Beautiful Rose (9 page)

“I asked him out for Tacos.” Darcy’s eyes widened, her mouth falling open.

Yep. That’s just about how I felt too. I had
no
idea what came over me. Tacos, of all things? And who asks their new boss out, only hours after getting the job? And for
Tacos
of all things? The biggest shock was when he said yes.

“Why Tacos?” Darcy asked, confused.

“Because I like them,” I replied defensively. “I can’t believe he actually agreed though.”

“Neither can I,” muttered Darcy.

I raised my eyebrows at her and she giggled.

“I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just so….not
Jack
.” We both sat in silence for a moment, Darcy finally breaking the silence. “Okay, enough about him. Tell me about you,” She ordered, kicking her legs out over my lap. I smiled. She was so laid back, and it was impossible not to love her. We already had more of a connection than I’d had with any friend in my life.

“Me? There's not much to tell. I grew up in Manhattan, but had a falling out with my parents.” I waved my hand around. “Which is why I'm here.”

Darcy nodded. “I know that feeling. I haven't spoken to my mom since I left home five years ago. My childhood was less than enjoyable. Mom drank a lot, and when she drank she got violent.”

“That would’ve been awful,” I replied, wincing. At least my parents never hit me. Probably because that would’ve meant acknowledging me

Darcy shrugged. “It was, but I guess in a way going through what I did made me who I am today.”

Why couldn’t I be like that and accept things were bad for me and grow from it? In spite of her tiny physique, Darcy was shaping up to be one of the strongest people I’d known.

Maybe some of that self-assurance would rub off on me.

“So, where is Benj?” I asked, glancing around.

“He’s at the gym. He gets free workouts in exchange for running some wrestling classes.”

“He’s a wrestler?” It didn’t really surprise me, he was built like the Hulk.

“Was. In high school he was on the state team. He was on track for a scholarship to college until he injured his back pretty bad. But Benj being Benj took it in his stride and moved on to another path. He did some security for some well-known singers, then eventually he wound up at the bar.”

 “From protecting performers to working in a dingy bar. That’s a bit of a step down. “Is that where you met him?” I cringed when I realized how insulting that sounded. Thankfully, Darcy didn’t seem to mind.

“Yeah. I applied for a job as a waitress, and that’s how we met. He started off just doing the odd shift, but then he and Jack got into performing. He was enjoying the bar more than his other work, so he bit the bullet and quit.” She glanced at her watch. “Ha, it’s almost lunch time already. I have no idea where the morning went.”

Crap. If I didn’t get moving I’d be late for my appointment. I chugged back the rest of my drink and stood up.

“Look, I have to go. I have an appointment, but I'll come back later if that's okay?”

“Of course,” Darcy smiled.

“Thanks Darcy, for everything,” I said, hugging her. She squeezed me back.

#

My parents had paid for ten sessions with Doctor Jensen, which were apparently non-refundable. I say that because I was sure they would've done just that if they had the option. I had talked myself in and out of going about ten times already, but here I was, standing outside his office. What harm could it do to use them up?

I walked in, shutting the door behind me. I was the first appointment of the day, which suited me because it meant I didn't have to make small talk with other people waiting. I grabbed a magazine and took a seat in one of the armchairs, crossing one leg over the other.

I'd barely flipped it open when Doctor Jensen appeared and smiled at me. I nodded in response, then stood up and followed him into the room. The couple of sessions I'd had with him had been awkward. It wasn't that he wasn't a nice man—quite the opposite actually. He had a grandfatherly feel about him, his graying hair, and the soft wrinkles around his eyes adding to his age. I just found it hard to open up to people I didn't connect with right away. I didn't like putting myself on the line, which was basically what his sessions forced me to do."

Rose, how are you today?" He walked around and sank into his office chair while
as I sat down in one of the two chairs that faced the desk. He was soft-spoken, and so calm that part of me just wanted to shake him to get some kind of reaction from him.

"I'm okay," I said. "How are you?" I added. How are you? Who asks the psychiatrist that? What, were we on a date? Or two friends catching up for coffee?

