Page 142 of True Blue

Europe.

New Jersey.

Indie.

And yet, I had the image of my mother cleaning those knives in the kitchen, making vague threats about harming herself in my head.

I snapped. The easiest target was right in front of me, and I hit her directly with the worst thing I could say.

Indie was my family. That’s what we were creating together. That’s what Nana wanted.

But I chose my mother at that moment, and I regret it every single day of my life.

Dr. Meyer’s voice came back to me, steady and relentless.

“When you’re so enmeshed with one person, you don’t have room for anyone else. In this case, Indie. You were using all your emotional battery on your mother, so Indie got nothing but fumes. And that’s really unfair, because it’s not balanced. She was giving, and you were taking without giving anything in return. That’s a toxic relationship.”

I turned our relationship toxic.

Not anyone else—me.

I have a lot to atone for. I have a lot of ground to cover, and hiding in this bathroom because the love of my life kissed someone else isn’t going to solve anything.

Do I want her back? Yes. I would do anything for the chance to have her choose me again. But atoning is not about expecting anything in return.

So I wash my mouth out with water, splash some on my face, and walk back out into the lounge to take my spot watching over her, hanging back in the shadows.

Where I belong.

Now, in Florence, I sit on the balcony of my hotel room. The light from the full moon is the only light I need as I finish shading the latest drawing and smile through my tears, harshly wiping my face on my shirt sleeve. My hand cramps with how often I’ve been drawing, my entire sketchbook almost filled now with drawings of Indie, but also of the sights I’ve seen in Europe. The architecture, the landscapes, the art.

I just hate that I’m not sharing it with her. I gave up the right to share it with her when I floundered and said I wasn’t going to come to Europe.

I get dizzy when I think of those memories, those conversations, and it’s odd that my memory is so clouded.

“It’s a very normal trauma response,” Dr. Meyer observed. “It’s a way the mind tries to protect itself from emotional overload. You were operating with barely any juice left in your emotional battery, so when Indie would bring up something big that required a lot of emotions or thoughts, you were experiencing burnout. That causes irritability, snapping, and saying things you don’t mean to push someone away. It’s a defense mechanism.”

“It’s pathetic,” I scoffed.

“It’s wrong,” Dr. Meyer corrected. “But you know it’s wrong.”

“Why do I see this now, though? Why didn’t I see when I was harming her? Why did I only care when it affected me?”

“Because humans are selfish sometimes, Theo, and unfortunately, we often learn through the consequences of our mistakes.”

“Mistakes,” I sneered. “It was cruel. Unforgivable.”

Dr. Meyer challenged me, not maliciously, not even defending me, just asking me to think with two words.

“Is it?”

I opened my mouth to respond and realized I couldn’t. I considered the words I used unforgivable.

Did Indie? I realized I couldn’t answer for her, so I closed my mouth.

“You’re not excusing yourself, Teddy, but you’re not letting yourself breathe either. And that won’t allow you to heal. Don’t wear your trauma, and don’t suppress it—own it. That’s how you remember not to let your trauma dictate your behavior. And keep up your drawing as an outlet. I think that is the number one thing that is healing you right now.”

Every time I draw something, especially Indie, I feel like a piece of my soul mends itself back together. I feel free and light. It’s like the only way I can hold Indie in my hands, and while it pales in comparison to the real thing, it feels nice anyway.