Page 50 of Holding Out for a Gyro
“Does he know that?”
I huffed a laugh. “Oh, thanks to the list, he’s perfectly aware.”
She ran her finger over the screen, scrolling back. “Because you told him you didn’t want a boyfriend when you first met him?”
“Exactly.”
“And since then?”
“Well…” I thought about the past couple of weeks, how Bas had slowly eroded my defenses until I’d invited him inside my house. Twice. “You’d understand if you could see how easygoing he is. Even his best friend chides him for his lack of follow-through. I’m pretty sure he’s along for the ride.”
“He might be, but keep those lines of communication open.”
I thought about the conversation I’d had with Bas at breakfast after he’d slept over. “He’s told me he wants to get to know me better. We’re just keeping each other company.”
She set the tablet aside and brought prayer hands to her mouth. I braced for the horrible truths I was paying her for. Her hands dropped to her lap, and she said, “The thing is, Chelsea…you’ve starved yourself from affection for a long time, and now that you’re opening up to it, I want you to be prepared for the emotions. Love is a hell of a drug.”
“Oh, I’m not in—”
She lifted a finger. “Let’s call it affection, then. Fondness if you like. You’ve admitted at least that much. Or am I misreading?”
I shook my head.
“You’ve let someone in, and that’s a positive step. It’s healthyfor you to learn how worthy you are of love. You’re building new neural pathways and habits that can strengthen what you’ve started or serve you down the road.”
Her words hung there with a very ponderous unspokenbut, and I sucked on my lower lip, knowing she wouldn’t let me go without something to think about.
“But even the most easygoing people discover the complexities of romantic relationships can be a big deal.”
“That’s it?”
She let free a rare laugh. “What do you mean, that’s it?”
I shrugged. “I dunno. I thought you’d tell me not to hurt him. Or tell me not to get hurt.”
“Well, that’s why I encouraged communication so you can both manage expectations. I doubt you’ve set out to hurt each other, but it’s not always in your control even if you do everything right. But you know that better than most people.”
I did. When I started seeing Dr. Rubin, I believed heartache was the only outcome to taking risks with my emotions. My only experience of love was its horrible aftermath: the insults, the door slamming, the ever-present threat of violence or abandonment.
The first time my dad made good on his promise to leave us, I was twelve. I’d come home from school with a D on my report card. I hadn’t been paying attention in class or turning in any assignments. Some of my teachers took me aside and made me do work in class to pull my grade to a B. But my math teacher believed that kids should learn from the school of hard knocks. I didn’t really care, though. Not until I had to present my grades for a parent signature.
I handed the report card to Mom, and she sent me to my room to await my punishment. She told my dad when he came home from work, and he overreacted. He made me stand in front of him while he yelled into my face, “What makes you think this isacceptable?”
I had no answer. So he asked it again, louder, then crumpled up the paper and threw it against the wall.
My mom said, “Wayne, maybe we can talk to the teacher.”
He ranted about how it was her fault I was such a moron, how when he was in school, he managed to get his work done without anyone telling him to do it. I slunk to my room. Only a fool stuck around when the anger was out of the bottle.
My mom stayed, stupidly pouring water on a grease fire, failing to calm him, failing to comprehend that our very presence was the fuel that powered his hatred.
Voices rose. Things broke. The argument devolved into darker things I didn’t understand.
The next day, he was gone, and there was a gaping hole in a wall that hadn’t been there before.
My mom covered it with a picture that wasn’t hiding another hole somewhere else. Then she fell apart. Over the next week, she called friends, looking for him, leaving messages on his phone, begging him to come home.
And she blamed me for his leaving.
