CHAPTER 14

Nastya

There are twenty-seven bones in your hand and wrist. Twenty-two of mine were broken. Relatively speaking, my hand is kind of a miracle. It’s full of plates and screws, and even after several surgeries, it still doesn’t look quite right. But it works better than they thought it would. And it’s not like it can’t do anything; it just can’t do the one thing I want it to. The thing that made me, me.

***

I never had much of a social life, even before. After school, I spent my hours in the music lab or in private instruction and my Saturdays were spent playing the piano at weddings. There were times during wedding season that I’d hit three in a day. I’d run out of one church, jump in the car my mom would be waiting in out front, and rush to the next. It got crazy sometimes and I rarely had a free weekend, but the money was awesome, the time commitment minimal, and it was easy. Most wedding coordinators and brides aren’t very original. I had about five pieces of music that were rotated through; the standards that you tend to hear at every wedding. I took it for granted that I could sleepwalk through those things. I had three dresses that got rotated just like the music; all conservative and girly with varying degrees of formality depending on the wedding itself. I wonder what they would have done if I walked in dressed like I do today.

When I wasn’t playing weddings, I played at upscale malls and restaurants. I was a pretty little novelty in the beginning. I was everybody’s pet. I don’t know if anyone really knew my name; they mostly just called me the Brighton Piano Girl, which was fine, because that’s who I was. Once I got older, everybody was used to seeing me here or there, but back when I started, around eight years old, people usually did a double take. I’d wear my frilly little dresses and my hair would always be tied back out of my face with a matching ribbon. I’d smile and play my Bach or Mozart or whatever overused pieces of music they asked me to play. Everyone knew me and people would always clap when I got done and say hi to me whenever they saw me. I loved every second of it.

By the time I was forced to stop, I had quite a bit of money put away. I was saving it to pay for the summer music conservatory in New York that I had been drooling over for three years and was finally old enough, at fifteen, to apply to. My parents said if I wanted to go I had to work for the money, but that was a joke, because work meant play and playing was never work. Between that and school and private instruction and recitals, it hadn’t left much time for a social life, but it was a small sacrifice. Plus, if I’m being honest, it probably wasn’t any sacrifice. I didn’t go to parties and I was too young to drive. I liked Nick Kerrigan but mostly we just looked at each other and looked away a lot.

I didn’t have a bunch of girlfriends to go hang out at the mall with and my mom bought most of my clothes anyway. Even at fifteen, I was younger than fifteen. My style was Sunday school-chic. The couple of friends I had were like me. We spent all of our free hours practicing because that’s who we were. Piano girls. Violin girls. Flute girls. That was normalcy. My grades weren’t awesome and I was the polar opposite of popular, but it was ok. It was better than being normal. I never gave two shits about normal. I wanted extraordinary.

Normal people had friends. I had music. I wasn’t missing anything.

These days I’m missing everything. I’m haunted by music; music I can hear, but never play again. Melodies that taunt me note by note, mocking me with the simple fact that they exist.

I still have all of the money that I saved for the conservatory. I had more than enough, but I never did get to go. I spent that summer in and out of hospitals, recovering, in physical therapy, learning to pick up quarters off of a table, and with therapists talking about why I was mad.

At this point I’ve regained enough control in my hand that I could probably bang something out on the piano if I tried, but it would never be what it used to be, what it should be. Music should flow so that you can’t tell where one note ends and the next begins; music should have grace and there is no grace left in my hand. There are metal screws and damaged nerves and shattered bones, but there isn’t any grace.

Today is Sunday and I have nowhere to be. I never had weddings to do on Sundays but I usually spent the mornings filling in at the Lutheran church if they needed me. I wasn’t religious; it was just a favor to one of my mom’s friends, so I did it. Afternoons were usually spent at the grand piano upstairs in the mall outside Nordstrom’s. Then I’d actually practice the real stuff in the evenings and once in a while I did my homework.

Now homework is about the only thing I have to do, so miraculously, it’s been getting done. But I’m still kind of crap at it.

Margot spends the afternoons next to the pool until she has to get ready for work. I can’t sunbathe. It doesn’t work so well with the translucent skin, plus, I suck with the sitting still. I will douse myself with sunscreen on occasion, braid my hair and swim laps until my limbs won’t move. I can’t run in the afternoons so it’s a good alternative.

