Page 60 of Twisted Needs

I’ve had tons of counselors and therapists over the years, but I’ve been seeing Helen now for five years and she’s been the key to holding myself accountable and “actualizing” my feelings through “words and actions.” I can’t really put what’s wrong with me into my own words. There’s just so many things about myself that make it difficult navigating relationships with my friends and my family sometimes. “Too many,” I sigh, fully self-aware. “I just feel like he’s the only basket I have.”

“He isn’t,” Helen tells me softly. “He’s the only basket you want to have.”

I blink.

“You can’t just latch onto one person and expect them to give you exactly what you need. It doesn’t work like that.”

“I know.” No matter how many times she tells me, I can’t seem to remember it in the heat of a moment. “Obviously he’s not the only person I rely on for stuff. It’s just that I want something from him and he’s just dangling it in front of my face.”

“I see,” she nods, using her cryptic therapist voice where I can’t read her at all. “Have you been writing about any of this in your journal?”

Suddenly the box of my fully-written journals beneath my bed feels like a land mine just collecting dust. “I’ve been busy with class,” I lie.

Helen obviously doesn’t believe me. “You love writing,” she flatly retorts. “Writing is your outlet. It’s your safe space.”

The truth is that I know I’m just hurting myself by hanging onto a loose thread.

“Do you remember why we had you start writing in the first place?” Helen asks. “Do you remember writing down the feelings you couldn’t voice to your brother so he knew how to help you?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Surrounding yourself with people who can’t handle being emotionally intelligent does nothing to help you heal.”

“Honestly, Helen,” I sigh. “I don’t even know what I’m trying to heal from anymore. It just feels like I’m caught in a pool with walls too high to climb out of. I don’t know.”

“Write about it,” is all she says. “Not every problem can be solved in your head.”

“Yeah,” I murmur. “Okay. I’ll start writing again.”

“For yourself,” she adds. “Don’t write for anyone else. I want you to make sense of what you’re feeling before you even try to talk about it. Capische?”

“Got it.”

“Same time, hon?” she asks, reaching out to type on her keyboard. “If you wanted to go back to twice a week, we could do that, too.”

“Once a week is fine for now,” I tell her.

Helen gives me a friendly smile. “Until next time, honey. Get started on that writing.”

CHAPTER 17

YOU’RE HOME

PARKER

The warm lights glow through the front windows of the townhouse, casting soft amber rectangles across the driveway.

He’s home. He’s here waiting for me.

By the time I push open the front door, exhaustion has already begun melting off my shoulders, replaced by something dangerously close to relief, and I don’t even bother kicking off my shoes before my eyes find him sitting at the kitchen island. For a moment, I can only stare. His laptop is open in front of him, the screen casting a pale glow across his face while a mug of tea sits abandoned beside it with the tag hanging over the rim.

Anders looks up at the sound of the door.

His hair is still damp from a shower, sandy strands curling slightly at the ends, and even from across the room I swear I can smell that absurdly expensive shampoo he insists on buying because he read an article about microplastics and spent three hours researching alternatives that came in a glass bottle.

I’ve missed him in the visceral, physical sense that makes my pulse stumble and my lungs tighten. It feels like my body has spent months recognizing an absence my brain hasn’t been willing to acknowledge. He’s wearing one of my t-shirts, and the sight of it nearly undoes me.

When he notices me staring, his expression softens. “You’re home,” he says quietly, his words hitting harder than they should. His face settles into something warm and tender, that reaches straight through my ribcage and entangles itself around my heart.