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I glance up at him. His serious face tells me he isn’t joking.
“You can’t do that, Gabriel. You can’t beat yourself up when you’re struggling with your feelings.”
I knew what this was. I’ve seen it with Gabe. Although my son usually stims or cries when he’s dealing with things. It seems his father’s go to is self-harm.
“I need an outlet,” he replies. “I have to….. funnel the rage somewhere.”
“Pick up a hobby. Try knitting, or hiking. Hell, fuck it out of your system. Just don’t do this shit again,” I angrily toss the towel to the bench before looking for the ointment I use for Gabe’s cuts.
“I’m sorry.” He says lowly.
I sigh. “It’s okay. Just do better next time.”
We’re silent again as I rub the cream over his knuckles. Once I’m finished cleaning him up, I place all my first aid stuff back in the box and carry it back to the bathroom.
“Do you like him?”
I startle when his words come from behind me suddenly. I turn to find a still shirtless Gabriel leaning against the open door.
“Who?” I ask, even though I know exactly who he is talking about.
“The psychologist.”
Folding my arms over my chest I lean against the sink. “How do you know he’s a psychologist?”
The look Gabriel gives me has me chuckling. I don’t even know why I asked that question. Dropping my arms down at my side, I shrug.
“He’s nice. He’s interested in me. And he seems to get my jokes.”
“But do you like him?”
I look away from Gabriel, gathering my thoughts. It’s not that I don’t like Andrew. He’s handsome, successful, makes me feel excited, and a great catch. But as always there is something missing between us. Just like it was with all the other guys I went out with. I don’t know what it is.
“You know what it is. You just don’t want to admit it.” My thoughts scream in my head.
“He’s okay,” I say, finally answering Gabriel. “I can’t be too picky. It’s not like I have a bunch of options beating at my door.” I laugh, before tucking a braid behind my ear.
He’s silent for a moment, watching me as if he can read every thought that runs through my mind. I ignore the way my heart races and the fluttery feeling in the pit of my stomach when he looks at me.
“Why don’t you?”
I scoff, shaking my head. “Did you forget how we met?” his brows knit together as if he’s confused, or he finally remembered. “You couple that with the fact that I’m a single mother, and well, I’m just not at the top of anyone’s list.”
He’s quiet again, watching me. “Fuck their lists.”
“Easy for you to say. You have no desire to be in a relationship. I, however, want to be in love. I want to have someone to wake up to every morning and go to sleep with at night. I want to dance in my kitchen, I want to watch sunsets, I want someone to bring me tea without me asking.” I turn my back to him, facing the mirror at the sink. I pull my braids out of the half up and half down style I put them in.
“I know it sounds crazy, but I want the type of love that is written about. The kind that inspires others. I want him to not just understand me, but to know my past, know how it shaped me, but don’t hold it against me.”
I think that is why all my other dates never fully connected. Half of the time I didn’t tell them about who I once was, and the few that I did kept saying things like, you’re not her anymore and you’ve moved on. Yes, I’m no longer on drugs but I will always be a recovering addict. My years on drugs may not have been pretty, but they shaped who I was.
“Despite what people may think,” I say, finishing my thoughts. “I am capable of love. And one day I’m going to find the right person to show it to.”
I turn to face him again. His hands are balled into fists at his side as he silently stares at me.
“When I do, I’ll let you walk me down the aisle at my wedding,” I joke to ease the tension.
He tilts his head, his brow arches. “Not unless you want to see what the inside of your groom’s skull looks like.”