I’m only on lap twenty-five when I lift my head out of the water to see Margot standing at the edge of the pool next to the perpetually-smirking Drew Leighton. I’m momentarily dumbfounded, wondering how he knew where I lived, when I remember that he picked me up for that ill-fated party last week. I am so not about to pull myself up and out of this pool dripping wet and nearly naked in front of him. I might go to school half-naked, but half-naked and nearly naked are two entirely different things, and I’m not going to climb out of the pool and define the difference for him in a very small bikini. It’s bad enough that I have no make-up on, but there isn’t anything I can do about that now so I’ve got to let it go. I grab the sunglasses I left at the edge of the pool and compensate by staying as far away from him as possible.

“I’m Nastya’s aunt,” Margot introduces herself to Drew, “and I assume you two know each other.” She turns and smiles knowingly in my direction. Since the first day of school she’s been pushing me to make friends and have some sort of social life so this must be thrilling her to no end. Drew is putting on the boyish charm in a way that I’m sure has won over many a suspicious mother. He’ll probably need to work a little harder on Margot. She’s younger and cute and used to being flirted with. She isn’t oblivious to what he’s playing. Still, that suspicion is being tempered by her desire for me to get some sort of life. She walks away, leaving me to him, and goes back to her chair and a copy of Cosmopolitan. She’s not fooling me, though. I know she’s straining to hear every word.

If I wasn’t trapped in the pool by my state of undress, I could fully enjoy the situation a bit more. Drew can’t use his arsenal of sexual innuendos on me now, while he’s being chaperoned. He kicks off his shoes and sits down at the edge of the pool, dangling his feet in the water.

“I feel I’ve done my penance. You should forgive me now.”

I just stare at him. I don’t even bother changing my expression. He’s going to have to exert a little effort to get me to waste facial expressions on him.

“You haven’t even looked at me in a week. It’s killing my reputation.”

I have a feeling a nuclear bomb couldn’t kill his reputation at this point, much less a week without my attention, but I appreciate him giving me the credit.

“Let me make it up to you. Come to dinner at my house. Tonight.”

This makes me suspicious and I’m pretty sure it shows. Innocence does not become Drew. It doesn’t gel with the pure unadulterated sex that drips from his pores. I meet his eyes and wait for the catch.

“You won’t even have to be alone with me. My whole family will be there.”

Perhaps he thinks this is a selling point. It isn’t. I don’t mind parents. I actually used to do quite well with parents. Now, probably not so much, but it’s not the parents that concern me. It’s the sister I’m not going anywhere near. I’m already on her radar. I was even before the unwanted courtyard heroics of a certain Josh Bennett, and I’m not rushing to put myself in the eye of that storm again by showing up to a family dinner on her brother’s arm. No way. Not happening. Not ever.

“I’m sure she’d love to go,” Margot chimes in over her magazine. So much for pretending she’s not eavesdropping. My defiant convictions lasted all of three seconds. “I have to work. There’s no point in you sitting here, eating dinner alone.” Thanks, Margot. I flash her the smile I save for my mortal enemies. She looks at me, face full of innocence, eyes full of mischief. She knows I’m cornered. Damn self-inflicted mutism. Is that even a word? Irrelevant. I shake my head but I can’t offer an excuse and I don’t have one anyway, though I’m sure I could easily come up with something believable: homework, emptying bedpans at the local nursing home, cholera. Alas, they all stay trapped in my throat as I look on helplessly while my evening’s fate is decided by my meddling aunt and a cocksure teenage boy. Margot knows I have nothing to do and Drew isn’t about to give me a chance to get out of it anyway. He’s on his feet in an instant, bolting before the plans can be rescinded.

“Dinner’s at six. I’ll pick you up at 5:45. Dress nice. My mom likes to pretend we’re civilized once a week.” He smiles conspiratorially in Margot’s direction. He knows he has her to thank for this. It’s no mystery that, given a choice, I never would have agreed. I’m angrier at myself. I dug my own grave on this one. You give up talking and you give up free will. I wonder what Margot would think if she knew the truth of Drew Leighton, the sex volcano she just sacrificed me to.

“Don’t get up. I’ll just walk around the house. Nice meeting you.” He turns back to me. “See you later.” It sounds like a threat.

***

If only Margot hadn’t heard the doorbell, I could be blissfully, comfortably alone this evening, just like I should be. I wouldn’t be in the predicament I’m in now, at five o’clock, staring at my closet and wondering what one wears to Sunday dinner at the home of one’s non-boyfriend. I spent the afternoon alternately putting off the decision and coming up with self-inflicted injuries that might get me out of it.

