Group Therapy, page 13
Lou laughs, graciously allowing me to change the subject.
“Well … on Sunday, our discussion about your childhood got me thinking... …”
I cross my arms.
This should be delightful.
“I work with some of the most successful people in this city,” Lou says, tapping her pencil on her clipboard. It seems absentminded, and I can’t help but smile at the fact that she’s allowing herself to do it. “And they all have one thing in common. No matter how mature or confident or glamorous they seem, when I peel back the layers, they are exactly who they were when they were eight years old. Or twelve. Or fifteen. On the inside, we’re all just wounded children, pretending to be grown-ups.”
I don’t like where this is going.
“I want you to take out your phone and find a picture of someone who looks the way you see yourself on the inside.”
“My inner child?” I scoff. “You’re serious?”
Lou nods.
I lean back in my chair and point my chin at her. “You go first.”
Lou smiles. “We’ll go at the same time, okay?”
I sigh in defeat and pull out my mobile.
Lou retrieves hers from somewhere between her armrest and seat cushion. “Ready?”
I nod rather unhappily.
“Aaaaand … go.”
A simple Google search pulls up the exact image I have in mind. Lou must have known what she was going for as well because our eyes lock again within five seconds flat.
“All right.” I extend my hand and flick my fingers at her. “Let’s see it.”
She hands it over, and there on the screen is a GIF of Jonah Hill from the film 21 Jump Street. He’s dressed like some kind of goth teenager, brushing a curtain of black hair out of his eyeliner-rimmed eyes as he walks down the hallway of his high school.
I can’t help but laugh.
“What?” Lou shrugs. “That’s actual footage of me in tenth grade.”
I hand her mobile back with a smirk. “I would have killed for your five o’clock shadow.”
Lou rolls her eyes. “Okay, your turn.”
With a huff, I place the glowing device in Lou’s outstretched hand. The moment she sees the image on the screen, a very unladylike snort bursts out of her, followed by a series of unrestrained giggles.
I snatch the mobile back and pocket it immediately.
“Harry Potter?” Lou says, pressing her lips together to keep from laughing again.
“That was me,” I admit with a frown, “right down to the bowl cut and glasses. Always got good marks in school, never got in trouble, and was completely invisible to everyone, except the other brainy boys with bowl cuts.”
Lou gazes at me with pure, unbridled joy on her face. I have no idea why she’s so delighted, but it does make her reaction to seeing my inner child sting a little less.
“What?” I ask, cutting her a sideways glance.
Lou points at my pocket with her pencil. “That’s Sorcerer’s Stone Harry Potter. That Harry had no confidence, no friends, no idea that he was destined to be the most powerful wizard in the entire world.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I believe you mean, Philosopher’s Stone.”
Lou doesn’t appreciate my literary humor.
“You know what I mean. You’re a New York Times best-selling author now. You just got a million-dollar advance for a book you haven’t even written yet. And I saw you catch a thirty-pound jar of pickles like a freaking ninja. You are not eleven-year-old Harry anymore.”
“Okay.” I shrug. “Then, which Harry am I?”
Lou’s smile spreads into a maniacal grin. “You’re Deathly Hallows Harry now, bitch!”
I’m a bit taken aback by my therapist calling me a bitch, but I did ask her to be real, and there’s nothing more real than Lou in this moment, barefoot and grinning like a loon as her fingers tap away at her mobile.
“Look!” She turns the screen toward me to reveal an image of a much older, more competent Harry.
His face is streaked with soot, his lip is cut, and he’s shielding his friends with his body while shooting a bold red laser out of his trusty magic wand.
“This Harry was straight murdering Voldemort one Horcrux at a time and making out with Ginny Weasley, like, every chance he got.”
A pang of guilt cuts through me at the term making out, but luckily, Lou doesn’t seem fazed by it at all.
“This is your new inner child,” she says, shoving the device even closer to my face.
