The Girl He Loves Page 16

  * * *

  My next appointment with Dr. Russell comes just in the nick of time. I’m jittery as I wait. I’ve brought my Kindle, and when I skim over the same paragraph about three times, I decide to abandon the book I’m reading. I flip through the psychology magazines on the coffee table, but none of the articles grab my interest. I stare at the plants in the corner and the art on the walls; soothing paintings of nature. I read the framed inspirational message.

  We Are All Broken. That’s How the Light Gets In.

  Finally, Dr. Russell opens her office door, and a mother and son walk out. The mother thanks her as the boy stares down at the floor. I avoid eye contact and turn my gaze away.

  “All ready for you, Mischa,” Dr. Russell cheers. I eagerly bounce off my chair and practically sprint into her office — I have so much to share. I desperately need her advice. Although I know I’m probably not going to take it.

  Dr Russell starts with her usual, “How have you been, Mischa?” When a friend or acquaintance asks that question, they usually aren't looking for a sob story or every detail of your day. They are just being polite and are hoping for a “Good. How are you?” But Eva wants the sob story, all the details. She wants me to pour my heart out. That’s her job. And the more transparent I am with her, the more effective our therapy is. In fact, it had been so successful as of late, we’ve talked about switching our sessions to once a month. Then I discovered Ava’s photo, and I was back at square one, and all Dr. Russell’s good work was thrown out the window.

  “I’ve been a mess,” I admit. “‘I’ve been bad.”

  She raises a brow and eyes me curiously. “How so?”

  I bite my bottom lip like a petulant child sitting at the principal’s office. “I’m sorry, Eva… I didn’t listen to you.”

  A whisper of a smile traces her lips. “You never do. It’s expected. It’s all part of your psychology. What I asked of you was nearly impossible.”

  “I went to the studio and I’ve been hanging out with Joel,” I confess. “I’ve only fallen deeper. He’s all I can think about, and it’s not only him… it’s her too, his wife, Renee, and their daughter. I just can’t keep away. I want to know everything about their lives. I want answers to my questions.”

  She crosses a leg over the other, and shifts in her curved leather egg-shaped chair. She’s wearing fabulous shoes today — ruby colored, two ankle straps criss cross over her delicate ankles. The clasps are gold and match her long necklace. “Well, it makes sense and it is absolutely normal,” she tells me. “Because of Ava and your suspicions about her, your life is entwined in theirs, and you want to know more. Only, I think you’re afraid of the answers.”

  I nod. Exactly.

  “Have you talked to Brian?” she asks softly. “It’s crucial that you do. Perhaps he can give you the answers you so desperately seek.”

  “I can’t,” I tell her. “I’m afraid it will change everything, shake up the status quo.”

  “Yes, Mischa,” she says patiently. “We both know how order is important to you. You struggle with any kind of change, and this is… this is a huge change, a giant adjustment.”

  I sigh. “Yes, I’m not the most adaptable person. I’m not a ‘go with the flow’ kind of gal.”

  She laughs. “And that’s perfectly okay, Mischa. We’ll get you through this.”

  I exhale a long breath of relief. Thank god for Dr. Russell. “Thank you.”

  “I also like to hold this secret in the palms of my hands,” I confess. “It’s mine right now. No one knows what I know. Joel doesn’t know, neither does Brian. And Renee… I’m not sure about Renee.”

  “Have you seen her again?”

  I look away, toward the window, not capable of facing Eva. I’ve behaved so badly. I feel like I’ve disappointed her. I often feel that way. Trying to be normal is a constant struggle. “I went to her store again,” I admit. “In fact, it’s where I bought this whole outfit.” I kick up my foot. “Louboutins. This whole outfit costs just under four hundred dollars.”

  She smiles. “Great deal. Love it.”

  The thing I love bout Eva — she never judges. I suppose that’s all part of the job. She’s like the compassionate older sister I never had. My sisters are anything but kind and understanding.

