Page 8 of Biker's Tribute: Property of Bear

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Three

Amanda

7 months after moving to Boston…

I’m done being the fixer for my family. The only person in my entire family I will ever help again is Keyshawn. But I have boundaries and limits now. Little by little, I finally started to practice what I preach with my clients and life is… good. I glance at my calendar for the day, sliding my pencil down all the way to eleven in the morning.

I feel so fucking good not having to wake up at the crack of dawn for addiction clinic rotations anymore. I made it — every therapist’s dream, my own private practice in Cambridge, Massachusetts. The addicts I deal with here are Harvard students who can’t stop popping Ritalin, rich white women with stiff haircuts and benzodiazepine or alcohol issues. Sure, my schedule might not be packed enough yet to keep up with the high Boston rent for my office space, but I live in a good neighborhood with a friendly landlord and I have three more months of savings I can use to support my new private practice.

If you don’t believe in yourself, who will?

There’s a knock at my door. No appointment, so it must be Mallory.

“My eleven o’clock canceled, I’m coming in,” Mallory says in her crisp New England accent that offers no room for negotiation.

We graduated McGraw College together, survived clinical rotations together, survived our community service hours up in Lawrence, MA, and put forward this joint investment in the new business. She was the one who did all the groundwork of finding the landlord and location.

Mallory opens the door, never one to show up empty handed. She hands me the coffee she’s brought me and takes a seat in one of my chairs. She normally wears her sandy hair in a messy side braid and dresses in a mixture of black and neutral tones. Today, it’s a pair of beige wool pants and a black turtleneck with a tiny clover pendant hanging on her neck.

“You didn’t say anything about the app guy. How did it go?”

Being best friends with another therapist is the best and the worst at the same time. How does she think it went? ‘App guys’ take all women on the same five week cycle – if they’re decent enough not to go straight for the one-night-stand filled with promises of a future together that has less likelihood of materializing than another book in the Lord of the Rings series.

“It sucked. I’m done dating. Nuns can do it, and I don’t even have to be a nun. I can just avoid all men until the end of time. It’s the best choice for my mental health.”

I make nervous eye contact with Mallory. We’re both trained to spot bullshit in our clients and it sucks that she can spot my bullshit a mile away. But who wouldn’t be disappointed that every time they put their heart out there and try to make a genuine connection with someone it comes flying back in their face?

I’ve tried dating every type of guy available to me in Boston and they’re all fucking terrible. I’m tired of degrading myself for a chance at what… having some guy finally choose me and then he’s delusional enough to believe he’s settling because social media serves up a non-stop buffet of young, hot women that every man sees as his birthright.

“Take some time to heal. Don’t let a few bad experiences change your mind about love,” Mallory says. I hate when she gets all professional on my ass. I don’t want to hear rational thoughts about dating when the reality is… a coochie with cobwebs growing over it.

“Who says I’m changing my mind? I have never been Miss Romantic.”

Mallory offers me a ‘gentle therapist’ look, which makes me feel guilty for not rationalizing the situation myself. She’s so much more confident in her statement than I am.

“Right. But you deserve better, Amanda. You do.”

“Oh my God. Ew. Please, this isnota therapy session.”

“It’s not,” Mallory reassures me, “It’s your best friend motivating you to never give up on love.”

“Is that working for you?”

“Oh hell no. Fuck men.”

“There hasn’t been anyone since…”

“Fuck no,” Mallory says. “If I get my heart broken one more time, I’m going full Sylvia Plath. Head in the motherfucking oven.”

“Mallory.”

“It’s called dark humor. It’s a coping mechanism.”

“We should have picked a more cheerful profession.”

Mallory and I exchange knowing glances. Neither of us can imagine doing anything else. We worked our asses off for this clinic and from day one, we knew this would be our future – starting a business together. We had to make some sacrifices along the way, but who cares if you have a boyfriend when you have a successful clinic?

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