Page 18 of The Game Is Afoot

I grin at him through the tears and snot, and he smiles back. “Because you are also human, Mavis, and no matter how capable you are at pushing it down, trauma still does things to the body.”

I roll my eyes at him, and he laughs. Because he knows that’s veering a little too close to the woo-woo for my taste. But he also pulls me close and rests his chin on my head as he rubs my back, because he knows that I need a beat to take it in, too.

Trauma in my body? Is that why I felt like I was frozen—why Istillfeel like I’m frozen, even thoughIwasn’t in any real danger yesterday? It’s lessened since then, sure, but my chest is still tight, my heart racing out of nowhere. And my mind keeps replaying that moment over and over again, like a broken videotrapped in an ancient VCR, of Coach Cole hitting the ground. I can’t get it to stop.

“The crack of his skull, the—the thud of his body…I can’t stop the sick show in my head. And my body feels stuck in the fight-or-flight of that moment. Does that make sense?”

“Of course it makes sense.” Jack sighs, kissing the top of my head.

“And then…I feel guilty for even feeling like this? Because this isnotabout me. A man died yesterday. Like, who cares howmybody feels?”

More tears fall, and I let them. It feels safe, doing this in Jack’s arms. It feels like I can finally let go.

“I know we’ve talked about it before, but with all this, well…have you given any more thought to trying out therapy?”

That makes my whole body brace again. I jerk up from his chest, trying to hit him with a snarky side-eye, but my face ends up giving more “Dawson crying meme.”

“You think I’m that bad?”

“No, you don’t have to bebadto need therapy. It’s just helpful to talk feelings through, get them out.”

And yeah, yeah, Iknowthat, like intellectually. Or whatever. But it feels like he’s telling me I should talk to someone else. Like,This is serious. You need a real professional.And heisone, so then what does that mean?

He must be able to read this all over my face because he quickly adds, “I go to therapy. Well, not at the moment, but I have gone to therapy.”

“When?” I should probably know the answer to that already. I feel a pang of guilt, adding up all the time we spend talking about my problems.

“Off and on in high school, especially after my dad left. And later, when I took over care of Derek from my mom.”

“So the big moments, then?”

“Yes, big moments, but not just those. I swear I spent at least three months of therapy when I was sixteen exclusively complaining about my bacne. And whether there was any hope that it would go away.”

I snort out a laugh, despite all the other feelings storming, and he smiles proudly. It is very cute.

“And, well, last fall,” he continues, “I had some check-in sessions with my therapist, Jamie—that’s his name.”

What’s left unspoken is that last fallwasa big moment for me. My life has beena seriesof big moments since then…since even farther back, if I’m being honest with myself.

And if I keep up this whole honesty thing, I know what this is. Anxiety. Panic attacks. This isn’t the first time Jack and I have talked about it. I can even admit the anxiety’s probably always been there—in the way I run through every wonderful and terrible possibility for Pearl’s future at night when I should be sleeping, in the way I constantly think about how the other moms see me. Corinne just made it much harder to throw a blanket on it and pretend it wasn’t there. But putting an official diagnosis on these feelings, admitting they’re enough of a problem toseek professional help…it’s just another thing I want to keep putting off.

Because that life strategy has been goingsowell for me.

“I’ve actually been thinking of scheduling another check-in with Jamie soon.”

“For help coping with your girlfriend who won’t go to therapy?” I smile, eager to make it easy, light, but his face stays serious.

“I don’t want to push you, Mavis. I just l—” He stops, leaving that consonant—and what might have come after it—hanging in the air. Even in the dark, I can see that his face is flushed.

“I only want what’s best for you,” he says, finally.

I nod, and run my hand through his hair, and then along hischeek. He leans into my touch. “So…does this mean I made friends with my big feelings?”

He smiles but doesn’t give me the low, rumbly laugh I’m craving, or throw in a diagnosis of what color zone I’m in.

“Just think about it, Mavis,” he says, planting a kiss on my temple.

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