back wall of the house, I keep walking until I see a door. Trying the handle, I pull it open to reveal a dark, three-car garage.
I hold back the sob that wants so desperately to break free, ducking inside. I shut the door, leaning against it. “Fuck,” I cry, pounding the door with my fist. A tear slips down my cheek just as the door to the house swings open. I gasp, wiping the tear away as the lights flick on.
Shelby comes walking in wearing her adorable Evy O’Connell costume from The Mummy, complete with little round librarian glasses. Somewhere Josh is running around dressed as her dashing Rick.
“Oh, Tess,” she cries, one hand fluttering to her heart. “You scared the bejesus out of me!”
“I’m sorry,” I reply, forcing a smile as I blink back my tears.
She shuts the door, immediately muffling the music coming from inside the house, and glances around the garage. “Are you out here all alone?”
“Yeah,” I reply. “I was just uhh…getting more ice.” I gesture to the fridge in the corner. “Are there any ice bags in there?”
“No,” she says slowly. “All the ice is already outside.”
“Oh. Well, then I’ll go out there,” I say lamely, reaching for the door handle.
“Or—maybe you could help me,” she calls as I turn away.
I glance back over my shoulder.
“I came out here to get more soda.” She points to a stack of boxes on the floor. “Want to help me get them out to the coolers?”
“Sure.” I cross the garage over to her. “I like your Evy costume by the way. I love The Mummy.”
She beams at me. “Thank you. What’s not to love, right?”
I flash her a weak smile.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” I reply, ducking down to grab a case of Coca-Cola.
“Do you need to talk about it?” she clarifies.
I go still, holding tight to the box. “Probably,” I admit. “At this point, I’ve kept my shrink gainfully employed for years talking about all my bullshit. Single mom who never loved me, flighty family, abandonment issues, toxic ex, blah, blah. It’s pretty boring stuff.”
“I don’t think it’s boring,” she replies. “And you don’t need to deflect all the time, you know. You can let people know what’s troubling you. It doesn’t make you weak to admit it. And it doesn’t open a door to them weaponizing that knowledge against you. Some people are good, Tess. Some people genuinely want to help. You don’t have to keep running.”
“Whoa,” I say with a huff. “What made you say all that?”
“Because I’m a shrink too. Well, I’m a child psychologist,” she clarifies. “I work mainly with kids in the foster system. A lot of those kids are runners too. I see the signs in you.”
“Well…great.” I hoist the case of soda under my arm. “Glad to know I’m so transparent. You know, the great cosmic joke is that I fucking hate running.”