Stealing Cinderella(6)

“Can you tell me what you’ve been doing this week?”

“Meetings.” I squint as I try to secure the cannon into the designated slot. “The usual.”

“I see. And have you been to visit your mother?”

The force of my grip severs the plastic mount from the cannon, sending it flying across the desk. In a split second, the entire ship has been rendered useless. For a long moment, I stare at the broken piece, pressure building up inside me like a steam engine. Dr. Blom senses the impending explosion and attempts to intervene.

“It’s okay, Thorsen. It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

But it does. Scooping the unfinished ship from my desk, I dump it into the garbage, followed by handfuls of the unassembled pieces.

Dr. Blom frowns. “I’m sorry if I upset you with the question about your mother. But it is something I’d like to address. It’s my job to make sure you’re handling the circumstances in a healthy way. This situation would be difficult for anyone.”

“I’m fine.” I turn my focus to the window, watching the storm clouds roll in outside. It’s unusually gray for the spring in Norway. Perhaps Mother Nature is grieving too.

“These events can be challenging to navigate,” Dr. Blom explains in his clinical way. “It wouldn’t be uncommon to feel a wide range of emotions, even if you aren’t always able to identify them. What’s important is how we decide to address them. And I want you to know that you can speak with me anytime.”

“I don’t want to talk about that today.” I return my attention to the man across from me. He’s thin and tall with graying hair and wire-rimmed glasses. An unassuming character if I ever saw one. He’s become a permanent fixture in my life, but lately, I find myself simply staring through him.

“Okay.” He folds his hands across his lap. “Then perhaps we can circle back to the topic we didn’t finish last week.”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I lean back in my chair and stare up at the ceiling. “Fine.”

“Have you given any more thought to the proposal from your father regarding the arranged marriage?”

“I’m not marrying Princess Yasmine,” I answer. “I don’t want to marry at all.”

The clock on the wall ticks off the seconds as he ponders my statement. My position on this topic hasn’t changed, but he seems content to revisit it often.

“I understand it’s difficult for you to form attachments,” he says. “It’s not unusual for those who have experienced trauma to avoid intimate relationships. Being vulnerable doesn’t come easily for many of us.”

I reach for the pencil on my desk, tapping the eraser against the edge four times. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Can you tell me about the last time you had sex?” he asks. “How long ago was it?”

“Two months, maybe.” Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Calder found the woman.”

“And you both had sex with her?”

“Yes.”

“This arrangement has always been easy for you,” he observes. “But have there been any occasions when you’ve ever taken a woman home by yourself?”

“No.”

“I see.” He studies me, and the silence penetrates my nerves. “I’m going to make an observation that might be uncomfortable, and I want you to hear me out.”

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Calder was the first person to help you, wasn’t he? He brought a woman back home for you, introducing the possibility of sex in a way that gave you control. You didn’t have to speak to her. You didn’t have to interact. You simply did what came naturally.”

The eraser snaps off the end of the pencil when it butts against the desk, and I toss it aside, opting for a pen instead.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

“Have you ever considered that you might be using this situation with Calder as a crutch?”

“Sex doesn’t mean anything to me,” I tell him. “It’s just a release. There’s no need to complicate it.”

The clock ticks in time with my pen, and I contemplate how much damage I could really do with the tip. Is it strong enough to pierce an artery?

“What about your first girlfriend? You never had her on your own?”

“No.” My vision clouds. “We shared her too.”

“Has there ever been a time you simply wanted someone for yourself?”

The minute hand on the clock revolves twice as I consider his question. I don’t know what it’s like to have something for myself. Something I can control without the investment of societal expectations. Talking. Dating. Feeling. Caring. Those things require too much work and energy that I don’t have the time or capacity to offer.

“It couldn’t ever work,” I say. “Women have too many expectations. And even if they didn’t, they aren’t trustworthy.”

“Because you think they will betray you since that has been your experience in the past?”

My eyes fall shut, and I think of the trees. The dark, cold, quiet trees.

“Have you ever heard of the Aokigahara Forest?”

“No,” Dr. Blom answers. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s at the base of Mount Fuji in Japan. They call it the sea of trees.”