I take it out of her hand and hold it while she speaks. She’s so much more animated than I’ve ever seen her. Gesturing with her arms and emoting with her entire face. I thought giving her permission to be “real” would make this easier on me, but seeing her like this only makes me want her more.
I flip her mobile over, wanting to see what kind of case she chose, wanting to know everything about her. The case is simple and black, obviously not sturdy enough to keep the screen from shattering, as evidenced by the spiderweb-like cracks in the upper-left corner of her screen.
“I want you to find this picture and put it everywhere,” she continues. “Make it your lock screen, your screen saver, your—”
Before she can finish that thought and certainly before I can think better of it, I copy the image, navigate to her home screen, open her messaging app, and text the photo to myself.
When the mobile in my pocket vibrates, Lou stops talking, and her eyes go wide.
“Now I don’t have to Google it,” I say, handing her cracked iPhone back with a shrug.
Real smooth, arsehole.
Lou’s mouth falls open as she accepts the still-glowing device.
I gesture to the clock, barely visible beneath the shattered glass. “Looks like our time is up.”
It’s not. We have five minutes left. But after what I just did, leaving with my dignity intact is getting harder and harder to do by the second.
Lou
Did he just …
I glance down at the phone in my hand and see my messaging app open with a text to a very unknown, very international phone number still glowing on my screen.
Thomas stands abruptly and strides over to the door, pretending like he didn’t just commit yet another cardinal client-therapist sin, and I follow like a dog on a leash, clutching my phone with both hands.
“See you Sunday,” he says from the doorway.
There’s a promise in his voice, a challenge in his eyes, and I don’t like it. I can’t have another Sunday like the last one. My heart won’t survive it. My job won’t survive it. And my panties definitely won’t survive it. I’m supposed to be in charge here. I’m supposed to enforce the rules, but all I can do is nod mechanically as Thomas disappears from view, taking one more of my broken boundaries with him as a souvenir.
I stand in the doorway and watch him go while I wait for my brain and my heart to finish duking it out. I don’t know how to feel or what to think or whether I’m elated or mad or guilt-ridden or simply riddled with anxiety.
But then something buzzes in my hand, and when I look down, any question I had about how I feel is immediately answered. Adrenaline and dopamine and oxytocin flood my bloodstream as I look at the new text that just came in.
I have a teenage boy on my lock screen. This feels wrong.
A smile splits my face in two as another text pops up with a screenshot as proof. I lean against the open door and text back.
If it makes you feel any better, Daniel Radcliffe was 20 when he filmed that movie.
I barely finish pressing the Send arrow when my phone vibrates again.
It doesn’t.
Stifling a giggle, I fire back.
Stop texting your therapist. You shouldn’t even have this number.
My smile fades with every passing second that a response doesn’t come. Dropping my phone to my side, I let my head fall back against the door with a sigh.
“Any progress with the author?”
“Ahh!” I shriek, clutching my phone to my chest as I look into the beady little eyes of Dr. Ito-Cohen, who’s standing just a few feet away.
“Sorry,” I pant, trying to catch my breath. “Yes, actually. He’s writing again.” I stand up a little straighter. “I think I finally got his number.”
I cringe at my own Freudian slip, but E.I.C. doesn’t seem to notice.
“I hope so,” she snaps. “His editor’s been breathing down my neck.” Her eyes drift off to the side as she mutters under her breath, “Boyfriend-stealing bitch.”
My eyebrows shoot up.
Refocusing on my stunned face, she barks, “I already started writing your letter of recommendation. And by started, I mean, I told April to do it. As soon as Thomas submits that manuscript, it’s yours.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I nod, hiding my phone behind my body with a tense smile.
Then, I shriek again when E.I.C. reaches out and yanks on my feather extension. Hard.
“Ow!”
Her pencil-thin eyebrows pull together. “Oh … sorry. Thought you had a …” She gestures at the side of my head in disgust before turning and walking away.