Once my fate was decided, I killed most of the day in the kitchen, baking and frosting a three-layer chocolate cake. My mom would have several choice words for me if I were to show up to dinner as a guest empty-handed and desserts are about the only thing in my repertoire. I’ve avoided the inevitable as long as possible, but unless I’m planning to wear the towel I’ve got wrapped around myself, I need to pick something soon. I’m running out of time.

True to his word, Drew knocks on the door at exactly five forty-five. I’m kind of surprised that he didn’t just beep the horn and expect me to come running. Okay, I’m really not. As much as it pains me to say so, he actually possesses surprisingly good manners. The better to get into girls’ pants, I suppose. I won’t give him too much credit.

I pick up the cake and hold it in front of my body as if it can actually shield me, preventing Drew from seeing what I’m wearing. It’s a simple sleeveless shift dress with a very subtle scoop neck and a slight A-line skirt that hits just barely above my knee. It’s the most conservative thing in my closet. My mother bought it for me before I left, along with a bunch of other dresses I never wear. I kept it because it was black, but that’s about the only reason. I feel like I’m going on a job interview. I don’t think I’ll look even remotely right at a Sunday dinner but I guess it’s better than the stuff I wear to school.

He opens my car door and I slide in with the cake on my lap.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Drew inclines his head towards the cake. I shrug. I didn’t mind. I like excuses to bake and I don’t get them very often these days, which means that I still bake, but I end up eating most of it myself. Sugar has a very special, oversized place on my food pyramid. “You’ll get points with my mom, though. She’s pregnant. Again,” he adds pointedly, “and she loves chocolate.”

We pull into Drew’s driveway about ten minutes later. He lives in a development a few miles down the road from Margot’s. He parks the car and kills the engine but he doesn’t move to get out. He looks uncomfortable, which makes me uncomfortable. I’m really hoping he doesn’t hit on me in the car in front of his parents’ house, because I’ll have to get pissed and the cake will probably not survive. He turns to me and takes a breath. He’s not smiling, and when he speaks, the tone of voice is completely different from what I’m used to with him. The cocky self-assuredness is gone and that makes me nervous. I’m accustomed to his brash over-confidence. I’m prepared for it and it puts us on even footing, like neither of us is real.

“I really am sorry.” The sincerity in his words catches me off-guard. I would have been ready for a full-on assault of charm and creative come-ons but I’m completely unprepared for the utterly guileless apology I’m getting. Maybe this is his new angle. He turns his eyes to the windshield, and I’m glad, because I’m more at ease with him not looking right at me. “You were ok with Bennett, you know. Josh is the best person I know. I wouldn’t have left you anywhere else. I know it was shitty and I probably should have taken you home and taken care of you myself since it was kind of my fault in the first place. If there are two choices, I’m usually going to pick the wrong one, but I really didn’t do it to be an asshole. Just comes naturally.” He stops talking and is quiet for a minute before looking back at me again.

“We good?”

I tilt my head and study him. Are we? Yes, I think we are. As much as I’d like to question his motives, I also kind of want to believe he’s not a completely awful person. Then at least I’ll have an excuse for why I can’t seem to dislike him.

“Good enough?” he tries.

I nod. Yes, good enough.

“Good enough,” he repeats, without question this time, and the tell-tale flirt comes back into his voice. His posture loosens and he seems to relax. He’s back in familiar territory. “Let’s go inside before I give in to the fantasy I’m having of covering you in that cake and licking the frosting off.”

I glare at him. I’m kind of glad to have this Drew back. I roll my eyes and shake my head. He shrugs, resigned.

“Sorry. Nature’s a bitch. Can only fight it for so long.” He comes around to open the car door and offers to take the cake for me but I shake my head. I need to hold it. I cling to the cake like a lifeline as I walk up to the house, hoping my left hand doesn’t choose now to stutter and make me drop it. A three-layer cake with scratch fudge frosting, adorned with piles of shaved curls of dark chocolate, was probably overkill but I’m hoping it does its job and that they’ll notice the cake instead of me.

We walk into a high-ceilinged foyer that opens up into an exquisitely furnished living room. It’s pristine. I feel like I should take my shoes off so my heels don’t tear into the Berber carpet but that would probably be weird. Plus, as much as the shoes hurt my feet, they give me comfort. I used to perform in front of audiences, now I hide behind cake and high heels. Drew leads me back through a formal dining room. The table must seat at least ten people. It’s already set with china and fabric napkins that are folded to look like swans. Drew must notice me gaping at it.

