12: RENT
I don’t know much about mental illness and even less about searching for therapists. Fortunately, ignorance doesn’t have much of an effect on me. That fact gets me in trouble more often than not, but today it has me on my laptop running searches and making phone calls.
Dr. Marla Conner is accepting new clients and emerges as my first choice.
“What’s her approach?” Hannah continues studying the ceiling as I hover at her door with my notes.
“Her what?”
“Her therapy style. Psychoanalysis, cognitive, behavioral, holistic…?”
“Geez, I don’t know. But she’s within walking distance of my place and seemed like a cool person when I talked to her. She has a lot of experience working with depression.”
“I prefer cognitive therapy.”
“Right.” It sounds like an excuse to me, but I have no clue. “Maybe that’s what she does. Will you at least meet her? I told her you were free tomorrow at ten.”
“I’m not.”
“Oh really? Is that when Judge Hamilton’s on?”
“The previews looked really good.”
“Record it. You’re going.”
“I probably won’t like her.”
“Maybe not. I’m just asking you to meet her. Rent, babe, remember?”
“I hate you.”
“You and everyone else. You’re still going.”
∞∞∞
This isn’t the first time I’ve been in the waiting room of a counseling office. Not when you have demanding, authoritative parents who insist you’re mentally ill if you’d want to waste your life pursuing music. What they didn’t know was that they were paying for my therapist and me to figure out a way to navigate my situation.
Holland Drake and Dr. Gabriel Yates—the reasons I’m a successful rock star instead of a homeless ex-convict.
The white noise machine whispers beside me as I wait. Am I bored out of my mind? Hell yeah. But Hannah is worth it. It’s not hard to keep promises when it comes to that girl.
I insert my earbuds and replay some rough recordings on my phone. Old progressions I’ve been working on. Music that desperately needs lyrics, and my mind keeps drifting across the dated waiting room furniture to the closed door on my right.
Session in Progress
Session in progress. We’re all sessions in progress. Aspiring humans trying to survive a world that rarely gets better. Only we do.
Dr. Yates once told me that forgiveness is about the offended not the offender. He wanted me to let go of my anger so I could break free from the effects of my parents’ tyranny. I thought I had. My wall is strong, ironclad when it has to be, but maybe this thing with Holland, Luke, Miranda… maybe my session didn’t end as cleanly as I thought. Maybe my mess is still in progress.
Session in progress
The hardest journey we take
Raise a glass to the past, it’s the future we break
If all goes well or damns you to hell, it’s your story to own
So tell if you dare, to care about your mess, in progress.
Maybe, just maybe, this monumental implosion means my session has only begun.
∞∞∞
I recognize the look on Hannah’s face when she emerges from the office. I also get her silence on the walk back. I know better than to ask pointless questions like, “How did it go?” She doesn’t know the answer yet. You never do until these moments are reclassified as “hindsight” and you’re sitting in a waiting room reflecting on them while waiting for someone else.
What I do is buy her takeout she can eat on the couch while watching petty criminals face charges of vandalism and debt default. It makes her smile which makes me smile from my creepy vantage point in the kitchen.
“I don’t know how you can even watch that crap,” I call over to her.
“Why not? It’s hilarious.”
“Don’t you just want to punch your fist through the screen and sort everything out for those poor bastards?”
“Not even a little bit. Do you want to participate in singing competitions?”
“Not even a little bit.”
“Exactly.”
I drop beside her and hand her a water bottle. “So what’s this chick’s problem?”
“She claims the defendant’s daughter caused damage to her car with her bike.”
“And?”
“The car is a fifteen-years-old wreck. No way she can prove it unless she has a video.”
“Does she?”
“No, but check out her outfit.”
“Is she wearing a toga?”
“People never know how to dress for court.”
I pop a dumpling in my mouth and pull out my buzzing phone.
Miranda.
I ignore the call.
“You need to break it off with her.”
I swallow my food slowly. “I know, but—”
“No, screw the consequences! This isn’t about me. It’s not even about Holland when it comes down to it. This is about you.”
“She could ruin Holland.”
“She won’t ruin Holland. My sister is a goddess. She has an entire team supporting her. She’ll recover. It’s you who will be left behind. You’ll be the one taking the hit for screwing up again and coming out the villain when this blows up.”
“Since when have I cared about being the bad guy? Isn’t that why you came to me in the first place?”
“You don’t, but that’s not what this is about.”
No way are we having this conversation. I start toward the kitchen.
