This Is My Brain in Love - I. W. Gregorio Page 0,112
much longer I’ll be here.”
Then I drop the bag of food in his foyer, throw myself into his arms, and start weeping.
Will staggers back, caught off guard, but steadies himself. “Hey, hey. It’s going to be okay.” And for that moment, warm and safe in the circle of his arms, I allow myself to believe that, somehow, it’s going to be okay.
Because I have a plan. One that I’ll implement just as soon as the fountain show is over.
Somehow Will hauls me back to his room, where he sets me up in his bed, curled up around a box of Puffs. When most of the snot has been delivered, and I can draw in a breath without it sounding choppy as a helicopter, I lie there like a limp kitten staring at the ceiling. Then I swivel my head over to Will, who’s gathering up my tissues to throw in the trash.
“I’m sorry. I was jealous.”
Will sits on his bed with a sigh. “Well, I’ve never had someone be jealous over me before. I guess I’m moving up in life.”
He’s deflecting. I’ve noticed that he does that a lot, gives people free passes because he doesn’t like to dwell on the past, just brushes things over to avoid more conflict.
I’m not going to let him sweep things under the rug this time.
“It’s not funny, it’s embarrassing. It’s kind of dangerous. I totally became a… a stereotype. I said some really awful things, and I triggered something, right? I made things bad for you.”
Will rubs at his wrist. “Yeah. It’s. It’s something I’m working on.”
That sounds… not specific. I look at him with raised eyebrows, and he has the grace to look chastened. “Did the doctors in the ER give you any… Is there anything they could do?”
He shakes his head. “No, they just told me to go to my therapist.”
“So when are you going? To your therapist?”
“I went this morning.” That’s all he says. He looks away, and God, I would give anything in the world now to have him trust me, if trust were something that could be bought.
This Is My Brain on Answers
WILL
It’s something I’ve fantasized about for years, having a girl alone in my room, but not like this.
I’m already emotionally drained from my appointment with Dr. Rifkin, but that seems like a gentle summer drizzle of feelings compared to the hurricane that Jocelyn brings in.
There’s her guilt about wrongly accusing Priya and me, and her grief over her father possibly letting go of the restaurant, and her fear that she may have caused my panic attack. And then there’s something else that I can’t put my finger on, an unease that’s almost anger, but not quite. It’s a lot to deal with when all I want to do is batten down the hatches and curl up in a storm shed with my supply of bottled water and canned goods.
So when Jocelyn starts pushing me about what I’m going to do—everyone’s always so focused on what to do to prevent these panic attacks—I might drag my heels a bit.
“So when are you going? To your therapist?” She asks in a carefully neutral tone, like she’s asking me whether I prefer half-and-half or soy milk in my coffee.
“I went this morning,” I say, not volunteering more because once I start, I won’t be able to stop.
I must have been too abrupt, though, because Jocelyn’s face falls, and she bites her lip like she’s trying not to start crying again. She sits up and yanks out a tissue with maybe a little more force than is necessary, and blows her nose with a deafening trumpet sound.
When she’s done, she gets up and throws her own tissue away. She takes her time walking back to the bed, scanning my walls—the family pictures from our trips to Montreal and Jamaica, the Nigerian masks hanging over my desk—like she’s looking for clues to a mystery.
I’m the mystery, I think.
Finally, she sits down heavily next to me, folding her arms tightly against her chest.
“Will, you know I want us to work out…”
I close my eyes, waiting for the “but.”
“… but I think we’re both going to need help.”
“Both?”
“I mean, obviously we can’t go on like this, right?” She swallows, purses her lips, and looks me in the eye. Her eyes are puffy, red-rimmed, but they still manage to look fierce. “You’ve got to be straight with me. Do you want us to work out or not?”