Beg For Me: Chapter 21

It’s Thursday afternoon. I haven’t spoken to Sophia since she left Sunday morning. I also haven’t slept much or been anything but useless at work. I’m slouched in a chair across from Dr. Singer, who I see every week at this time. Except this week, I’m not saying much.

I’m too busy crucifying myself.

“You’re quiet today.”

Dr. Singer’s voice pierces my potent little bubble of self-loathing. I look up at her, wearing a navy pantsuit, sitting with her legs crossed and a small yellow pad on her lap, her pen poised over it. Her gray hair is pulled into a low, tight bun. Behind her thick wire glasses, her hazel eyes are owlishly big.

Though they look nothing alike, she reminds me in many ways of my mother.

“I’m in mourning.”

“What’s happened?”

I exhale heavily and pick at a frayed thread on the leg of my jeans. “I murdered my only chance at happiness.”

When she doesn’t respond to that, I shrug. “I know. I’m catastrophizing again. But this time, it’s true.”

“What makes this time different?”

“Because I was about to get everything I ever wanted, and I royally fucked it up.” My laugh is low and bitter. “Like I always do.”

“I’m hearing a lot of definitives. Everything. Always. Those terms make it difficult to move forward. Thinking in inflexible terms can keep us stuck.”

“I don’t want to move forward,” I say stubbornly. “I want to turn back the fucking clock to Saturday night.”

She’s quiet for a moment. I know she’s observing me. Watching the way my knee bounces. The way I keep shifting around in the chair. The way I can’t stop picking at the thread on my jeans. The way misery rolls off me like blood rolls down the slit throat of a hanging pig’s carcass.

Fuck. Don’t go dark. Don’t go into the pit again.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?”

I become aware that I’m chewing my thumbnail and yank my finger out of my mouth. “Sophia.”

“The girl you’ve been obsessing over for the past year.”

One thing I really fucking hate about therapy is the way a psychiatrist can distill the entire teeming chaos of human emotion down to a single unflattering sentence, spoken in a tone of cool detachment that makes your interior landscape sound like the saddest, most pathetic thing ever in the history of our species.

And I’m paying for this.

“Yeah. Her.”

Pen poised, Dr. Singer waits in silence for me to continue. The woman has the patience of a saint. Or a serial murderer stalking their next victim.

“I started seeing her. We’ve been on a few dates.”

“How did that happen?”

“I ran into her at a coffee shop. Like I was hoping I would.”

“Like you planned to,” she corrects.

“Yes. Like I planned to. I told her about that, though.”

When the silence stretches too long, I glance up. Dr. Singer gazes at me with the same bland expression she always wears, except now, her left eyebrow has lifted a sixteenth of an inch.

I’ve astonished her.

“How did that come about?”

“She asked me to tell her the truth as a condition of us dating, so I did.”

Dr. Singer takes a moment to adjust her glasses and recross her legs as she digests that. “What was her reaction to that information?”

Remembering it, I smile. “She said if she found out I’d been filming her going to the toilet, she’d kill me.”

“She threatened you?”

“No, for fuck’s sake, she didn’t threaten me. She was totally cool. Way cooler than I deserve. She took a minute to think about it, then we talked. She was being funny when she said that thing about killing me.”

Dr. Singer’s expression is doubtful. “Threats of violence are never funny.”

“Look, you just had to be there, okay? Take my word on this. Sophia’s not the violent type.” I slant her a look. “And we both know I’d know if she were.”

She nods in agreement. “Go on.”

I gather my thoughts, then tell her the basics of the events of the past week, wrapping it up with the girls showing up Sunday morning and my argument with Sophia.

When I’m done, the silence is profound.

“Just say it. I’m a fuckup.”

“You’re not a fuckup.”

“Then what are you thinking?”

“That you’re leaving a lot of crucial information out of that story.”

Yes, I am, primarily how sexual Sophia and I have already been, because I know if I tell the good doctor that, she’ll have a shit fit.

What that looks like in reality is that her left eyebrow will go up another sixteenth of an inch. But I know she’d be having a meltdown on the inside. She’s just better at hiding it because that’s what shrinks are trained to do.

“If I am, it’s only to protect her privacy.”

“How chivalrous.”

“That sounded so judgy, you don’t even know.”

“I’m not here to judge you. I’m here to help you.”

“So help me already! Tell me what you think I should do. And please don’t give me that BS about letting me come to my own conclusions. I need help here, doc. Advise me.”

She sets her pen down on the pad, which is how I know a lecture is coming.

“Carter—”

“If anything other than actionable good advice comes out of your mouth, I’m leaving.”

My snotty tone doesn’t ruffle her feathers. “Please don’t be disrespectful of what we’re doing here. Threats have no place in therapy.”

We stare at each other until I give in and hang my head in shame. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted. Here’s how I’ll help you. Are you listening?”

I sit up in my chair and lean forward eagerly. “I’m all ears.”

“I want you to imagine for a moment that you don’t suffer from insecurity and are not plagued by feelings of worthlessness and self-doubt. I want you to imagine that you function well under stress, can easily cope with life’s demands, and know how to set healthy boundaries in your relationships. In a word, you’re well-adjusted.”

I chuckle. “You’re funny.”

“Assuming all those things were true, my question to you is this: what would that version of Carter had done differently during the argument with Sophia?”

