Page 351 of Face Off

I’m sleeping better. Eating is quieter. It still isn’t silent, and I don’t expect it ever will be, but I can eat pizza without treating cheese like evidence in a murder investigation.

Therapy and I are speaking again. I finally told my therapist I hate when she sits silently until I become uncomfortable enough to fill the room. She called it useful information, which was deeply annoying.

How is camp?

How is Briggs?

You don’t have to answer the second question if it belongs to him. I won’t reach around your boundary by asking someone else.

Charm

Ryan’s answer comes on Inferno stationery.

Charm,

First, I want a full transcript of the conversation with the customer’s husband.

Second, Bliss’s favorite musician does sound like a congested goat. Rider agrees, which means the professional opinion supports you.

Third, I love no-filter Charm.

I always did.

She was the woman hiding in kitchens after parties became too loud. She argued with me about books, insulted my apartment, drank wine from my Great Lakes mug, and forgot to be perfect whenever she was comfortable enough to be mean.

Polished Charm was beautiful, but no-filter Charm made me fall in love with her.

Camp is camp. I skate, get hit, hit people back, and allow grown men to evaluate my physical condition as though I’m livestock. I’m playing well.

Briggs is alive. The rest belongs to him.

Thank you for knowing the difference.

I have a question. You don’t have to answer immediately, but don’t hide behind therapy language for three weeks either.

Is no-filter Charm still mine?

Ryan

The question keeps me awake until two in the morning.

I begin my response seven different ways before accepting that Ryan didn’t ask for something polished.

Ryan,

That is an offensively Ryan question.

You spent an entire weekend teaching me that loving someone doesn’t create ownership over their choices, then used four words capable of destroying my sleep.

No-filter Charm is mine.

That was the part I didn’t understand before. I belonged to my parents, their grief, the expectations attached to my name, my fear, and anyone whose opinion might determine whether I deserved to take up space.

I thought giving myself to you meant making you responsible for all the pieces nobody else wanted.

It doesn’t.

I am mine, which means giving myself to you can finally be a choice instead of a dependency.