  “Anyway, Renee knew who I was. She knew that I lied about my name the first time I went to the store. She remembered me from a party years ago, and so did I. That summer… was the night I think she and Brian…” my words trail off. I really don’t want to go back to that. I’ve been so desperately trying not to think about it. I’ve been burying my head in the sand. Instead of obsessing over it, I’ve diverged my compulsions to Joel and Renee and Ava. It’s a common tactic for people like me. When you're extremely upset about something, you start to obsess over something else, something somewhat or completely unrelated.

  When I lost my job at the Gap, I became obsessed with watching reruns of Friends. When a friend passed away, when the boys were young, I became obsessed with collecting boys’ clothing and decorating their rooms — I didn’t want to think about my own mortality. I’d spend all my free hours shopping, online and in stores. It got so bad, it affected our finances.

  And here I am at it again. Obsessed with Facebook, yoga and consignment shopping… and three beautiful people.

  The rest of the session is productive. I confess everything, and Eva and I go over a recovery plan. This includes an allotted amount of daily time on social media — fifteen minutes a day. A plan of action for when I’m particularly vulnerable, when I’m tempted to browse Facebook or visit Renee’s store. Everything from time with my family, a walk, a bubble bath… a favorite show. A single session at Juliette’s studio per week (this will be the most challenging part). I promise with the best of intentions that I’ll return to my old yoga studio. And most importantly, a plan to talk to Brian.

  I leave Dr. Russell’s office feeling about a hundred pounds lighter. I have hope. I can get through this with her by my side.

  25

  As per Dr. Russell’s instructions, I’m indulging in a little self-care. I’m stretched out in a warm bath. The red-tipped toes of my right foot are pressed against the wall tiling, my left knee protrudes from a mound of bubbles. It feels good, but unfortunately I haven’t quite escaped my thoughts. I can do this, I tell myself. I haven't seen Joel or Renee in about a week, and I’m still alive, still functioning. I’ve only creeped them on the web twice. I’m getting better. I haven’t spoken to Brian yet… I’m a coward.

  I’ve been keeping my phone and laptop out of sight, in an effort to escape the compulsion to behave badly. Unfortunately, I’m expecting an important email for work, so this is how I justify its presence in the palm of my hand as I lay in the bath. I press the round button, bring it to life, and click on the Facebook icon. I tell myself that I won’t touch the search function. I’m just scrolling my feed, seeing what’s new with my friends and acquaintances. I’m pleasantly surprised to see I have a new friend request. My breath hitches when I press on the icon — it’s from Joel.

  I know I should dismiss it, but there’s no way I’m doing that. I only hesitate about five seconds before accepting his request. A message appears and my foolish heart skips a beat, hoping that it might be him. Disappointment hits me when I see that it’s just one of Facebook’s annoying Say hi to your new Facebook friend messages.

  No, I won’t wave hi. That’s just plain creepy and lame. I shake my head and throw my phone on the pile of towels sitting on the bench next to the bath.

  And then, the obsession begins. When will he message me? I want to slap myself. I really do. I’m such a pathetic crazy bitch. Who cares if he messages me. He’s just a guy I barely know. He’s married to a goddess, and I have a husband too. I’m acting selfishly and foolishly. I’m ashamed of myself.

  But I can’t help it. I hate myself. What I wouldn’t give to be normal. Are my friends like this? Is Gretchen obsessing over the order of the cereal
boxes in her kitchen cupboard? Is Abigail desperately awaiting a message from some random guy? Is Claudia obsessed with a woman she barely knows? Are any of them creeping on people on Facebook for hours?

  Would they drop me like a hot potato if they knew what I was really like?

  * * *

  It’s been two days since I’ve accepted Joel’s Facebook friend request, and I’ve come to terms with the fact that he’s not sending me a ‘hello’ message. I’m in the middle of folding laundry when I absentmindedly pick up my phone. I have a Messenger message and I expect it to be either Claudia, Abigail or Gretchen — they’re always sending me messages. Claudia likes to send me memes. Gretchen favors inspirational messages, and Abigail usually just says hi, or rants about something.

