The Kissing Coach (14 page)

Each party has to be empathic to the other and their fears.

Ladies, in your profiles, please stop talking about your demands to be treated like a princess. You are single and using an internet dating site. You are
probably
not in line for a throne or title.

Guys, keep your answers brief, and do feel free to make a few jokes, but not so many as to appear flippant. I mean, save a few for the date, right? If you want to maximize your appeal, you have to leave a little breathing room in your profile so that women can fill in the blanks. You know what women love? Potential.

If you're a guy, you might consider using a photo of yourself looking healthy and attractive, but wearing a hideous shirt or tie. The woman can hold her thumb over the photo (as I've seen my client Justine do) and imagine you in a tuxedo, on your wedding day.

Justine and I finished up our session by going through her closet and making a shopping list of wardrobe essentials to purchase on our next shopping trip.

The list is important, because if you don't have a plan, you might buy a red leather jacket because it's on sale and blow your whole budget. (I speak from experience.)

As I was leaving her place, checking the bus schedule on my phone and feeling a little wobbly from the half-bottle of wine I'd enjoyed, I got a text message.

Devin:
When are you off work?

Me:
One minute ago!

Devin:
You should come back over to my place.

Me:
Should I?

Devin:
Please? Pretty please with sugar on top?

Me:
On my way. ;-)

That wasn't too painful, I thought as I knocked on the door of his apartment. I thought Devin would make me wait for days before calling. I'd barely had time to freak out over everything.

Was it possible things would simply be easy for us from this point on? I'd heard that love could be that way.
Love
. Gosh. I stood outside his door and tried not to think about the word
love
.

He pulled open the door with a flourish, saw me, and looked up and down the hall.

“That's odd,” he said. “I thought I ordered three hot girls from the Hot Girl Delivery service.”

I poked him on the chest as I walked into the apartment. “I don't think you're ready for three yet. You can barely handle this one.”

He grinned, looking so devilishly handsome with those thick, dark eyelashes over those dancing brown eyes. “I'd
like
to handle this one.”

I raised my arms to embrace him. “Handle away.”

He scooped me up in his arms, lifting me off the ground, then swirled me around until I squealed.

My toes touched the floor again, but my head was still spinning when he kissed me.

“Hmm,” he said against my lips.

I caught his lower lip between mine and sucked it loosely. Our mouths parted, our tongues touched, and he suddenly pulled back, as though jolted by electricity.

I stood still as he kept stepping back, his expression blank, his eyes wide.

I'd seen that look before; he was scared.

“What's wrong?” I asked. “Too soon? What?”

We were still standing just inside the door of his apartment, but Devin was inching away from me, further into the galley-style kitchen.

“You were drinking,” he said.

I gasped and covered my mouth. “Yes. I had some wine with Justine. I really shouldn't have, of course, but ...”

Staring into his eyes, gone dim and no longer dancing, I retraced our conversations for clues. At our first meeting in the coffee shop, he'd mentioned he didn't drink. I hadn't thought much of it at the time, of course, but now …

“Devin, why don't you drink? Did you ever have a drinking problem? Or is it a spiritual or religious thing? If so, I'm really sorry I didn't know, and that I kissed you with wine on my breath.”

He frowned, his eyes sad now.

“Talk to me.” I took a step toward him, but he pulled back by two.

My voice shaking, I said, “I can leave, if you want.”

He shook his head rapidly, still not saying anything.

I said, “I'm getting worried. Should we sit down somewhere and talk about this?”

He opened a cupboard, took out a glass, then poured some water and drank it down quickly, then refilled the glass.

“My mother used to kiss me goodnight,” he said.

I didn't know where this was going, but I didn't want to be standing at the edge of his kitchen. I didn't want him to clam up, either, so I stayed where I was.

“Yes?” I said, prompting him for more.

He opened the cupboard again, as though addressing someone inside it, and not me. “She could hide it from my father, because they never kissed. She said she didn't like his mustache.”

“Hide what?”

He turned to me, seemingly startled to not be alone.

His voice matter-of-fact, he said, “That she'd started drinking again.” He cleared his throat. “That she'd never actually quit at all.”

“And you kept her secret?”

“She gave me the bottles and I buried them in the neighbor's garbage.”

“The whole time you were growing up?”

He shrugged. “I guess.”

I remembered the things he'd told me at our previous meetings. He'd stopped getting a bedtime kiss, but I'd assumed it was just part of him getting older. Had it been to avoid knowing her secret, smelling it on her?

He opened the cupboard wide and stared into it again, as though it held the answer.

Had Devin's mother been drinking the night of the accident?

