Like Gravity(79)
“I love you too,” I whispered, smiling against his chest. His body went utterly still beneath mine, and I heard the breath catch in his throat at my words. One of his hands cupped my chin and he tilted my head back so I was able to see his face.
“Are you sure?” he whispered, staring into my eyes. “Because once you tell me you love me, that’s it, Bee. You’re mine. And I’m not ever giving you up.”
“Hmmm, well in that case….” I teased, grinning playfully up at him.
He did not appreciate my joke; his face remained utterly serious as he waited for my answer.
“Oh, you idiot!” I smacked his arm. “Yes, I love you. Do I need to get it tattooed on my ass and sign a binding legal document, or will a verbal confirmation be enough?” I rolled my eyes.
“You’re a smartass,” he said, grabbing my hips and settling me on top so I was straddling him. “But I love you anyway.”
I had just enough time to see that adorable dimple pop out in his right cheek before his lips were again on mine, so fierce it felt like he was branding me as his, and he was slipping back inside me.
***
“So, a lot has happened since our last session.”
Dr. Angelini’s normal tone of self-possession and composure was slightly ruffled today. I couldn’t really blame her, I supposed; it probably wasn’t every day that one of her patients divulged about a slew of recovered dream-memories, a near-fatal sexual assault in an alleyway, and a foray into a first-ever healthy romantic relationship – all in one sixty-minute session, I might add.
Just unloading all the details of everything that had happened in the last week had eaten up most of our time together. I wasn’t sure how much psychoanalyzing she could possibly get done in twenty minutes, but I didn’t peg the good doc as a quitter.
“How are you feeling about the attack?” she asked. “You mentioned you spoke with the police again this morning.”
“They say it’s not Gordon,” I shrugged. “And I don’t really know what I’m feeling. Is there a right emotion for this situation that I should be experiencing? Because, except for the hour right after it happened, when I cried, I’ve been feeling generally normal. I’m not scared to go out at night, or walk to my car alone. I don’t want to board up my windows and isolate myself for the next several decades with twenty-seven cats,” I explained. “I feel like me – just with some extra cuts and bruises.”
“There’s no singular right or wrong emotion, Brooklyn. You don’t necessarily need to feel traumatized, simply because you’ve experienced a trauma.” Dr. Angelini stared at me across her pristine glass coffee table. I vaguely wondered how she kept it so clean; there wasn’t a coffee ring or a fingerprint smudge on the damn thing.
“Brooklyn, are you still with me?” Dr. Angelini asked, one eyebrow raised in question.
I nodded, forcing myself to stop the thought process concerning her Windex-ing habits and focus on her words. They were costing me several hundred dollars per hour, after all.
“I think it’s also possible that, because this isn’t the first trauma you’ve experienced, you may be slightly desensitized to risky or potentially life-threatening incidents,” she continued.
“So I’m numb to danger,” I mused, miming karate chops in the air as I slayed invisible enemies. “Does that count as a super-power?”
“Brooklyn,” she scolded, her voice stern. “Please take this seriously.”
“I am! It was a joke,” I scoffed. She was overreacting, big time.
“I do admit that your desensitization to trauma could be an asset in certain threatening situations, such as when you needed to defend yourself in that alley and keep your wits about you,” she explained.
I nodded, sensing a big “but” coming.
“But,” There it is. “ It may also be a detriment, because it can make you reckless. You have no real sense of fear, and you’re completely unafraid to push the boundaries of your personal safety – whether it’s with casual sexual encounters, excessive drinking, or going out into a dark alleyway alone, with no viable forms of communication at hand.”
I thought about her words for a moment. I guessed there was some truth to what she was saying, but it wasn’t exactly something I would be able to fix. As I saw it, I’d been f*cked up for so long it was no longer a changeable trait, but an ingrained part of my nature. Sure, I could get better at managing my f*cked-upedness, but – let’s face facts here – I’d never be completely normal.
“I don’t suppose there’s a magic pill you can prescribe to fix this little problem of mine, right?” I joked.
“You don’t need medication, Brooklyn. Just keep your cellphone with you next time,” Dr. Angelini smirked.
I laughed. “Did you just make a joke, doc?”
“Definitely not,” she denied, inducing an eye roll from me almost instantly. “Now, I want to discuss your dreams in the few minutes we have left. Have you had more since we last spoke?”
“Yes, and they seem to be getting more frequent; they’ve pretty much taken the place of my regular nightmares – which is okay, cause my nightmares sucked and I look way better sans the dark under-eye circles.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d think Dr. Angelini was holding back a laugh.