Page 10 of The Last Session

The next head-splitting morning I was still mortified but trying to figure out what to text him to make this okay. Maybe I could pretend it had been a joke? But then my phone dinged.

I’m sorry. I can’t do this.

I wrote back immediately:Can we talk?

No response.

Ever.

I’d texted Cynthia that night, saying I know she’d moved away but I really needed to talk to her. She, too, had failed to respond. I’d waited for a day, two days. I couldn’t believe that this woman I’d spilled my guts to, someone whose kindness and wisdom had made me want to become a social worker myself, would just ignore me.

But she did.

And so finally, I decided there was only one way forward. I might be irrevocably sexually broken, yes, but other people didn’t need to know.

I would just not make the mistake of telling anyone ever again.

6

The next day, I figured out who Jane Doe was.

It happened in the morning. I’d gotten in earlier than usual and was taking the time to stalk Dom and Amelia on Instagram. Dom rarely ever posted—until now, when she’d put up a ton of lovey-dovey photos with Amelia: kissing in a red-lit lounge, grinning lazily over brunch, driving somewhere in hip sunglasses—where were they even? It looked rural…

Amelia had a luxurious mane and a cute gap in her front teeth. She and Dom together looked like actor/models who’d met on a movie set.

“Morning!” Amani sailed towards the coffee machine. “How’re you?”

“Hi! I’m fine.” And Iwasfine. Dom had originally found the apartment, and she was now allowed to bring in Amelia. I couldn’t have expected us to live together forever anyway.

“How areyou?” I turned to Amani. “Any wedding planning happening yet?”

She rolled her eyes as she poured a mug. “We had an argument about it last night. Derek has no concept of how much work is going to be involved. I think I’m going to demand a wedding planner.” She settled at the table next to me. “What’s been going on? Hey, weren’t you supposed to go on that date…”

“They canceled.” I rubbed my eyes. “It’s just so much freaking work. Sometimes I wish I lived in a small village and had only two viable options to choose from.”

“But that’s the cool part,” she protested. “I never would’ve met Derek in person—we moved here at different times, lived in different neighborhoods, and worked in different industries.” She smirked. “And he’s so different from the guys I used to date.”

“In…”

“College. High school.”

“What about junior high?” The question triggered that anxious, edgy feeling I’d had seeing the reunion Facebook page. “Did you date then?”

“I had a boyfriend.” Amani stared into space. It made sense, her being one of those girls who aways had someone holding her hand, carrying her books. “Jared.”

“Was he nice?”

“Nope. He cheated on me with my friend.” She chuckled. “Kissed her at our eighth-grade graduation party at Dave & Buster’s. Total shit show.”

“Yikes. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. I decided: only nice guys from now on. Though I had to learn the lesson a few more times.” She shrugged. “What about you?”

This was the great thing about social worker colleagues: everyone always asked questions back.

“I didn’t date at all back then. I was way too shy and nerdy.” The words felt slightly hollow. That was true, of course. But in some ways, I had felt like I’d been in a relationship.

Suddenly, I felt like I needed to tell someone what had happened the night before. “Speaking of junior high, I got a random Facebook message from my former BFF.” I filled Amani in, watching her eyes widen.

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