My stomach was heavy; my whole body was heavy, like cement, yet I wanted to turn and run.

“Devin, it's not your fault.”

When he answered, his voice sounded cold and distant. “Everybody's so quick to say that, because they don't want to believe the truth. We all have responsibilities.”

Though my instinct was to keep talking, keep reassuring and encouraging him, I remembered my limited amount of training and tried to step back and observe. His breathing was short and shallow, and he was in emotional distress, overloaded.

Stepping into the kitchen slowly, I said, “Let me make you a cup of tea. Would you like that? Chai? Or just regular tea?”

He nodded.

I stepped carefully around him and hunted everything down.

“Should I heat the milk on the stove?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Just use the chai teabags and add honey and milk when it's done.”

I made the tea as he watched, his breathing still shallow and his gaze unfocused.

With the mugs in hand, I walked over to his living room, where I found a couch similar to my own, but charcoal gray.

He sat next to me and we sipped our tea.

After a few minutes, he said, “I feel better now. Such a shock to the system to remember everything at once.”

“I can imagine.”

“You were right. About the kissing thing. There was a reason after all.” He gave me a strangely angry look. “Guess you're happy you're right.”

“Happy? No.”

I struggled to contain myself. I did not like his tone, did not appreciate the anger being directed at me. I hadn't done anything wrong, so why did I feel hurt, as though he was accusing me? And why did I feel guilty?

After several very long moments, he said, “Thanks for coming by, but I think I need some space.”

I stammered and pulled out my phone, scrolling through my contacts.

“Devin, I should refer you to someone else. Someone with actual experience in trauma. I'm trained to help people list their goals in point-form.”

“Yeah.”

“I feel awful. I feel like I've been practicing brain surgery without a license.”

“I'm fine,” he said, but his tone said otherwise.

My skin tightened, and I became smaller, shrinking in on myself. If I became small and hard, nobody could hurt me.

I wanted the release of crying, but I couldn't cry, not when he was the one in need.

“I'm okay,” he said. “Just … sorry I freaked out.”

“Let me give you some phone numbers.”

“No, I don't want that.”

“Not now, but you might, tomorrow.”

He snapped, “Fine. Do what you gotta do.”

What followed next was an awkward, stilted interaction where I made him find some paper and a pen, and write down some phone numbers for counselors I knew of.

When I left his apartment, we did not kiss goodbye.

As I walked down the hallway, he did not call after me that he'd be in touch. He closed the door.

It's over, I thought as I pressed the elevator button.

It's over.

I stepped into the elevator and rode down to the lobby.

It's over.

I walked all the way home.

It's over.

I turned my key in my door.

It's over.

Inside my apartment, I set my purse on the floor and curled up in a ball next to it.

Small and hard, like a pebble.

You can't hurt a pebble.

COPING WITH ANXIETY

1. Know this: Emotions are real and physical. A single thought can cause a reaction, with your brain triggering the release of stress hormones. You might tremble, sweat, or become tense. Your emotions are real, they're physical, and they matter.

2. The worst way to deal with anxiety is with denial of the issue.

3. Try to be loving toward yourself. Treat yourself at least as kindly as you'd treat your least favorite co-worker.

PART IV

We all make mistakes, and there should be no shame in a mistake you learn from.

Share your story with others and you won't be so afraid, and they won't be alone.

You might even … talk to your mother and find out you aren't so different after all.

My mother showed up at my place the next morning—Sunday morning—with croissants and takeout coffee. I'd posted something vague on Facebook the night before (and had no recollection of doing such), and she saw it as the cry for help it was.

We hadn't spoken since the day I'd been helping her paint, when I'd dropped the bombshell about the real reason I'd dropped out of college.

“Feather, what's going on?” She looked me up and down, as though my wrinkled pajamas might hold some clue.

“I just had a bad day. Such is life.”

She put the food on the kitchen island's counter and pulled out a stool for me.

I took a seat and she pushed the stool in, like she'd always done when I was growing up.

She disappeared to the bathroom, and I sipped my coffee and picked apart one of the croissants. A moment later, she was at my back, brushing my hair.

It had probably been a decade since she'd brushed my hair in the morning as I ate my breakfast cereal, but that time folded up to nothing.

“I feel like a little girl,” I said. “You used to braid my hair.”

“You're still a little girl to me,” she said. “You take so much pride in being self-sufficient, but you know half the time when I hear you say things, you're still a kid with her hair in tangles.”

“I'm nearly twenty-three.”

She paused in brushing my hair and I felt her kiss the top of my head.

“You're my baby. My one and only.”

“Stop. You're going to make me cry.”