Page 1 of Between Us

Prologue

Blake

Twoweeksago…

Tilting my head, I stop in front of the new painting my therapist Catalina hung up in her office. Truthfully, I don’t really understand abstract art but this…

Quickly twirling around to face her, I blurt out, “This looks like a…” I trail off, suddenly embarrassed.

I’m partly horrified but mostly not surprised. I’ve only been seeing Catalina for about four months, and she’s different from the other three therapists my mom sent me to first. And from anything I would’ve expected a therapist to be like.

First, there was the one who seemed promising but started to insist that if I just dressed more ‘feminine’ and ‘wore my hair down more,’ that wouldsurelyfix all my problems. Like trying to ‘fit in’ never occurred to me in the years I was bullied.

Next, there was the old man who was strict and boring, but his biggest flaw was being a goddamn Los Angeles Outlaws fan. It doesn’t matter if my brother won’t ever make it to the MLB after he tore his ACL and got his on-again-off-again girlfriend pregnant. I could never, and wouldnever, be an Outlaws sympathizer to any degree—unless my brother had been drafted by them in another universe. But he wasn’t, and I know he agrees.

And lastly, there was the sexist man who not only insulted my mother by blaming her for the years of bullying I faced, but he forced me to sit on his couch as still as possible—sometimes even with my hands under my legs—because ‘fidgeting is anuglyhabit.’

Obviously, none of those worked out. It’s taken us about eight months to find a therapist who I’m happy with. And really, IloveCatalina. She’s about forty-five, if I had to guess. She’s beautiful in a comforting way rather than intimidating. Her warm brown skin compliments her dark chestnut hair, but it’s her bright, inquisitive green eyes that are the most noticeable. They have this way of looking past your skin and bones to see deep into your soul. Not in a judgmental way, but to better understand you, your life, your emotions.

The fact she’s fluent in Spanish is a plus. It wouldn’t be a dealbreaker, as I speak in English more often than not, but it just adds an extra layer of comfort, I guess.

More than anything, her warmth reminds me of my mom. And that’s probably the main reason I feel so safe in this small office with Catalina. Just like my mother, she’s quick to laugh and easy to joke with.

Her head tips back at my observation, letting a contradictory wicked laugh out. She sounds like a Disney villain even if it couldn’t be further from the truth.

“Like what, Blake?” She doesn’t comment on me wandering around her office. Catalina’s never minded my restlessness and fidgeting. I’m well aware it’s not appropriate in every situation—and we’re working on other coping mechanisms—but it’s nice to not feel judged by my habitshere.

Making my way to the seat across from her leather armchair, I glance back at the large pink painting. There are about four different shades layered together with lines curving and overlapping at different points. “A vagina,” I finally say, turning back to look at her. “You bought avaginapainting. For your office.”

She breaks out into a cackle. “It’s not a vagina.” I just stare at her, waiting for her to go on. “It’s a… blooming flower.”

“You’re horrible.” I shake my head, both amused and embarrassed on her behalf. “Does your wife agree?”

The wedding ring was a dead giveaway from our first session, but it wasn’t until her wife was walking out after lunch, while I was walking into Catalina’s office, that we saw each other.

In their defense, I was a few minutes early. Catalina was clearly horrified that her personal and professional life were unintentionally mixing, but it got worse when she realized her wife, Lara Henderson, was my sophomore chemistry teacher. She’s about ten years younger than Catalina, and they both kept their maiden names for professional reasons. I never would’ve guessed otherwise.

Lucky for all of us, I happened to loveMs. Henderson. It could’ve resulted in me needing to find another therapist, but I already really liked Catalina. So, I stayed, and I’m glad I did.

She points her finger at me. “We don’t talk about her.”

I roll my eyes. “Well then, what would you like to talk about?”

“Oh,I don’t know,” she sarcastically draws out the words. “How about you? The reason insurance is paying my bills?”

Laughing, I can’t help but shake my head as I plop down in the large egg chair. She has the typical couch you’d expect in a therapist’s office, but there’s also this option and a variety of anxiety blankets she keeps stored for clients.

“I madeoneshitty comment—very early into our sessions, I’d like to add—and you’ll never let it go.” It’s true. During what was probably my second time seeing Catalina, I made a comment about how she doesn’treallycare. She’s only here for the check my insurance sends her every month.

Rationally, I know that’s not true—I even knew it back then. But I have a very small circle of people who are close to me. My parents, my mom’s best friend, my brother, and my only two friends from high school. It’s kind of a pathetic list, if I’m honest with myself. So, it’s hard for me to believe someone wouldwantto be here.

“It’s good to keep you, and that mouth, in line sometimes,” she teases.

She’s not wrong. After years of feeling helpless and, some days terrified to go to school, I started to act out more in situations where I felt safe. Lately, I have more of a handle on my emotions, thanks to Catalina and the Lexapro prescription I got a couple weeks ago.

I’m sure it wasn’t theonlymean thing I’ve said to Catalina in our short time together, but it’s the only one she chooses to pick on me for. Probably because it was a pretty mild snub.

“I’m spending the weekend with Margo and Meera. It’s probably the last time I’ll see them before they both leave in a week.”

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