Lou
WALKING BAREFOOT THROUGH THE Indigo Hills orchard while wearing a flowing tie-dye broom skirt and holding a basket of apples on her hip, my mother is the epitome of hippie-commune coolness. Wrinkles kiss the corners of her eyes and mouth, and her dreadlocks are a little grayer than they used to be, but she’s still an ethereal beauty. It makes me so mad. She looks like the kind of mom who would braid your hair while you talked about boys and give you a hit off her bong when you were stressed about work, and she would, but … then she’d tell you that the answer to all your problems was to bury a piece of rose quartz under a maple tree during the first full moon in Aquarius or some shit like that.
I just … wish she could actually help me with something for once.
With a soft smile, Crystal reaches out and runs a finger down the length of my nose. “I’m so happy you came, Lou Bear.”
“Why wouldn’t I come?” I ask, dropping an apple into the basket on my own hip. “It’s free food.”
My mother’s smile morphs into a frown. “Sweetie, your energy feels like microwaved Styrofoam right now.”
“Well, your energy feels like a stoned Care Bear, so …”
“Thank you.” She smiles. “Now, tell me what’s on your heart.”
I sigh. “Mom, I love you, but I can’t talk to you about this stuff.”
I walk over to the next tree in the row and pluck an obviously bruised apple off the nearest branch, just to have something to do with my hands.
“What stuff?” Crystal asks, joining me.
“You know, real-world stuff.”
“Excuse me, but I have more years of ‘real-world’ experience than you do, young lady.” Crystal tries to sound sassy, but her half-smile betrays her.
“Well, it’s a work problem, so …” I snatch another organic hunk of fruit off another low-hanging branch and feel my thumb sink into a mushy spot. I drop it into my basket anyway.
“I see.” Crystal furrows her brow as she gazes at her upside-down reflection in the perfectly non-rotten apple she just picked. “Have you stopped to ask yourself why you’re having this problem?”
I roll my eyes. “Uh … because my boss hates me? Or God. Or both.”
“Honey”—I can already hear the patronizing sweetness in her voice—“the goddess doesn’t hate you. She’s doing all of this for you. Stress is her way of telling you that you’re on the wrong path.”
“How am I on the wrong path?” I snap, turning to face her. “I’m trying to help people.”
“You’re not using your gift.”
Ugh. That look. That’s her I’m so much more enlightened than you look. Like she wants to pat me on the head and laugh at my non-transcendental energy field.
“What gift? Art?” I spread my arms, gesturing at the expanse of woods and spray-painted recreational vehicles a few hundred feet away. “So I can live in an RV on a mountain, eating apples and squirrel meat for the rest of my life? No, thanks, Mom.”
“That’s nonsense,” Crystal corrects me, using an authoritative tone that I haven’t heard in years. “You know we’re vegan.” She chuckles to herself as she saunters over to the next tree, shaking her head. “Squirrel meat.”
I drop the rotten apple into her basket when she’s not looking.
Lou
WHILE I SIT IN the Creativity Corner and wait for Thomas to arrive, I use the time—and all of my nervous energy—to build a two-story card house out of beer coasters. It only falls down, like, three times.
How’s that for using my gift, Mom?
As easy as it is for me to dismiss her advice due to her being off the grid and completely out of touch with modern civilization, I can’t stop thinking about what she said yesterday.
I mean, I know she was wrong. Obviously. If everyone were to quit their stressful jobs, there would be no teachers, no emergency room doctors, no celebrity wedding planners. The goddess didn’t drop Thomas O’Reardon into my life to destroy everything I’d worked for just because she’d rather see me become a penniless artist, selling zombie caricatures for five bucks a pop at the Indigo Hills farmers market every Sunday.
Right?
A shadow falls over my cardboard condominium. I look up to find Thomas standing at the end of the table, more dressed down than I’ve ever seen him. He’s wearing a black T-shirt and an old pair of threadbare jeans—both of which fit him like a second skin. No belt. No watch. No jacket.
“Uh … hey,” I greet him, trying not to act too confused by his appearance. “Have a seat.” I gesture toward the booth across from me, but Thomas ignores my invitation.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about our last session.” He nods a little too fast. “About how I need to internalize a manlier, more confident version of my inner child.”
