32. grey matter

32

GREY MATTER

Making hard choices in alignment with my highest, healthiest self sounds great in theory. In reality, it sucks. Leo Chastain asked me to be his booty call and I turned him down. Why the hell did I do that? Because of some inner-princess telling me I deserve more? The boring ritual of dinner and a movie before sex? Push and pull and ignoring calls and the usual, stupid games men and women play?

More importantly, what if it's not about me deserving something at all? What if my choice didn't stem from self-respect or some new, misguided sense of dignity but stemmed instead from patriarchal conditioning that tells me I can't trust my impulses? That I'm not allowed to follow my body's desires and have mind-blowing, no-strings-attached sex with my ex-doctor?

"Is that all it would be? Sex?" asks Dr. Wilson, one eyebrow arched.

Winded from my tirade, I sink back into the plush couch in her office. "I don't know how to answer that. I'm not in love with him—I get there was some Stockholmey-ness happening for a while, and that I don't really know him beyond what he shared in our sessions."

"But?"

I look out the window at the closest palm tree. "It's complicated. I have a lot of respect for him. I trust him, feel… safe, I guess, because he's seen the worst of me already."

Dr. Wilson makes a noise of consideration. "Finding acceptance is a powerful motivator in the search for relationships. Unfortunately, he implied that he doesn't want a relationship, likely because of the professional ramifications. Is that something you can live with, or would it make you feel like he was ashamed of you?"

I don't bother answering.

She doesn't know Leo's name or exactly when he treated me, but she's a smart cookie and has rightly gleaned his personality. She's also a nonjudgmental cookie, which is one of the main reasons I've stuck around.

"Have you ever had the hots for a patient, Doc?"

Like I knew she would, she deflects the question. "Therapy can create a strong, pseudo-intimacy between two people. When those people also have physical chemistry, that closeness can be mistaken for something else."

"Love?" I ask rhetorically.

She nods. "Obviously I don't know this man's inner thoughts and can only speak from my experience. But perhaps his conflict is not too dissimilar from yours. A battle between what he wants and what he thinks is expected of him. Consider his parting words on Halloween."

You did the same for me.

I shake my head. "He couldn't have meant I brought him back to life. Right? Maybe he misheard what I said."

The damn eyebrow goes up. "Why do you say that?"

"Because I have self-worth issues," I mutter robotically.

Dr. Wilson smiles softly. "I think it's time to disavow you of the notion that life is simply a series of good or bad choices, Amelia. It's much more than that."

"I know," I parrot.

"Do you?" She waits for me to look at her before continuing. "What if instead of focusing so much on what you should and shouldn't do or what is or isn't healthy, you try focusing on what makes you happy?"

We've had this conversation before. Hell, Leo said almost the same thing to me at one point.

"You still don't get it," I say tiredly. "I don't trust the things that make me happy. Except for surfing. And sushi. All the other shit landed me in a world of pain."

"You don't trust yourself yet ," she replies gently. "That's okay, Amelia. There's no finish line here. We have to wrap up, but I want you to think about something for me when you do your journaling tonight."

"What's that?"

"Perhaps all the skydiving, base-jumping, reckless driving, et cetera, wasn't so much a mission to feel close to your mother and brother, but a search for something else. An aftereffect, if you will. "

I stare blankly at her. "Not picking up what you're putting down, Doc."

"How did you feel when you landed on the ground after jumping out of a plane?"

"Invincible," I murmur.

Dr. Wilson smiles. "You never needed fear, Amelia. You just needed to feel safe."

When I get home, Ferdi isn't there to greet me. He loves prowling in the early evening, so I'm not surprised so much as pathetically lonely without him.

To stave off my therapy hangover and imminent consumption of an entire frozen pizza, I light a few candles and put on a Miles Davis record before wandering into my bedroom. I trade my casual, wraparound dress for ripped jeans and a navy sweater, then throw my hair into a messy topknot. For exactly 3.2 seconds, I also consider dealing with the pile of laundry on my closet's floor.

Yeah, no.

While the oven preheats, I take my phone to the couch and browse Facebook. Grateful people. Sad people. Angry people. Drooling babies. Cute dogs. Same old, same old.

Then I see a status update from my brother, which is equivalent to a UFO sighting.

Jameson Sloan

Today at 5:04 p.m .

Come support Ice Holes hockey tonight @ Ice Arena, 8:00 p.m. It's the playoffs and we need support!

The fact that he didn't text me to invite me means one of two things. Either he remembers my overt condemnation of grown men beating each other up with sticks and pucks, or Kevin is playing tonight.

My bones start itching. When I told Dr. Wilson about the sensation, she said it means my instincts are trying to talk to me. If that's the case, then right now they're screaming, "Stop procrastinating on making amends, asshole! Talk to Kevin after the game, then you never have to see him again!"

Fuck.

I haul myself off the couch and turn off the oven, then impulsively call my dad. He picks up on the second ring.

"Mia! Jessica and I were just talking about you. Are you going to Jameson's game tonight?"

I'm still not used to how happy he sounds when he hears from me now. But damn, it's nice.

"Uh, are you?" I hedge.

"Yep. We're leaving in a few minutes. Can we pick you up?"

In the background, I hear Jessica say, "Come with us!"

What do they call it when the universe conspires to make something happen? Oh, right.

Bad luck.