He chuckled. "I'm fine, thanks Rose. What do you think we should talk about today?" I sighed. He we go again.

How would I know what was best to be talking about?
He
was the doctor. It wasn't
my
choice to be here. Well it was my choice, but it wasn’t how I wanted to spend my spare time. The sessions may have been paid for, but it was up to me to attend. Nobody was holding a gun to my head. I was there, accepting help of my own free will and I wasn’t quite sure what that meant. I’d never been forthcoming about treatment before because I was adamant that nothing could help me.

"I hear the Red Sox are a good shot at winning this weekend; maybe we should talk about that?" I suggested, only half joking. I groaned internally. I didn’t even
like
baseball.

He let out a loud laugh. "Were not here to talk about sports. We’re to talk about you. I want to start today with something heavy—is that okay with you?" I shrugged.

Sure, why not? How heavy could it get?

"How old were you when you first attempted suicide?" Ok
a
y, that was pretty heavy.
I began to sweat under my layers of clothes. I crossed my legs awkwardly, so badly wanting to run out of the room.

"That's all in my notes--."

"I want to hear it from you. I want to hear how you felt," he cut in, his eyes boring into mine. God, I felt so uncomfortable talking to him about this.

I nodded, swallowing hard. "Okay. Well, the first time? I was seven." The words made me feel sick, as if I was back to seven years old again, that same feeling of terror racing through me.

 What seven-year-old attempts suicide? At that age, my biggest worries should have been what to dress my teddy bear up in, not contemplating death. It freaked me out to think about how fucked up I was.

My first suicide attempt might have been at seven, but the thoughts were there long before then. My earliest childhood memories were full of anxiety and fear of death. There was no reasonable explanation for my behavior. There was no abuse, and I hadn't even had to deal with death as a child. In fact, my first real experience of anyone dying was when I was sixteen and my grandfather died. He was my last living grandparent; the others had all died well before I was born.

"Do you remember what happened? When you were seven?" Doctor Jensen asked.

I remembered it like it was last week. I could close my eyes and be back in that house, on that day. The feeling of dread I felt. The worthlessness. The anxiety that was eating through my body. I’d just wanted it all to go away.

"I remember the crushing feeling in my chest. I remember sitting on my mom's bed, her open pill bottle in one hand, staring at the mountain of tiny white pills in my other hand.” My voice shook as I revealed one of my most intimate memories. “I remember thinking what's the point? We live to die. Death is inevitable, so what’s the point in going through the motions when you’re only going to die anyway?" I laughed, tears welling in my eyes. "I mean, who thinks like that, much less a child?" My chest tightened, the anxiety beginning to rise as I forced the words out.

"What happened after that?" he pushed gently.

I closed my eyes, and imagined I was talking to Alex. For whatever reason, I trusted him and talking to him seemed easier than this guy. "I took the pills. It took me six mouthfuls of water to get them all down. Then I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes, waiting.... Waiting for something better. I remember thinking, over and over, there
has
to be something better than this." I exhaled loudly, picking at a non-existent thread on my skirt. "The next thing I knew I was in hospital. I was so young, that everyone had treated it like it was accident."

“Did you tell anyone the truth?”

 “My mother,” I admitted. I shook my head. “Do you know what she did? She told me off for lying.” I laughed through my tears. “She said it was an accident, and we wouldn't be speaking of it again.” I thought back through all the times in my childhood that screamed 'this child needs help'. God, there were so many of them.

Moments where if my parents had acted differently, then just maybe I wouldn't be so fucked up today. I'd always thought that although my childhood was less than perfect, my parents weren't to blame for my problems. Maybe they weren't responsible, but I didn't doubt for a second that the way they handled things had messed me up even more.

Moments where, if my parents had acted differently, then just maybe I wouldn't be so fucked up today. I'd always thought that although my childhood was less than perfect, my parents weren't to blame for my problems. Maybe they weren't responsible, but I didn't doubt for a second that the way they handled things had messed me up even more
.