“Told you my mom likes to pretend we’re civilized once a week.” Civilized is one thing. This is something different entirely. “It’s usually not this bad. I think she went a little overboard because I told her I was bringing you. Usually it’s just us and Josh. And he doesn’t count as company.” What the crap? I’m not sure which part of that little explanation I’m supposed to panic about first; either the part where his mother appears to have prepared for the coming of the queen because of me or the part where Josh Bennett is expected. Both are equally appalling but I think I’m giving the edge to Josh. As much as I fear the scrutiny of Drew’s mother, it’s a little worse to imagine eating a meal across the table from the boy who mopped up my vomit and watched me strip my bra off and throw it across the room. I spent most of the afternoon freaking out about what to wear and dreading having to face Drew’s sister. The thought that Josh Bennett might be here never even entered my mind. I don’t have any more time to get used to the idea because the doorbell rings, then opens before anybody could possibly have gotten there. Josh isn’t company here. Of course he doesn’t wait to be let in.

Before I know what’s happening, Drew’s mother is coming towards me, taking the cake out of my hands. I want to hold onto it, keep it in front of me just a little longer but it’s not an option so I relinquish it to her. My hands feel very empty.

“You must be Nastya!” Her smile comes from every part of her face. There isn’t a question where Drew and Sarah came by their looks. Their mother is beautiful. I can’t help glancing down toward her stomach. She must not be very pregnant because I can’t even tell. I wonder how old she is. She has to be at least forty, I imagine. It’s weird to me why anyone would want another baby at that age but I guess if you can, why not? She’s shifting things in the refrigerator now to make room for the cake. I didn’t ask her to but I’m glad. The heat and humidity already started doing a number on the frosting on the way over here.

“Honey, it is so sweet of you to bring dessert. It’s beautiful,” she says, shutting the refrigerator door and turning towards me. She closes the gap between us a moment later and before I can comprehend what she’s doing, she hugs me. I don’t do hugging. I don’t like people touching me even when there’s no threat involved. It’s too intimate and it bothers me. She doesn’t seem to notice how stiff my arms are at my sides and she lets me go a second later when Drew starts talking.

“How come you call her honey and never use terms of endearment on me?” he fake whines.

“I do,” Mrs. Leighton says, patting him on the cheek as she walks by. “Just last week I called you the bane of my existence.”

“That’s right,” he says. “That was a good day.”

It’s hard not to want to smile watching them. It hasn’t been so long that I don’t remember what it was like when my family was happy, too.

It’s only seconds before Josh Bennett finds us. Judging by the look on his face, he didn’t know I was going to be here any more than I was expecting him. I think he literally took a step back when he saw me.

Drew’s mom steps between us before excessive awkwardness sets in. She hugs him and he actually hugs her back. It looks wrong to me. I’m used to seeing Josh separated by a six-foot radius from all human contact, so to see him here, looking warm and alive and touchable with Drew’s mom, takes me a minute to process. I hope my mouth isn’t hanging open. I’m going to have ten-miles worth of thoughts to sort through when I run tonight. Not only do I have unexpectedly sincere Drew to process, but now I’ve got not-so-untouchable Josh Bennett as well.

Sarah’s in the kitchen a moment later. She obviously knew I was coming because there’s no surprise on her face. Only disdain.

“I guess you all already know each other,” Mrs. Leighton says, saving us from friendly pretense. “Dinner will be ready in ten minutes. Sarah, you pour drinks. Drew, take Josh and check on your Dad at the grill. Make sure he doesn’t overcook the steaks again. Nastya, you can help me bring in the food from the kitchen.” I nod, thankful that she’s given me something to do so I don’t have to stand around feeling not only out of place, but useless, as well. I follow her to the stove and she hands me a couple of trivets to put out on the table. There’s something at once comforting and unsettling about being asked to help. Like I’m not being treated like an outsider. This morning, my plans consisted of eating FunDip while watching misguided fame whores choke down buffalo testicles on old reruns of Fear Factor. Now I’m standing in black stiletto heels in the middle of a Norman Rockwell painting. More thoughts to process for later. I should start writing a list so I won’t forget anything.

