“I’ll pick you up in the morning around eight and we can go to the appointment together. Then we can go shopping for some new clothes,” my mother suggested, bulldozing over my thoughts and feelings as she always did.
“I’m not seeing a new therapist, Mom. You’ll just need to cancel that appointment,” I said firmly.
“Grace, I went to a lot of trouble—”
“I’ll try and get more time with Dr. Wainsbrook,” I conceded. I’d say just about anything to make her drop the subject.
“I’m not sure I like him. He doesn’t seem to take your problems very seriously,” Mom went on.
Sometimes I got the sense that she didn’t want me to get better. That my mother wanted me to be sick. That by fussing over me, it gave her life some sense of purpose.
My good mood had completely disintegrated.
My mother’s greatest talent was in knocking the wind from my sails. She could make it an Olympic sport.
“Well, you need to do something. I’m having a designer in this week to repaint your room and to replace your old furniture. I want you to come by to see it this week.”
“Mom—” I sighed.
“I’ll make a casserole. Something with a lot of calories,” she continued as though I hadn’t spoken.
“Okay. Fine. Whatever,” I muttered, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
The woman looking back at me had seemed so hopeful this morning. Now she just seemed…deflated.
“Since you won’t be going to the therapist, I’ll call you tomorrow to schedule a time for you to come by this week. Love you.”
“Love you, too,” I said quietly.
I hung up and shoved my phone into my pocket. I looked down at the wet spot on my pants that hadn’t really dried. Looking like I pissed myself was clearly the least of my problems.
I left the bathroom and headed back into the restaurant. Mitch was standing at the bar talking to Dina and he glanced my way as I walked by.
“It’s not too bad,” he commented, indicated my jeans.
I shrugged. “Whatever. It’ll dry,” I answered dully.
Mitch frowned, his eyes narrowing. “What’s wrong?”
I laughed. It was brittle and hard. “Not a damn thing.” Dina went to tend to some other customers, leaving us alone at the end of the bar.
“I know you, Gracie. And I can tell when something’s gotten to you. You can tell me,” he prodded.
There was something about his face that made it easy to confide in him. It had always been that way. And in that moment it was comforting to fall back on how things used to be. When I could tell him anything and I knew that he’d listen.
So against my better judgment I opened myself. Even with all the shit between us I wanted to confide in him the way I had once been able to. I needed my friend.
I needed Mitch.
And his girlfriend, his hurt feelings, or one night-stand didn’t matter.
“It’s my mother,” I said. “She has an amazing ability of making me feel like total shit.”
Mitch was more than aware of my rocky relationship with my parents. He knew about my ongoing feelings of failure and their unrealistic expectations.
He had been there when I had fallen apart after fights and cruel words.
He had seen, firsthand, the unhealthy dynamic that existed between my family and me.
“What did she say?” he asked, sitting down on a stool and inclining his head to the empty one beside him.
I hesitated only a moment before hopping up beside him, propping my chin with my hand. “I tried to tell her about my promotion. She only wanted to talk about how I needed to see a new therapist. One that clearly thinks I’m crazier than my current one does.”
Mitch’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “You’re not crazy, Gracie,” he said severely.
“Tell that to my mother,” I murmured, rubbing my temple.
I felt his hands on my elbow and I looked up at him. I ignited under the intensity of his gaze. “When I met you all those years ago you were the most confident person I had ever met. You were a little nutty, but it was the good kind of nutty.”