Under Rose-Tainted Skies(27)
God. I wish she was more like the Jar Jar Binks of therapy and less like the Yoda.
‘Okay.’ I sit down. ‘What if . . .’ My words are muffled by a mouthful of shirt collar. What I really want to do is pull the whole thing over my head and disappear, but I don’t. ‘What if he is a part of the asshole percentage and does laugh at me?’
Dr Reeves picks up her cup, cradles it, and smiles. ‘I think you’ve answered your own question.’ She sits back a little in her chair. ‘I met a woman at a conference once. She told us this story about her daughter who was desperate to date this guy on the football team. He rejected her because he said she was too ugly. Two years later, she met a boy at college, and after she got her law degree, they married, had three children, and now live a happy little life in the suburbs. What’s the point of this story?’
‘Effect and outcome.’
‘Exactly. We can assume the best, but we can’t choose how people perceive us. We can, however, choose how those views affect us.’
I stare at the tree on the table, realize I’m a hypocrite. I’ve judged Luke before he’s even had a chance to judge me. And then it happens. He knocks, the sound echoing around my house.
‘You have more control over this than you think, than your pathways are allowing you to believe.’ The doc stands. ‘And you’re assuming you have to offload your life story right now, but you don’t. You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to. You do a lot of things in your free time with books and movies and music and language. Invite him in, talk about anything else.’
‘But what if I have to fix his leaning coffee cup? Or what if he starts biting dirty fingernails and my stomach does that swirling thing? He’s going to know I’m a freak.’
Dr Reeves shoots me a look that feels a lot like a slap across the face. ‘I thought we banned that word.’
‘I revived it.’
‘Well, I’m killing it. For good this time. Just . . . be yourself.’
‘That’s horrible advice.’
She laughs as Luke knocks a second time.
‘I’ll be right there!’ I turn my hand into a megaphone and bellow down the hall.
‘You know what I hate?’ Dr Reeves asks, glancing at her reflection in the fridge door. With her index finger she strokes the bridge of her nose, flicks the end a few times, then crinkles it up. ‘I hate my nose. It’s huge. Takes up eighty-five per cent of my face. It’s bulbous and I wish I had the guts to get it fixed.’
‘What?’ I try but fail to see the problem. Her nose is small and cute, maybe even a little bit button. ‘No, it’s not.’
‘Aha.’ She points at me; her mouth opens and a gotcha expression pulls at her features. ‘You can’t always look at yourself subjectively. You need to remember that. Trust me when I say just be yourself.’ She walks over to me, exhibits an extreme amount of caution before resting a soft hand on my shoulder. ‘And don’t forget, that number for my cell is still good, any time. Okay?’
As I nod, Luke raps on the door again. I just stand there, staring past the table, over a vase of pink peonies and down the hall, which I swear has doubled in length.
‘You might want to get that,’ Dr Reeves whispers as she leaves out the back.
Dr Reeves’s pep talk is pretty good as sustaining fuel. My bravery is showing no signs of burning out as my butt reboots and I head over to the door.
It’s different talking to the doc at home. I mean, I knew she was smart – her office walls are decorated with academic achievements and her shelves are lined with books she’s written, co-written, or consulted on. But in her office I can never be one hundred per cent there. Half of me is always too busy worrying about being out of the house to listen to her talk. Here, today, I noticed that she has the vivacity of a US president in one of those doomsday movies, talking guys into sacrificing themselves for the greater good. I bet in her spare time she gives motivational speeches at ‘Be a Better You’-type conventions.
Deep breath. The general populace is compassionate goes through my head as I unbolt the lock.
Prove it. My mind mocks me.
‘I’m trying. If you’d just let me figure it out,’ I snap.
‘Norah?’
Crap. I resist the urge to face-plant into the door and promise myself to never again let passion increase the volume of what are supposed to be whispered words.
‘One more second.’
Shoulder roll. Yesterday’s deodorant is forced into action when sweat starts pooling in my armpits.
It’s just one root.
One tiny root that I have to draw. And with that, I open the door.
He’s remembered the DVDs. They’re tucked under his arm.
‘Hi.’ He grins, and I fall down dead.
He looks like the next big thing in boy bands. Planet-size green eyes sparkling beneath thick black lashes. He glances at me, and his smile is full of flirt. Whether that’s intentional, I’m not sure.
He’s wearing product in his hair, the kind that makes his curls look wet. A single unruly ringlet has broken free from the pack and dangles down the middle of his forehead. It would be completely inappropriate to grab hold of the end, pull on it, and let it bounce back like a spring. Right? Of course it would. I twist my hands together so they’re not tempted to stray anyway.