  My heart stops for a second when I see that the message is from Joel.

  Hi, Mischa. Thanks for accepting my friend request. Are you going to class this Thursday? There’s this cool store nearby I thought we could check out.

  The speed in which I respond is appalling. I don’t even consider it for two seconds.

  Yes, I’ll be there. Sounds great!

  I drop my phone and bury my face in the sheet I’m folding, ashamed of myself.

  On a scale of one to ten, my mood is a ten, and I hate the fact that my mood can be so easily affected by a single human being who’s not even in my circle, in my life. He should not affect me so. Brian and the boys, perhaps my girlfriends, should be the only ones who have that power.

  But as it were, my dysfunctional brain has sunk its claws into Joel — he’s my newest obsession, and to that end, about ninety percent of my thoughts are unfortunately devoted to him. If he only knew how crazy I really am, I’m sure he’d have nothing to do with me.

  Or perhaps, he’d want to help me. He’s such a caring and giving soul.

  * * *

  Every grin he shoots my way throughout the class sends a frenzy of butterflies whirling in my stomach. I know it’s all chemical; dopamine, endorphins, adrenaline — those feel-good hormones my brain is inundated with every time I see him. I remember when Brian used to have that effect on me too, but twenty years together has faded that over the years. Unfortunately, he cannot compete with a new crush, with that not-quite-knowing what’s going to happen next. I know why I’ve so easily made Joel my new obsession, because he makes me feel good… excited. He’s my new addiction.

  We’re sitting across from each other, sipping our smoothies. Freshly showered, he’s looking as sexy as always, and if looks weren’t enough, he actually has a book with him. It’s sitting next to his smoothie. The cover is yellow, green and red; beautiful artwork. The title reads: The Four Agreements, A Practical Guide to Personal Freedom.

  God, how I wish it were that easy. Read a book and attain freedom from all your personal demons. The only person I need freedom from is my wicked self.

  He grabs the book. “I wanted to show you this book… it’s one of my favorites. I read it every year to remind myself of what’s really important.”

  I nod, quite interested.

  His smile fades. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this,” he starts off slowly, “but there’s something a little sad about you.”

  His words cut like a knife. I am sad. Very sad. I was hoping he hadn’t noticed.

  “You often seem to be lost in thought, like you’re struggling with yourself, like you’re unsure. You don’t seem quite at ease.”

  I realize that Joel is an extremely intuitive person, and perhaps that’s what has attracted me to him so fiercely. And all along, I thought it was just those eyes and that smile.

  He hands me the book, and I study the illustration; four leaf designs — they almost look like cannabis leaves. Truth be told, it looks a lot like some hippie granola nonsense. Of course I humor him, and flip through the pages and feign interest.

  “It’s a really simple concept,” he tells me. “Basically, the first agreement is to be wise with your words, which I fully live by. Lord knows, I’ve regretted some of the things I’ve said to people, after the fact.”

  “Me too,” I say. “I think every single person on earth has.”

  “The gist of the second agreement is ‘it’s not about you,’” he goes on. “I think we generally focus on ourselves too much. We never take into account what could be going on with someone else.”

  I nod, in complete agreement.

  “The third one is ‘Never make assumptions’ because when you make assumptions, you’re bound to be disappointed.”

  “So true.” That’s exactly what I just did. I expected him to be there for every class, and when he wasn’t, I was incredibly upset.

  “And lastly, do your best,’” he says, “It that’s simple. It doesn’t need to be perfect, as long as you just do it.”

  I smile. “Like Nike says, Just Do It.”

  He grins, and I realize there’s so much more to him than his good looks and charm. He’s really progressive and very emotionally intelligent, and that’s exactly the kind of friend I need right now.

  “Can I borrow it?” I ask, and I mean it. He’s managed to convince me, quite easily.

  He smiles. “Of course… that’s why I brought it.”

  I sip the last of my smoothie. “So about that store you mentioned… are we still doing that?”

  “Of course.”