I think about that long and hard. It’s difficult, as I don’t have a firm grasp on how a well-adjusted person thinks. Finally, I say, “Nothing?”

“That’s exactly right.”

“It is?”

“Yes.”

“Holy shit. I’m cured!”

Dr. Singer almost laughs, but catches herself in time. “My point is that you’re making progress, even if you can’t see it. Had this argument occurred with any of the other girls you’ve dated previously, you would’ve blown up or cut things off. Instead, you remained calm and set a boundary, even after she said things that hurt you. I’m very impressed.”

It takes me a minute to absorb all that. As I’m thinking, I say absently, “Woman.”

“Pardon?”

“She’s a woman, not a girl.”

“Is that an important distinction?”

“She’s forty-four, so to me, it’s just being accurate.”

Dr. Singer adjusts her glasses. “This woman is considerably older than you.”

“Yeah.”

“You never mentioned that before.”

That’s as close to a reprimand that I’ll ever get from my shrink, but I know one when I hear one. She thinks I’ve been withholding, and she’s right. I sigh and spill the beans.

“She also has a teenage daughter. And a prick of an ex-husband who doesn’t pay her alimony. And she holds the same position as me at our company’s biggest competitor, which will probably be a huge problem all around when my family and her boss find out.”

“I see.”

“You’re being judgy again.”

“No. I’m only wondering if perhaps you’ve subconsciously set yourself up for failure to reinforce your firmly-held belief that you’re not worthy of love.”

“Gee, doc. Go straight for the jugular, why don’t you?”

“Let me guess. She’s a tall, attractive brunette.”

We stare at each other as the clock ticks on the wall and my throat starts to constrict.

“Sexy, but also maternal. Powerful, but also sweet.”

Through clenched teeth, I say, “You’ve made your point.”

“She excels in a man’s world, but has paid dearly for it. She doesn’t trust men, and for good reason.” Her voice softens. “And she makes you feel safe.”

My chest hurts. It’s getting hard to breathe. “Okay, doc. That’s enough.”

“We can never run from our pasts, Carter. The only way to heal our wounds are to face them.”

“I’m not ten fucking years old anymore.”

“Not physically. But emotionally, you’re still that terrified little boy crouched alone in the dark with the kidnappers his father refused to pay the ransom to.”

My face crumples at exactly the same time the water wells in my eyes. I jolt to my feet and go to the window, turning my back on Dr. Singer and her viciously accurate diagnosis.

Outside, the sun is shining. A lark warbles in a palm tree. It’s a beautiful day.

Outside.

Inside this office where I’ve spent the better part of the last decade trying to unfuck my brain, it’s as black as black can be.

My voice comes out sounding like I’ve been screaming for hours. “I’ll never be okay, will I?”

“That depends on what you mean by okay.”

I sigh and close my eyes. “You know what I mean.”

After a moment, I hear Dr. Singer exhale. Her chair squeaks, then she’s standing next to me at the window, gazing out by my side.

Speaking quietly, she says, “You have courage, Carter, which most people don’t. You’re resilient, a quality many people lack too. And you’re kind, which is even rarer. So yes, I think you’ll be okay. I think you’re okay right now, if I’m being honest. There are so many wounded people walking around out there, deeply wounded people, who will never take the time or have the opportunity to seek help for themselves.”

She turns to look at me. “Believe it or not, kiddo, you’re ahead of the game.”

I swallow and dash the moisture from the corners of my eyes. “What a fucked-up game.”

She smiles. “Yes, life can be horrific. It can also be quite a lot of fun. Sometimes in the same day. It’s all just part of God’s plan. We’re not meant to take any of it too seriously.”

Intrigued, I look at her more closely. “You believe in God?”

As usual, she gives me a very shrink-like nonanswer. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re peddling hope, doc. So even if you didn’t believe in God, you’d never tell me.”

She pats my arm and smiles wider. “You’re a very smart person.”

“Yeah, but am I your favorite client?”

“You know I can’t tell you that either.”

“So the answer’s yes.”

Still smiling, she shakes her head. Then she does something she’s never done before.

She hugs me.

“It’s all going to be okay, Carter. In the end, it will all be okay. And if it’s not okay, it’s not the end.”

“Jesus. You sound like a fucking Hallmark card.”

She releases me and wags a finger in my face. “And you sound like a sailor. What’s with all the F bombs today? No, don’t answer that. I already know.”

She turns toward her desk as my phone pings with an incoming text. I dig the cell out of my pocket and look at the screen.

I’m so sorry, Carter. You were right. I was an asshole. Everything is entirely my fault. Please forgive me for being so stupid. I haven’t stopped thinking about you for a second since I left. Can we please talk?

My legs go weak. My heart starts pounding. All the breath whooshes out of my lungs like somebody kicked me in the solar plexus with a steel-toe boot.

I fumble with the letters on the screen because my thumbs aren’t working right.

Yes. When?

Can you come over tonight?

I close my eyes and inhale slowly, taking air back into my constricted lungs, feeling life flood back into my body.

Maybe there is a God after all.

But if there isn’t, I don’t really care. As long as there’s Sophia, I have everything I need.

Headed to the door, I say, “Gotta bounce, doc. See you next week.”

“But your time’s not up yet.”

I don’t hear what else she says because I’m already out the door.