“Look, I have to go. I'm sorry, but this was a bad idea.” I stood up, wrapping my jacket around me. I grabbed a handful of tissues, and headed for the door. Before he could respond, I had fled the office.

Outside, I struggled to breathe. My lungs felt deflated. I couldn't handle another therapist. Opening myself up and pouring out all my secrets and problems to a total stranger made me feel more anxious than the actual problems did. That wasn’t getting help; that was setting myself up for failure.

I rounded the corner, heading toward my car, trying to stem the tears that were flowing down my cheeks. I glanced down momentarily and ran into something hard. And muscular. Did I just squeeze his chest?
Oh god, shoot me now
.

“Rose?”

I looked up into Alex's warm eyes. He reached for my hand to steady me. I was shaking, and even more embarrassed that it was Alex, and not some random stranger.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, leading me off the path and over to a bench.

Sitting down, I shook my head, and looked up at the tree that was towering over us. Tiny white flowers were beginning to blossom.

“I can't do this, Alex. I can't talk to Doctor Jensen about my problems. I can barely understand them myself, and I feel like he's judging me.” I sniffled, accepting the tissue he handed me. He grinned as I loudly blew my nose. “What?” I shot back. He shrugged, still chuckling.

“I feel like I get judged by him too if it helps,” he joked. I giggled. It did help, a mental image of Alex and Jensen entering my head.

“How about you talk to me?” he asked gently. I glanced at him, not sure if he was serious.

“You?” I repeated, as though I'd never heard anything more stupid in my life.

“Yes. I’m a psychologist Rose. I do have
some
experience in this kind of thing.”

I blushed as he chuckled.

"Rose, I want to help you, but I can’t if you won’t talk to me."

I closed my eyes and breathed in as the smell of rain engulfed me. I loved the smell of rain. Something about the earthiness of it made me feel comforted. It was hard to explain . . . and weird. Very weird. 

Deep down, I think I did want help. I needed somebody to understand me. I needed someone to explain why I felt the way I did.

I toyed with the edge of the bench, using my nail to run small lines in the soft wood. "I don't need another therapist."

"What
do
you need?" he asked me.

"A friend?" I said. I blushed.

How fucking sad was I? Did I seriously just ask a shrink to be my friend? His face softened as he waited for me to say something else. I tried again.

"Everything is so clinical. The only people I spoken to—who I've ever
really
spoken to—were therapists. I know it sounds silly, but I feel like I need someone to just chat with about random shit."

"Okay," he agreed, with a nod of his head. I furrowed my brow, watching as his hair flopped over his face. He looked so much like his brother. They both had the same dark curly hair, the same deep, soul-searching eyes, the same sexy, hard bodies . . .

Fuck. Get a grip, Rose!

"Rose?"

"Sorry," I muttered, my face flushing. "Okay, what?"

Could I act any stranger? He must think I’m a complete knobhead!

"Talk about shit." He said it so simply, as if just like that we could move from therapist/patient to friends. "Tell me about yourself. Not your problems. Tell me the good things about Rose."

"I like to sing." I shrugged, remembering Jack catching me the other day. A small smile formed on my lips as I thought about Jack. Way too old for me, but he seemed like a nice guy; the type of person I'd enjoy having as a friend.

"That's pretty cool. I used to play drums as a kid. My brother and I formed a band once," he said with a smirk.

I laughed. "Really? Wow, what happened?"

"Nothing worth telling. It didn't last long. My brother plays guitar really well. He performs at a few places around town. Have you ever sung in public?"

"No." I shook my head. "I'm not really about all that shit. I just like to sing because it makes me feel good."

"What kind of music do you like?" he asked.

"Anything with decent vocals. I listen to a lot of indie music; undiscovered bands, and all that. I write my own songs too," I added shyly.

"Wow, really? That's impressive," he said. And he did look impressed.

I blushed. "It's kind of my release. My way of trying to deal with my feelings. I can lose myself in music and forget who I am, if that makes sense. It’s like reading a book, but requires no energy. I can just immerse myself in the beat and the lyrics, and be someone else.”