  We head over to the shop, and I widen my step to keep up with him. We talk about our families. When he mentions Renee, I picture her at her store, her easy smile, the fall of her long golden locks, Grant just behind her, his hand on her hip. For a moment, I wonder if I should mention it to Joel. But there’s no way I would. It’s really none of my business. And I couldn’t stand the heartache it would cause him. As they say, what you don’t know can’t hurt you.

  As much as I like Joel, I’m not looking to hook up with him. I’m not looking to steal him away from his wife. I’m not a home wrecker. I’m not looking to cheat on my husband and wreck both our lives.

  And there’s no way I’m going to bring up Ava either, especially when I haven’t even spoken to Brian about it.

  The Stylish Jester is a fantastic place, and I can’t believe I’ve never been here before. Joel tells me he’s here all the time, and when he chats up Charlene, the boutique owner, it becomes quite obvious that he’s a regular. My eyes dart across the space — it’s so colorful; funky prints and bright colors abound. Andy Warhol prints dot the walls, and a colorful bowl of lollipops sits at the counter. Charlene is wearing a rainbow dress, paired with tall lace-up boots, pigtails, red lipstick and black hipster glasses.

  I’m drawn to a mannequin wearing a fifties inspired polka dot pink dress. I drag my fingers along the fabric. I love it, but I’m not quite sure it’s me.

  “Don’t you love that?” Joel says.

  “I do,” I tell him. “But I’m not sure it’s me. It’s a little flamboyant. I’m usually more conservative.”

  He smiles widely. “Just because you’re an accountant, doesn’t mean you have to dress like one. If anyone can pull that dress off, it’s you,” he tells me. “With your tiny frame and cute hair…” His words trail off.

  “You don’t think I’m too old for it?”

  He laughs. “Well, if you’re too old, I am too. How old are you, anyway?”

  I just love how direct he is. “Thirty-six.”

  His jaw drops. “Me too!”

  I knew that.

  “When’s your birthday?” he asks.

  “April 17th.”

  “Mine is August 15th,” he says, beaming. “I’m younger than you.”

  I knew that too. “Oh, well, perhaps I should be careful. You young things are so wild.”

  He laughs and grabs the dress in a size small. “You’re trying it on.”

  26

  He selects some black pumps for me to try on with the dress — size seven. I smile as he hands them to me, and I wonder for a second if Brian even knows my shoe size.

  “I’d like to browse a
little more before I go try this on,” I tell him. I want to chat. I need more intel. I absentmindedly peruse the colorful clothing on the hangers, feeling their textures between my fingers; silk, soft cotton, sheer fabrics. I press some items against the length of my body. “So how long have you and Renee been together?” I ask. A very acceptable question, yet my heart is pounding.

  He grins. “Forever,” he says, not a hint of regret in his tone. “Since grade nine in high school… this blouse would look great on you.” He pulls a pretty frilly short sleeved white blouse from the rack.

  I pick it up and pretend to study it. “Wow… so…” I do the match quickly in my head — I have mad math skills. “Twenty-two years.”

  He laughs. “I guess. Damn… I’m old.”

  “Me too,” I joke. So it appears that Brian was not the only one who cheated. Renee was guilty too. I’m suddenly brought back to her store and the sight of Grant’s hand pressed so intimately on her hip. Joel doesn’t deserve this — he’s a sweet guy. I want to say something but it would be inappropriate to meddle. I also don’t want to blow my cover. I don’t want him to know what a crazy stalker I really am. I like the version of me he sees — a sweet, normal woman.

  Not too many people see me that way.

  “Brian and I are high school sweethearts too… twenty years together.”

  “Really?” he says. “Isn’t it amazing how you and I have so much in common?”

  “Do we?” We actually do, which is probably the reason I’m so obsessed with him. Our friendship feels like a meeting of souls. It’s brand new, but it feels deeper, more real than many other friendships I’ve had.

  “So you and Renee met in high school? Were you in the same grade?” I ask, wanting to know how old she is — it’s been driving me crazy. Her birthday is not listed on her Facebook profile. She must be about my age.