Page 48 of Weather Girl

“Not too bad.” Almost ten years I’ve been in therapy, and every time I’m here, I’m all brief answers at first. How are you? Okay. What have you been up to since last time? Not much. I have to ease into it, a duckling learning to swim again and again. Joanna must be used to it because she lets her questions breathe. Therapy and journalism have that in common. “A little challenging with my arm, but I’m getting used to it.”

“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” she says in her ever-warm way. “Has Torrance been understanding?”

“She’s been much better than usual, actually.” And this is where I debate how much of the plan I want to share with her.

Logically, I know it’s the job of a therapist not to judge you. While I know Joanna wouldn’t outright express disappointment, I’m still reluctant to tell her I’ve kind-of sort-of been manipulating my bosses to fall back in love with each other.

I opt for a half-truth. “She and her ex-husband seem to be getting along, which is good for the rest of us.”

“Her ex-husband, the news director? Seth?” Joanna’s memory astounds me. I’m not sure if she just takes meticulous notes or what, but she’s able to recall names even of people I’ve mentioned offhand.

“No passive-aggressive signs, no blowups in the newsroom for the past couple weeks. I’d forgotten what that kind of harmony felt like.”

“Ari, that’s great.” A kind smile, another sip of her tea. “You’ve been wanting more attention from her for a while. Is that something that feels a little more attainable now?”

“It might be. With her in a good mood, though...” I’ve been biding my time, waiting for Torrance to take an interest in my career. “Maybe I could even bring it up to her directly. Not anytime soon, but at some point.”

“We can definitely talk about strategies for that when you’re ready,” Joanna says. “Is there anything else you wanted to discuss today?”

“I’ve been spending a lot of time with, um, one of the sports reporters,” I say, figuring I’ve got nothing to lose by telling Joanna about Russell. “In a romantic way?”

“Oh?”

“It’s still really new.” Really new. That kiss in the newsroom was Wednesday, and today’s Friday. “So I haven’t talked to him about... all of this yet.” I wave my hand around the room.

After we rearranged his desk to make it look less like he’d been mauling me on top of it, I started yawning, and he gave me a ride home, saying his work could wait. “There’s no way I’m going to be able to concentrate now,” he said with a rough laugh, one I felt down to the tips of my toes.

He has Elodie this week, meaning our schedules won’t match up again until next weekend. We’ve been texting, though, and the next night we both have off, I’m taking him on his first date in five years.

“That wasn’t going to be my next question,” Joanna says.

“Okay, fine, but I could tell it was coming. Eventually.”

We discussed this when I was with Garrison: why I felt I couldn’t tell him about my every-three-weeks visits to this office or the pills in my purse. “Do you think,” Joanna had said, “that maybe he isn’t getting all of you? He loves you, Ari. He might understand what you’re going through more than you’re giving him credit for. Might even support you.”

“I just don’t want to lose him if I do,” I’d say.

As open as I’ve been with Russell, he has only a fraction of my history. I want to think it would be different with him, but I’m not sure yet if it’s worth taking the risk. I have no way of knowing what would happen if I gave him every broken piece of me—and it’s the uncertainty that keeps those pieces stashed away.

“Let’s talk about something else,” I say quickly. “Let’s talk about my mom.”

Joanna’s eyebrows climb so high they disappear beneath her bangs. “Voluntarily bringing up your mother? I can roll with that.”

She has a point—I don’t do it very often. In therapy, even when I don’t have to be that sunshine version of myself, I’m always on edge when we discuss my mother. “I saw her last week. She’s going home in a couple days.”

“How did that go?”

“Not terrible. She seemed... good. From what I could tell, at least.”

“Have you thought about what you want that relationship to look like? I know she’s your mother, but you have every right to make whatever decision is best for you.”

I let the question hang in the air. Weighing it. “I have. And I want a close relationship with her, or however close we can get. I know it’s not going to look how I imagined it would when I was younger, and I’m okay with that. I want to get to know this different version of her.” Once the words leave my mouth, I’m surprised to realize they’re true.

“You know she isn’t going to be instantly cured,” Joanna says. “That this is a process, and she’ll have to keep up with her therapy and medication.” It’s maybe a reference to the joke I made after our third session. “I’m cured!” I crowed, and she shook her head, smiling. One of my past therapists didn’t have a sense of humor at all. It was important to me to find someone who could laugh about things. “And that she may not entirely be the version you’re expecting her to be.”

“I—I know that. I still want to see her. To try.”

Joanna sips her tea, nodding slowly. “Should we talk through some of those strategies to handle the things she might say to you?”

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