Dinner is actually the most enjoyable thing I’ve done in months. For all the pomp and circumstance of the table, Drew’s parents are completely down to earth. His father is self-deprecating and funny. His mother is sharp as a tack and doesn’t take crap from any of them. Drew turned up the well-bred charm and turned down the suggestiveness as soon as we’d walked into the house. He sits next to me and Josh is on the other side of him so I really can’t even see Josh at all throughout the meal. I make a note to count that particular blessing tonight. Sarah is seated across from me so I can’t avoid seeing her. She says nothing to me and remarkably little to everyone else, but with all the talking going on at the table, it seems to have gone unnoticed. I do catch her looking at me a lot and I can’t figure out if she’s angry or uncomfortable. Maybe she’s afraid it will come out how she’s treated me at school and she doesn’t want her parents to find out that she’s such a stereotypical bitch. They must have some clue. I’ve seen the way she acts with Drew and she can’t hide that all the time. Maybe sibling rivalry is acceptable here but treating other people like crap isn’t.

Once dinner is finished and we’ve all helped clear the dishes, Mrs. Leighton brings the cake over to the table along with an apple pie. Sarah follows behind her with a stack of plates and forks and a container of vanilla ice cream.

“This is delicious, Nastya. Where did you order it from? I need dessert for a dinner party in a couple of weeks and I’d love to bring one of these.”

I shake my head and point to myself.

“You?” She doesn’t sound shocked so much as intrigued. I nod. “From scratch?” I nod again. I only bake from scratch. I don’t have anything against mixes, they just seem like cheating and I don’t feel like I can take credit for them. It’s just a cake. It’s not music, but it’s something.

“I can’t bake at all,” she says. I’m sure she could. It’s not that hard; you just need to know the ratios and once you get those down you can play with it. It mostly comes down to math and science, which is funny, because I suck at math and science. “Josh knows someone who can bake. Don’t you?” She looks over at him and I get the feeling the question isn’t entirely innocent. I look down and push the cake around my plate into a pool of melting ice cream.

“Just someone from school.” He sounds as uncomfortable as I feel. I mentally will everyone to drop it and I think Josh may be doing the exact same thing. I really don’t want him to explain the circumstances surrounding how those cookies ended up on his porch. He obviously didn’t have any trouble figuring out they were from me, which means he knew exactly why they were there.

“Who?” Drew asks around a mouthful of chocolate cake. Interesting, though not entirely surprising. He didn’t tell Drew. I wonder how his mom knows. Josh is waiting just a little too long to answer and I see Mrs. Leighton’s gaze flick from him to me. She seems satisfied. She got her answer.

“Drew, talk with your mouth full again and you’ll be serving at my next book club meeting.” She points her fork in his direction and his mouth clamps shut. Obviously this is a threat of monumental proportions. He holds his hands up in surrender to his mother.

Once we finish cleaning up the dessert dishes, Mrs. Leighton makes coffee and we all sit on the oversized white couches in the living room. I decline the coffee. I don’t drink it, because no matter how much sugar I put into it, it is still tastes like ass-water to me. Maybe it’s just because my taste buds are so desensitized to sweet that anything not comprised of at least ninety percent sugar tastes wrong. Even if I was addicted to caffeine, in a dystopian future where coffee was an illegal controlled substance and I hadn’t gotten my hands on any in three days, I still would have refused it. I never would have overcome my horror if my hand decided to lose its grip while holding a full cup of coffee on one of those white brocade sofas. Sarah doesn’t drink any, either, so I guess it doesn’t seem strange. Josh drinks three cups of it, not that I’m counting.

I listen to everyone talk until the conversation dwindles and the coffee pot is empty. The phone rings, giving Sarah an escape she must have been desperate for, judging by how fast she jumps off the couch at the sound. Drew walks over to his mother and takes her empty cup. Josh takes Mr. Leighton’s and follows Drew back to the kitchen. I don’t have a coffee cup to use as an excuse to bolt, so I sit in awkward silence, hoping they don’t stay in the kitchen too long. I study the coffee table, not really wanting to make eye contact with either of Drew’s parents. It looks familiar to me. I tilt my head to study the legs and I realize that it’s almost identical in style to the one I had seen in Josh’s living room on the morning we shall not mention. The similarities in the design are clear, but this table is obviously newer. The surface of the wood and the finish are flawless. I don’t even realize that I’m leaning over and running my fingers along the curved wood of the table leg when Drew’s father speaks.

“Beautiful, isn’t it? Josh made it.” He’s staring, with pride, at the table, and thankfully, not at my face. My hand stops moving but I don’t look away from the table. I pull my arm in and settle back onto the sofa in time to see Josh standing in the doorway from the kitchen, watching us. Mr. Leighton looks up. “What was it, Josh? A Christmas gift?”

“Mrs. Leighton’s birthday.” Josh’s hands are shoved in his pockets and he’s looking past us at the table. He doesn’t step any further into the room until Drew comes in behind him, forcing him to move.

