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Like, what the actual hell? Does he volunteer as a professional consoler at funeral homes in his spare time?
He wraps an arm around my shoulder and gently guides me down a hall to a room that is undoubtedly his bedroom. “Here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna borrow a pair of pajama bottoms and a T-shirt from me. You can even take a shower if you want to. There are clean towels. I am gonna make you a drink.”
I open my mouth, about to protest, but he cuts me off.
“You’re not gonna worry about whether or not you’ve cried in front of me. Or whether or not you’re strong enough to handle things all on your own. Because you don’t like me anyway. So it’s okay to cry in front of me.”
A moment later, I’m alone in his bathroom, holding a stack of bath towels, pajama bottoms, and a white T-shirt. I stare at myself in the mirror for a moment. My eyes are red rimmed. My clothes, rumpled and damp from being in and out of the rain all afternoon. And sure enough, there’s still a smear of ick on my pant leg. Of course. It’s not like I thought it would miraculously vanish. I’m probably the only one who recognizes it’s chicken shit. But it’s still disconcerting.
You want to know what’s even worse than crying twice in one day? In front of Martin?
It’s that it somehow doesn’t seem that bad.
It’s like … okay, so I lost my shit and cried in front of a relative stranger. And I survived. Maybe it’s because Martin doesn’t feel like a stranger anymore. He doesn’t feel like a lawyer I barely know and am not supposed to like. He feels like more than that. Not like a friend, exactly. Because for some reason I can argue with him in a way I would never dream of doing with a friend.
Intellectually, I still know how much I hate crying in front of other people. How much I hate feeling like I’m making other people responsible for my emotions when I do so. It’s part of my core identity that I feel like the caretaker. The emotionally stable one.
In a family full of hot-headed chefs, I was the one who just … wasn’t.
Not a chef. Not hot-headed. Not overly-emotional.
And yes, I know that my emotional experience is as valid as anyone else’s, blah, blah, blah. And, yes, these are all things I’m working through in therapy.
But there’s a difference between working on something in therapy and miraculously being okay with something in real time. Out in the wilds of life.
So why did it feel okay to cry in front of Martin? Why does it feel okay to have him take care of me? I don’t let anyone take care of me. So why do I let him do it?
Is it because I (ostensibly) don’t like him?
Maybe.
Though it’s pretty obvious that’s not actually true anymore, what between all the feeding me and the Velveteen Rabbit analogies my stupid brain keeps making.
If you’d asked me twelve hours ago, I would have said I didn’t care what he thought of me because he was a selfish asshat and a lawyer. But now?
Now I’m just not sure.
The only thing I do know is that no amount of indulgent, soul-searching in Martin’s bathroom is going to give me the answers. So, I pull out my phone, drop a pin on my location, and send it to my sister, along with a note that I’m staying at a friend’s for the tornado watch. Just in case. Then I crank up the hot water and scrub off the shitty day, while pretending it’s not weird to be showering in the bathroom of a man I barely know. It’s not weird. It’s not. It doesn’t feel sensuous or luxurious at all.
Sure.
And no, I don’t huff the scent of Martin’s body wash like it’s heroin. At least not much. And, yes, it is the source of the deliciously male bergamot scent that complements his own scent so well.
When I get out of the shower all squeaky clean, I turn my underwear inside out then put them back on. I hesitate about my bra. It’s black lace and will undoubtedly show through the white T-shirt, so I decide to skip it.
My sister, Savannah, got the big boobs in the family. My mom used to describe my tits as “the sports model.” And yes, that’s exactly as awkward as it sounds, just in case you’re wondering why I’m in therapy.
By the time I’m dressed, Savannah has replied to my text.
Thanks for checking in!
We’re only getting rain out here and I hadn’t realized it was so bad in town.
But … come on!
Who is this mysterious friend you’re staying with?
Please tell me it’s not Trent.
