Page 33 of The Law of Attraction
“Everyone feels that though, to some extent. I know I do.”
“But what I’m saying is I feel it more than is normal. And it’s not just something I can decide to get over, because it’s neurological and genetic. The messages my brain is sending me are worse than the messages your brain sends you.”
She could tell from his expression that he still didn’t really get it, so she tried an analogy her therapist had used. “It’s like—let’s say we both want to ask someone out on a date. That’s pretty scary no matter who you are, right?”
He humored her with a nod, even though she doubted he’d ever in his life been scared to ask anyone on a date.
“So for the purposes of this metaphor,” she explained, “in order to work up the courage to do it, you have to walk across the room, fill up a bucket, and carry it back to where you were.”
“What are we filling the bucket with?”
“It doesn’t matter. Anything. It’s just how we fill our imaginary courage reserves. It’s like a fuel tank.”
“Okay.”
“And filling your courage tank takes a certain amount of energy, but it’s manageable, so you go ahead and do it, so you can overcome your fear and ask the girl out—or maybe for you it’s a dude. I don’t know. Whatever.” She felt the need to tack that last part on, because she didn’t want to seem like she was making assumptions about his sexuality. It was only a little because she was fishing for information about him.
“It’d be a girl,” he offered matter-of-factly.
“Okay, fine,” she said, like she couldn’t care less. “Anyway. If I want to do the same thing, because of my ADHD and Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria, instead of just walking across the room to fill up my bucket like you did, I’ve got to walk two miles down the road. It’s still possible, but it’s a lot farther, and uses a lot more energy, and when I get back, I’m going to be a lot more tired than you were. So maybe I still do it, if I can convince myself the thing is important enough—or maybe I decide it’s too much trouble and it’s not worth all that walking and making myself so tired. Does that make sense?”
His forehead furrowed as if he were working on a really difficult calculus problem. “Yeah. I never really thought about it that way before, but I think I get it.”
“It’s not that it’s impossible, it’s just a lot harder. And because it’s so hard, you become hypervigilant about avoiding situations that could result in rejection. It can seem like social phobia, because it’s this paralyzing terror you’re going to humiliate yourself. You try to cope by being so perfect you’re above criticism—which is impossible, of course—or else you just give up and don’t ever take risks.”
Adam was quiet for a moment, digesting everything she’d said. “So when you asked me for that reference, that was really hard for you, because you have this extreme fear of being rejected…which was exactly what happened.”
She looked down at the abandoned knitting in her lap. “Pretty much, yeah.”
“Jesus, Olivia. I had no idea.” He sounded pained.
She swallowed, unable to look at him. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad.” Her fingers plucked at a corner of Penny’s shawl as she spoke. “You couldn’t have known, and you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just trying to explain why I didn’t want to talk about it anymore, and why I get so tense whenever you start in on me with your constructive criticisms.”
“I’m sorry. I get it now, and I’ll try to be more sensitive.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
They both fell silent. For a minute, the only sounds inside the car were road noise and the incongruously upbeat No Doubt song on the radio.
“So did you like totally hate my guts after that?” Adam asked. “You must have.”
Olivia looked at him. Even in profile, she could see the worry etched in his features. He actually cared what she thought of him. “Hate’s a strong word. Let’s just say you weren’t exactly my favorite person.”
“And now?” His eyes darted sideways, but he didn’t let himself look all the way at her.
“You’re slowly making your way back up the chart.”
The corner of his mouth tugged into a smile. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Top 100, even. With a bullet.”
Chapter Eight
They lost the classic rock station a half hour later, and Olivia found another one playing eighties pop hits. There wasn’t much to look at on this particular stretch of Highway 77. A lot of pastures. Some cows. The occasional gas station. And a spectacular Texas sunset splashed across the sky to their right.
She watched the colors change through the passenger window, knitting until her hands began to ache again, and gave up when she finally lost the light.
“Beaver Nuggets!” she exclaimed in happy surprise when she leaned over to put her knitting away. She’d forgotten she had them.