“Your big ass truck is blocking me in,” he says, slapping Josh on the back. “Sorry, Mom.” He turns, looking halfway contrite about his language. I’ve heard a lot worse than that out of his mouth. I wonder if he thinks his mother is even remotely fooled, because I’m betting she knows his act pretty well.

“Book club,” she taunts, holding up her hand as if balancing a tray.

“Noted,” he responds, shifting his attention back to Josh. “Can you please move your truck so I can take Nastya home?” he begs with sarcasm.

“Didn’t you say she lives in Josh’s neighborhood?” Mrs. Leighton asks. I think I actually hear her loading the bullets into that question.

Oh no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. Please no.

“Josh, can you drop her off? It’s silly for you both to go in the same direction when Josh is going there anyway.” She seems to look at all of us at once. How does she do that? We aren’t even standing next to one other. It’s more than unnerving.

Between Josh and I, I don’t know which one of us looks the most horrified. We’re both on equal ground with this one. Josh nods in resignation and I try to look like I think this is a good plan. A good, logical, practical, not-at-all-awkward plan.

Drew and his parents walk us out to the driveway. Sarah never re-emerged after the phone call, which is fine with me. Josh unlocks the car with his remote and Drew opens the door for me while I try to figure out how high I have to hike my skirt up to step into the truck without tearing it. I really don’t want to end the evening by flashing my pink heart polka dot underwear at Drew’s dad. Once I manage to get in, Drew’s mom comes over to the passenger side. Thankfully I’m already up and seated so I don’t have to worry about being hugged again, but what comes next is almost worse.

“Thank you for coming. It was so nice to meet you. We’ll see you next Sunday at six?” It’s a question without much question involved. She tilts her head sideways to look past me at Josh. “You can pick her up on your way, right?” She did it again. She’s good. I try to shake my head. I could write a note for this. This would be note-worthy. I look around frantically for a piece of paper but the truck is as barren as it was the first time I rode in it. Nothing. At this point I’m hoping Josh might save me, save us both. Maybe he has plans and will have to decline and I can nod in unison. No such luck.

“No problem. Thanks for dinner, Mrs. Leighton, Mr. Leighton,” he nods at Drew’s father.

“One day we’ll get you to call us Jack and Lexie,” he laughs, shaking his head as if he knows this will never happen. “Maybe when you’re thirty.”

“Good night, Mr. Leighton,” Josh responds.

Drew waves from the front porch, already on his cell phone, as Josh backs the truck down the long driveway. Ten minutes in a car with Josh Bennett feels much longer than ten minutes in a car with Drew. Drew fills all the silence without ever realizing that he’s doing it. Josh melts into the silence like he’s part of it. He doesn’t say a word on the way home until he pulls into Margot’s driveway for the third time now.

“You can get out of it if you want, you know. But you should go. She likes you.”

I nod and open the door to the truck. I can’t step down and reach the ground, and trying to jump in these shoes, no matter how short the distance, is not going to end with my ankles intact. I bend over and slide my left shoe off, followed by my right, and hop out onto the driveway, turning to shut the door.

“You’re going to need better shoes if you want to get near the tools. Mr. Turner will never let you in the construction area in those things.” He shakes his head as if he can’t believe he’s telling me this. I think it might physically hurt him to talk to me. I don’t know what the right response to that is. I don’t think Mr. Turner is planning to let me near the tools no matter what shoes I’m wearing. I nod again and close the door.

It’s almost ten at this point. Normally I would be throwing on sneakers and running clothes right about now. I’m torn in half between needing to run and knowing it can’t serve its whole purpose tonight. For the first time in two weeks, I’m not really sure I want to run. I think better when I’m moving and I have plenty to think about tonight, but that’s the problem. I don’t have a treadmill to run on here so I have to go out, but when I’m running outside, I have to fragment my mind. I have to keep part of it constantly, acutely aware of every sound, every echo, every movement going on around me. It makes it hard to figure out the things I need to figure out. It’s the same way I have to split my focus every time I’m around other people so I don’t accidentally respond to something or someone. It’s natural to want to talk and I have to remain constantly on alert so that I don’t slip. I thought it would get easier. It should have been harder when I first stopped. But it’s the opposite. When I first stopped I had absolutely nothing I wanted to say. I wasn’t tempted at all. Now, more and more, I find things I’m desperate to say. They constantly bombard my mind and I have to choke them back. It’s exhausting.

I decide against braving the assault on my senses and I stay in. This whole night has been draining enough.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 521