Page 33 of The Cowboy's Cabaret

Here’s a progress pic. Let me know what you think.

Princess

GODDAMN

is that me?!

ok picasso

Really, it’s so good. I can’t believe how nice you drew my ass in the lines.

Wesley

Easy to do, I’m just drawing my muse as she is.

She sends a blushing emoji and thanks me. I continue to draw for a bit longer before I call it for the night. It’s around 11 PM at this point and I’m definitely tired.

Princess

any chance you wanna talk?

I press the video call while perched against my pillows and Dahlia’s lovely face fills my screen.

“Hey, you alright?” Her red-rimmed eyes are giving her away.

“Just anxious, I guess. Sorry, I didn’t feel like being alone right now and Daphne is down at Purple Rage tonight.”

“No apology needed. I’m happy to talk to you, you never have to ask. Did something happen or the general Sunday scaries?” The sight of her tears is gutting me and it’s taking everything in me to not just drive the hour and a half to her place to be with her.

“Um, Sunday scaries, my stupid brain, texts from my dad. The usual.” She wipes her face and coughs a bit. “He’s the fucking worst. I hate Sundays, and I’m pretty sure if I worry any more, my brain is going to snap in half.”

“Do you wanna talk about it or do you wanna be distracted?” I ask because I know sometimes my therapist says that when I’m freaking out too. Speaking of, I still need to make an appointment, it’s been way too long.

“Maybe a distraction. I’m sorry, are you sure? I shouldn’t have called you.” I can see her starting to get more panicky, taking quicker breaths.

“Dahlia, I know it’s hard, but try to breathe. I’m here and you’re safe right? We’re on the phone, we’re good. I’m happy you called me. Focus on my voice.” She nods and takes some breaths, watching my face as she slowly calms down little by little. “You’re okay.”

“It feels like there’s too much happening right now, and there’s literally nothing happening. I’m home in bed, but I feel like I might as well be on the world’s worst roller-coaster. I feel even worse telling you all this, like I’m ruining your night.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re doing the opposite of ruining my night. If anything, tonight has improved significantly now I’m talking to you.” I wink and she laughs. Her sad eyes are killing me.

“Thank you, Wes. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Seriously. I feel like I was meant to bump into you at that concert.”

It feels meant to be, because it was. I don’t say it though, but I stay on the phone with her well into the wee hours and hope she can feel the devotion pouring out of me with every word. I’m falling fast and I don’t really care to stop it anymore—even if I’m falling alone, she’s it for me.

TWENTY-SIX

academic validation and sushi assholes

Dahlia

The first weekof August is here before I know it and I’m finally meeting with Professor Rosa about the grant. Daphne is locked in her room with music blasting, so I send her a text letting her know I’m heading out. She thumbs up my message, and I make a mental note to corner her later for a bestie sleepover. Wes is consuming my every thought, but I still want to be a good friend to Daph. I wish I could say I’ll stop being wrapped up in Wes, but it feels unlikely. I don’t even want to stop being wrapped up in him. He’s becoming an obsession I don’t really want to give up, which is terrible news for me.

Thankfully, school isn’t too far from the apartment, four stops and I’m walking up the stairs taking me out right down the street from Brooklyn U. I did my undergrad at the state community college and when a professor recommended me for a scholarship for grad school, I put my head down and hustled my ass off to earn the money. Thank fuck I did. I don’t think I couldafford to take out any more student loans and I really wanted to continue my education. School has been the one thing I was always good at.

From a young age, I was always a pleasure to have in class, which became synonymous with my self-worth. Any grade less than an A- and I was ready to give it all up. External validation is a fucking bitch because as is human nature, I’m not perfect, nor will I ever be. It’s a fun cycle—I hold myself to impossible standards and when I don’t meet them, it confirms what I already believe. I am worthless and stupid and many, many other mean things. The nagging voice in my head reminds me I could try to go to therapy myself, figure this out and feel better. I just wish I was different.

My class goes slowerthan I’d like, nervous for my meeting afterwards. Last week’s papers are passed back and the ninety-two circled in red makes me smile. Capable. I am capable, I am smart, I am kind. I mentally chant my mantra for self-compassion. That’s something healthy people do right? I go through my routine once more and try to find some peace before I head to my professor’s office. Popping my headphones on, I play one of my favorite pop songs, needing the confidence of a diva to bolster my own.