“You’re clinging to the last strand of the status quo you have left,” she calls after me. “You’d rather sell your soul to Miranda than face the prospect of starting over. That’s what this is about.”
“Bullshit,” I fire back, fist clenched to keep it from slamming into the counter. “You honestly think I’m afraid of change?”
“No, I think you’re afraid of who you are without Holland.”
The guillotine drops. We stare at each other across the room. The compassionate look in her eyes is even worse than anger.
“You don’t even know who that is, do you?” she says softly.
Fuck this.
“I’m going to the gym.”
∞∞∞
I push myself hard, but my head is so jammed with shit right now I lose count of reps and inclines. What I need is escape, a mindless inferno that can consume the rage enough to think clearly for once. I need pain. Shaking limbs from overexertion and streams of sweat tracing every line of my body. I had a trainer once, but we butted heads over my aggressive workouts. It’s not good for your body to push so hard all the time.
So what? It’s good for my head, and probably my soul too if it tames my sins.
By the time I wrap, I can barely wipe the towel over my face. That’s when I know it’s safe to return to the nightmare that is my life.
I breathe in cold air as I exit the gym, and after a long walk, pick-up a snack at my favorite burger joint. I’m not hungry, but it feels wrong to return to the condo without a peace offering.
My grip tightens on the bag of food I brought the second I enter my condo. “Miranda?” I scan the space for Hannah but come up empty.
“Hannah let me in. She’s in her room.”
“What are you doing here? What about work?”
“I moved some things around.” She eyes my takeout bag like it’s a kilo of heroin. “You haven’t answered my calls or messages.”
“I was working out.”
Her gaze lingers too long on Hannah’s closed door.
“Know what I think?” Clearly, she doesn’t care because she keeps going. “I think you’re full of bullshit. I think you do have feelings for that princess in there.”
“Princess? Hannah is about as far from a princess as a woman can be.”
“You’re defending her?”
“Of course I am. She’s my friend.” So much for the soul-saving workout.
“Wow. This is…” Her hand rests on her forehead, scorned southern belle style. “Just… wow.”
I brush past her. “Why are you even here?”
“Pardon me?”
Her indignation pisses me off more. Hannah wanted a fan full of shit? Oh she’s getting it.
“Who the fuck do you think you are, showing up at my place whenever you feel like it? From day one, I’ve been up front with you. I told you we’re not together. And now, you’re what? Extorting me? Is this the only way you can get sex?”
She’s speechless, eyes growing wide enough to release the fury. “I sincerely hope there’s a good explanation for this outburst.”
I shake my head and drop the bag on the counter. “Miranda, this is my place, my life.”
She draws in a deep breath, and I can almost see the meditation steps cycling through her brain. “You’re obviously having a bad day. Let’s just go back to your room and work this out.” She tugs at the neckline of my shirt, but I pull away.
“Not happening.”
“I moved two meetings around to come see you.”
Is she for real? “Guess you wasted your time. Hannah, food’s here!”
Her sliver of the room boils. I swear she’s wheezing flames as she stomps forward and grabs my wrist. “I didn’t come all the way here for nothing!”
“Apparently you did.”
Her grip tightens. “You’re making a mistake. You know who I am.”
I yank my arm away. “Do whatever the hell you want. I’m done with your games,” I say, pulling food out of the bag.
“Is this really the choice you’re making?”
I glance over at the human lava pile. “Technically, it’s already been made. And you can save the ‘you’re going to regret this’ bullshit. I won’t. Not for a second.”
Miranda’s wrath focuses behind me, and I turn to see Hannah frozen in the hall.
“Hey, Han. Burgers okay? I got bacon and pepper jack for you.”
“Fuck you, Wes!” Miranda shrieks.
“Just get out of my house.”
The door slams behind her.
Hannah and I watch it rattle, and she clears her throat.
“You’ll probably have to get that fixed.”
∞∞∞
Hannah laughs through a mouthful of burger. “Man, when you dump someone, you dump them.”
“I’m not usually so brutal, but that woman…” I shudder.
“Woman? Is that what the kids are calling it?”
I snicker and slide off the island stool. “Want anything to drink?”
“Just water.”
I grab two bottles from the fridge.
“So now we wait, I guess,” she says, taking one from me.
“I guess.”
She stops and stares me down. “You did the right thing. You did the only thing.”
My nod is instinctive. I’ve given up trying to figure out what that is anymore. “She’s going to crucify me. You were right about everything you said last night. My life, who and what I am, it’s all about to be obliterated.”
“Probably.” She reaches for my hand.