“I didn’t say manlier but … okay.”
“So, I’ve decided that this week, I’m joining that group.” He points over his shoulder to the Employees Only door. “The fight club.”
“Thomas—”
He slaps his hands down on the table with a manic grin. “Wish me luck!” Then, he turns on his heel and takes off toward the storage room.
Fuck.
“Wait!”
I hustle after him, feeling everyone’s eyes on us as I call out, “Thomas! Stop! It is not a fight club. It’s an Anger Management group. They’re probably in there, listening to Enya—”
Thomas pushes open the door, and inside the tiny space, Mark and all four of my angriest clients are barefoot and shirtless, bouncing on their toes and cracking their knuckles. Celeste and Penelope still have on their bras—thank God. Mark is wearing a red bandanna around his head as he paces back and forth in front of them in a pair of cutoff jean shorts. He’s holding seven fingers up as he recites some kind of a list.
“… no belts, shoes, or jewelry! Rule number eight”—he raises another finger—“if this is your first time at Anger Management, you have to fight!”
Thomas turns to me with a very I told you so smirk on his face.
“Mark!” I shout. “I need to speak to you. Now.”
I pull my deranged roommate out the door and into an alcove by the bar.
“What the hell are you doing?” I whisper-shout. “Have you lost your mind?”
Mark’s brown eyes are wide and glassy as he bounces from foot to foot. “That fight last week really opened my eyes, Lou. This is what people need. A true release!”
“Are you high right now?” My head bobs from side to side as I try to maintain eye contact.
“I been tryin’ to help people dance the rage away, stretch the rage away, fuckin’ vision-board the rage away, but this is what I should have been doin’ the whole time! Helpin’ people purge that anger the way God intended, Lou—through the long-lost art of hand-to-hand combat!”
“Okay, Tyler Durden, put your shirt back on. I’m shutting this shit down.” I grab him by his furry forearm, but before we make it two steps toward the storage room door, it swings open, and a tall brunette Englishman comes flying out.
Thomas lands on his ass and slides backward about six feet into the side of a booth.
“Oh my God! Thomas!” I shriek, but before I can run over to him, the door swings open again, and Angry Bill comes charging through, headed straight toward him with smoke practically billowing out of his nostrils.
“Oh no. No, no, no …”
Mark grabs my arm to hold me back just as Thomas rolls to the side and sweeps Bill’s legs out from under him. Bill goes down hard, and the two men start wrestling on the dirty-ass floor.
“Let ’em work it out,” Mark says, a look of sheer delight on his Rambo-looking face.
“Are you fucking crazy?” I twist my wrist out of his grip and run over to the fight, but I have no idea how to separate two full-grown men who are twisted in a thrashing, grunting testosterone pretzel.
The other groups form a crowd around them.
“Fight! Fight! Fight!” the other shirtless Anger Management group members chant.
“Stop! Stop! Stop!” I chant louder.
“Let allllll that toxic energy out,” Mark yells over my shoulder.
“No! Do not let it out!” I yell louder.
Thomas bites Bill’s arm, and he screams out in pain.
Oh my fucking God. I want to cover my eyes.
“Thomas!” Mark shouts. “Rule number six! Come on, man!”
Perspectively Challenged Penelope leans over to him, her double-Ds spilling out of what looks like a C-cup bra, and in a rare showing of, well, perspective, she says, “I don’t think he was here when you told us rule number six.”
“Oh shit. You’re right.” Mark turns back toward Thomas. “Sorry, hon!”
I run over to the breaker box next to the bar and flip the lights on and off like a first-grade teacher trying to regain control of a rowdy classroom.
Nobody even notices.
“You should stay back here, so you don’t get any DNA on ya.” Dee chuckles from her vantage point behind the bar. She twists the cap off a beer bottle and points the neck toward the fight. “This shit’s about to turn into a crime scene.”
