54. Google Mirror

54

GOOGLE MIRROR

Asher

That lucky fucker goes back to sleep. Miles offered me the guest room, but I said no thanks. So while he sleeps some more, here I am, slumped on his couch, tapping my phone against my thigh, feeling the pull of it. A nagging sensation to do something, fix something.

“Goddammit,” I mutter into the silence of my friend’s home. I grip the phone harder, trying to resist the desire to search for what’s wrong with me as I look around his living room—a picture of him and his younger brother in their game-day uniforms, a shot of a platinum blonde grandma type wearing a feather boa outside High Kick Coffee, one of his sister—I think—behind the counter at a bar, and another of his parents with four small dogs.

My mind flashes to the picture of Ruby Roo Maeve sent moments ago. If we break up, and she moves back home, she’ll need to make the apartment more dog-friendly. In fact, really, it’d be good to make the place more human-friendly too. I sit up straight, feeling that spark of purpose. I can fix that for her. Make it better.

“You motherfucking genius,” I mutter, already visualizing her apartment—the creaky steps up to the fourth floor, the wobbly second-to-last step, the purple door, the couch with the bad spring, the sideways toilet, the short shower.

All of it. Fixable.

I might not be able to convince her to see someone about the wrist pain, but I can definitely do this. I start to google “best handyman in Hayes Valley,” but after I type out the word best, the first search suggestion is “best health news sites.”

My chest tightens. I stare at the screen, my brow pinching.

How to fix a short shower, I try next, but the first suggestion is “how to fix a sore neck.”

It’s like looking into a mirror, seeing all my fears reflected back.

Just to be sure, I type one more thing: “How likely is your wife/girlfriend to leave you after one fight,” but as soon as I type “how likely is,” the autosuggestions hit me.

How likely is carpal tunnel. How likely are you to develop an illness from paint fumes. How likely is exhaustion to harm your brain health.

Holy shit.

Google knows me better than I know myself. This is what I do. This is what I was doing last night when I sneaked into the restroom at dinner with Maeve and Vivian, searching for answers.

The truth hits me like a slap. This is not normal. This is…a problem.

I swallow, blow out a breath, and think back to Maeve’s comments. You could talk to someone. You could get help.

I thought knowing more would keep her—and everyone I care about—safe. But this? This is not fine. I didn’t even tell her I loved her last night because I was too focused on preventing the next disaster. Carpal tunnel, MS, ALS—anything. Everything.

I am not okay.

I think about the picnic, the conversation with Marcus about his work, the sheer and utter irony of the fact that I’m starting a charity for sports and support, and I’ve completely ignored not only my own mental health, but this one deep and terrible fear that I didn’t even admit I had.

I thought because I went to a grief support group when I was twenty-two I was on top of things. But I didn’t dig far enough into my own past. Because the truth I’ve been denying is that I’ve been feeling this way since I was fourteen when my father almost died.

Since the day I faced that absolute terror, I’ve tried to insulate myself from ever experiencing it again by thinking I could stop anything bad from ever happening again with more knowledge, like I stopped the worst case for him by knowing how to drive before I was supposed to. My knowledge saved him then, but all this information isn’t saving anyone now.

Least of all, me.

My eyes sting, my throat tightens, but I breathe through it.

I look down at my phone, my thumb hovering over the screen. For a second, I think about putting it away, convincing myself I don’t need help. I can fix this on my own, like I always do .

But the truth keeps staring me in the face—this isn’t something I can fix with a toolset or a few Google searches. It’s bigger than that.

I swallow hard as I swipe to my contacts. Marcus’s name blurs on the screen, and for a moment, I hesitate. Calling him feels like admitting that I can’t keep everything together.

But I can’t keep running from this. I drag in a breath, finally pressing the call button.

He doesn’t answer. But when his voicemail clicks on, I say the hard thing for the first time in my life.

I ask for help.

“Hey, it’s Asher Callahan. I would like to book a session to see you. For me. Ideally, this coming week. I need it.”

That night, I lean back against the headboard in my Seattle hotel room, alone, phone in hand, scrolling through my messages. A notification pops up—appointment confirmed with Marcus for Monday. A step in the right direction. I want to tell Maeve. I’m dying to tell Maeve.

But that feels like something you say in person.

Still, I can’t not contact her while I’m on the road. Even if my head’s a mess. Even if I’m trying to figure things out. Even if we’re stuck in this limbo.

I can still do something though.

I swipe to another screen, pulling up an online delivery service in San Francisco. A few clicks, and I’ve arranged for a package to be sent to Maeve tonight. Something small—but something she’ll love .

I pause, my fingers hovering over the phone. Am I trying to get her to love me?

No. I exhale slowly. I just like making her happy. And that’s okay too. Maybe it’s more than okay.

I press send and close my eyes. For now, that’s enough.