Holy heck. Now we’re having a conversation. So I reply.
Yes, I did get help. My therapist's name is Lenore. She's terrific. She even laughs at my jokes. 10/10 would recommend.
It’s nonthreatening, and it asks nothing. So I hit send. And then I pray, and watch my inbox like a hunter in a deer blind.
But night falls, and I still have no response. Daphne comes home with her brother and Chastity, and I smile and try not to look like the jumpy fucker that I am.
“Can we order pizza?” she asks. “And I brought home lettuce for a salad.”
“Sure, baby. I’ll make the salad. I need something to do with my hands.”
“Another innuendo?” Dylan mutters.
“Believe it or not, no,” I say, taking a bag of groceries out of his hands. “I’m just a little stir crazy.”
“Is Freud kicking your ass?” Daphne asks. She gives me a kiss on the jaw.
“Yeah,” I say immediately. “I had, uh, a long day of paper-writing.” God, it feels trashy to lie. Daphne is the last person I want to deceive. But I know nothing more than I did when she left on Friday afternoon.
I need to know more. So I spend the evening pretending to write a paper while watching my inbox. Nothing happens, until Daphne crawls into bed with me at midnight, and I force myself to shut off the light and pull her into my arms.
“Did you miss me?” I ask, kissing her neck.
“You know I did,” she murmurs.
“Why don’t you show me how much?” I ask, trying to find my normal self.
“I think I will,” she says.
Monday night I’m alone in my room, checking my phone one more time before I go to sleep. And Daphne is upstairs, pulling a late night for homework.
Checking for a new message is just a habit by now. But suddenly there it is.
Rick,
“10/10 would recommend.” I heard that in your voice. And the joke means that you’re going to be okay. Not sure what to say about your memory. You probably won’t believe me, but not remembering could be a blessing.
P.
Now I have goose bumps all over my body. He still isn’t giving me what I need. So I write back.
You're right. I am going to be okay. It took me a while, but my life is back on track. I spent the summer on a farm. Now I'm working on my degree full time, at Burlington U in Vermont.
Contacting you was a selfish act. I want to know what happened. I want to know if I was to blame for blowing up my life.
I don’t need to know. But I want to.
Please tell me you’re going to be okay, too. You have me imagining the worst.
—Rick
I try to wait up for his reply. But it never comes, and I fall asleep clutching my phone like a talisman.
On Tuesday his message arrives while I’m in class.
Rick,
I know you want a full accounting. I can hear how hard you’re trying not to demand some answers. But I can’t help you.
At first I couldn’t answer you because I couldn't stand to think about you, or anyone else at the Academy. Pretending it didn’t happen was the only way I could go on.
Then I broke down, and couldn’t read your messages because I was institutionalized for more than six months.
And now I can’t give you what you want because I signed an NDA.
I know that’s a shitty thing for me to say. That my tidy little settlement is more important than your sanity. But my tidy little settlement is paying for my continued sanity. And I bet your thick philosophy books say something about how going forward is more important than examining the past.
If they don’t, they should.
—P
After reading this, I gather up my stuff and walk right out of the seminar. It’s rude, but I have to keep him talking to me. I’m taking Daphne to Connecticut tomorrow. And Paul knows what happened.
Paul—I know it sounds crazy, but I don’t remember anything from that Saturday night. And I can live with that. I don’t want you to put yourself in harm's way.
But my girlfriend is up against a creep who left the Academy the same year I did. My gut says it’s not a coincidence. I'm trying to decide how worried I should be about him.
Anything you can tell me without hanging your ass in the air would be sincerely appreciated.
—Rick
P.S. I signed an NDA too, by the way. It just means a little less when you