I haven’t cut in weeks. Not since the time I discussed with Dr. Greene. My reasons for not doing it vary each time the urge comes. Sometimes I’m worried Eric will turn and use it against me, other times I’m worried about the boys finding out somehow. And still, despite the endless amount of self-talk against my guilt, I sometimes feel like I’d be betraying Ryker. I’m fully aware that there needs to be a reason within me not to do it, a reason for me, but I haven’t gotten there yet. It’s like a crystal vase on the highest shelf you put off dusting for a year. It’s there. You’ll get to it. Just not now.
It drives me crazy to not cut. Sometimes I’ll be watching TV and find myself dragging my thumb nail across my wrist until it feels raw, or I’ll clench my fists so tight that little crescent-moons stay on my palm for an hour. I thought getting myself to stop cutting would be the hurdle; it turns out it’s getting myself not to want to.
“Dr. Greene thinks I should ask Ryker to come to a session of mine,” I blurt out.
Tosha spits some wine.
“Oh come on,” I tease, “watch the nice couch, would ya?”
“Sorry. What?”
“Yeah. She said she would have suggested it the last time I was a patient of hers, but Ryker was still on probation . . . then he disappeared. It was all just a little too fresh at that point.”
“Are you going to ask him?” She’s suddenly quite alert, sitting cross-legged and bright-eyed.
“I’m scared a little . . .”
“That means you have to, you know.”
I sigh. “I know.”
“So call him.” Tosha nudges my thigh with her foot.
“What? Like now? Are we thirteen?”
She stares, unamused. Rolling my eyes, I thumb through my phone, hover over his name, and finally tap “call.”
“Hello?” He’s smiling.
“Hey you.” I try to smile, but it’s feeling more like a tic.
I haven’t talked to Ryker since we had dinner at his dad’s house two weeks ago. Again, he hasn’t called me either. Although, he did text me the next day letting me know what a nice time he had.
“What’s going on?”
There’s nothing we can small talk about. I hate that. I just have to get right to the point.
“So, as you know, I’m seeing Dr. Greene again.”
His voice takes on a business-like tone, “I do.”
“Well . . .” Looking at Tosh, who gives me thumbs up, I’m grateful she made me call while she was here or I might never have had the guts to do it. “She suggested it might be a good idea if you come with me to one of my sessions. Evidently there are some things she thinks I should say to you in a therapeutic setting . . .” I try to sound sarcastic, but this isn’t particularly funny.
Well, this is quite a long pause.
Ryker clears his throat. “Can I think about it?”
My stomach drops. “Oh, of course.” For some reason tears prick at my eyes.
“It’s just—”
“No, Ryker, really, it’s fine. It’s a lot, I know.” Pinning my phone between my ear and shoulder, I start picking at my nails. “So, just in case, my next session is Wednesday at her Northampton office at two-thirty.”
“Okay.” His voice doesn’t even sound like him right now. It sounds distant.
Shit. It sounds like “gone” Ryker.
“Bye.” I quickly end the call and face Tosha. “That was mortifying.”
“What?” She shrugs. “Did he say he wouldn’t come?”
“No, he said he’d think about it.”
“Oh,” she scrunches up her nose, “ouch.”
“Yeah.”
About an hour later, as our talk about how Tosha’s summer is dying down, I decide to revamp the awkward vibes in the room.
“Tosh?”
“Yeah, Honey?”
“Why didn’t you ever like Eric?”
In a rare move, Tosha sets her wine glass down and crosses her arms in front of her.
“Well,” she starts with a sigh, “my reasons sort of evolved over the years.”
I smile a little. “I get that . . .”
“I mean, at first it was because he was so openly pretentious and just knew he was hot shit. And, I promise you, that has nothing to do with me being a lesbian. He simply irritated me. But, you two were fucking hot together, and he made you happy . . . you made sense, you know? He grew on me, don’t get me wrong, but I never saw a long-term spark. I figured once you started traveling for your doctoral research that you guys would kind of fade out.”
Swallowing the rest of my wine, along with the hopes of that research, I nod along.
“Anyway, when you got pregnant and he suddenly became a self-appointed spokesperson for “Focus on the Family” . . . ” she fakes a shiver, “I’m not saying I would have driven you to the abortion clinic without question or whatever, but, it was like you had no choice at all. He wouldn’t even hear it. Then the marriage,” she rolls her eyes and refills her wine glass, “how he made that big proposal production in front of your family at your birthday dinner? God, it was like he was forcing you to say yes.”