You (You #1)(79)

And naturally, I am concerned. You’ve been seeing this Dr. Nicky twice a week since you got back. And then you write this thinly veiled story about fucking a married guy. Of course I called to schedule an appointment with him. How else can I make sure that he’s not taking advantage of you? And it’s not like I’m the only one concerned.

Chana: You just went to therapy. WTF? How do you even afford this?

You: New priorities. No boozing, no shopping, just writing, journaling, growing.

Chana: Okay, Beck. But remember Dr. Nicky is . . . Dr. Nicky.

But today is a good day because the elevator has just hit the twelfth floor and I step into the hallway and find the door to the waiting room open, as Dr. Nicky said it would be. I’m a little early for my appointment, which is good, because I have time to review my new identity.

Name: Dan Fox (son of Paula Fox and Dan Brown!)

Occupation: Coffee shop manager

Disorder: OCD. I know a shit ton about OCD from reading.

I feel good already and I like this waiting room, the baby-blue walls and this baby-blue sofa. And the building happens to be in my favorite neighborhood, the Upper West Side. Elliot saw a shrink in Hannah and who knows? Maybe there’s nothing going on between you and Dr. Nicky. Maybe he’s just really good at what he does. It’s possible. In just two weeks, you’ve figured out a lot about yourself.

I know because Nicky gives you homework. You have to write a letter to yourself every day. And you do:

Dear Beck, You only know how to push or pull when it comes to guys. Admit it. Own it. Fix it. Love, Beck

Dear Beck, You reel in men and you lose interest when you have them. You don’t wear a bra so that guys will look at your nipples. Wear a bra. Nicky sees what you’re doing. This is good. Be seen. Love, Beck

Dear Beck, Intimacy terrifies you. Why are you so afraid? You can only get off when you’re role-playing. Why can’t you be yourself? Nicky knows you and accepts you. So will others. Love, Beck

Dear Beck, You think you can’t have love until you’ve outgrown your daddy issues. But maybe you won’t outgrow your daddy issues until you let yourself fall in love. Nicky is right. You grow through love. You don’t postpone love until you stop growing. Love, Beck

Dear Beck, It’s not your fault that you were born on an island. Of course you identify as an island. But, dear girl, you’re not an island. Be populated. Be welcoming of love. Love, Beck.

Dear Beck, It’s okay to resent your mom. She does envy you. Love, Beck

Dear Beck, Don’t be your own worst enemy and chase after guys who don’t want you. Be your own best friend and learn how to love guys that do want you. And remember, nobody is perfect. Love, Beck

These e-mails have really helped me get through this dry spell. Now I know that you didn’t bail on me because of the sex. You bailed on me because you have problems. So maybe in a month or so, when I’m knee-deep in therapy, and I’ve written letters to myself, maybe I’ll be in bed with you on a late Sunday morning. Maybe by then, I’ll understand myself better and we’ll share our therapy letters in bed.

The door to the office swings open and the air smells of cucumbers and Dr. Nicky is not what I expected.

“Dan Fox?” he says.

I manage to say hello and shake his hand. I follow him into the brutally beige office and sit down on the couch but holy shit, Beck. Dr. Nicky Angevine is young. I assumed he’d be in his fifties but he’s for sure in his early forties. The walls are covered with framed classic rock albums—the Rolling Stones and Bread, Led Zeppelin and Van Morrison. He futzes around with his computer and apologizes for needing another minute and I say it’s okay. He’s wearing Vans, clinging to his youth. He’s a picture of restraint with his thick, wavy hair gelled into submission and encroaching blue eyes that look chock-full of tears. I can’t tell if he’s Jewish or Italian and he finishes up with his computer and sits in the leather chair. He picks up a glass pitcher of water. There are cucumbers in the water, thus the smell.

“Can I offer you a drink?” he says and once again, this is not what I expected.

“Sure,” I say and I take the water and holy shit, Beck. This shit is heaven.

“I should let you know right off the bat,” he says. “I keep a notebook but I don’t take a lot of notes. I prefer to keep everything up here.”

He points to his head and grins and he could be a serial killer or the nicest guy in the world, but there is no middle ground for this dude. No wonder he went into psychology. He had to find some way to stop himself from acting on twisted, perverse thoughts of his own. When he smiles, his chemically whitened teeth pop out, entirely out of place on his drawn, sad face.

“Well, Dan Fox,” he says. “Let’s figure out what the fuck is wrong with you, shall we?”

I have to say, he’s really easy to talk to. I expected a doctor’s office, but this is like hanging out in a middle-aged dude’s college dorm room. And if we were in college, he’d leave and go to class and then I could hack into his computer and dig up all the files about you. But that’s not happening; we’re adults and he has a job to do. He wants to know who beat me up and I tell him about the accident on my way to a ski trip (the LC crash) and I tell him about getting mugged after closing up the coffee shop (Curtis and his homeboys). And then he starts to get a little more personal and asks, “Do you have a girlfriend, Dan?”