Page 112 of Best In Class
And maybe, growing up means recognizing that truth in someone else…and in myself?
Dom and I are spending an inordinate amount of time together. We’ve gotten to know who we are now quite well. I like him. He says he loves me.
We still haven’t had sex. That intimacy still seems to besomething I’m not ready for. In the heat of the moment, there are times I think I’m ready, but Dom pulls away, like he knows it’s just pheromones talking. He reasons that he doesn’t want me to regret being with him—and that when we make loveagainfor the first time since the last time (talk about a mind fuck), he wants it to be because I’m absolutely certain about him and us.
Does it hurt him that I’m still wary? Yes. I can see it. I don’t want to hurt Dom. I love him, but I find that my heart is still closed off.
“I thought I hated him,” I tell Dr. Monica Ryan.
She’s someone who knows everything there is to know about me. I’ve been coming to this office since I was twelve, long before I understood how much I needed a space like this.
I spilled my grief and rage into the cushions of the sofa that came before the one I’m sitting on now, carving out pieces of myself in quiet, furious confession.
I stared at that same brass floor lamp while learning how to breathe again.
I memorized the sound of her teacups clinking when I couldn’t find words.
If comfort were a smell, I’d say it’s lavender and books, which is what Dr. Ryan’s office smells like.
Not the fake lavender of drugstore lotion, but the soft, real kind that clings to the air and makes you feel like you’re in Provence.
The walls are lined with shelves—some for show, some clearly used.
One holds her collection of antique clocks.
Another, books with titles about trauma, family systems, and healing.
“Do youreallythink you hated him?” She’s sitting in her leather armchair, her teal linen blouse perfectly pressed despite the heat, legs crossed, notepad balanced on her knee, though I know she only writes things down when she absolutely has to.
Her salt-and-pepper curls halo her head in soft waves, framing eyes that miss nothing. They’re kind, but never indulgent.
I look away, staring out the window for a long moment. “I don’t know.” I sigh and then blurt out, still not looking at her, “I went to my parents’ party.”
Dr. Ryan makes a humming sound.
“They were…themselves. I mean, who else could they be?” My voice is flat. I turn to face her. “Mama was drugged up. Dad was angry. A textbook Steele family gathering.”
I lick my lips as I consider my next words. “But something was different this time.”
She waits.
“Dad almost hit Lev. I mean…he would’ve if Dom hadn’t stopped him. And then he tried to strike Dom.” I still can’t believe that happened.
“That seems like an escalation,” she notes.
“Yes,” I agree. “He’s drinking a lot…and I think he’s pissed that Lev is financially supporting him.”
“How do you feel about that? About Lev supporting your parents?”
I shrug. “The money…I don’t give a damn. It’s the emotional capital he expends with them that worries me. I know he does it for Mama. What I don’t know is why he won’t give up.”
She doesn’t say anything. She knows my process. It takes time, but I finally get it all out, and then we can dissect what I’mreallyfeeling and why.
Then, I tell her everything that happened that night and finish by saying, “It was a shit show.”
“You’ve never called your mother out before,” she remarks. “Why did you this time?”
I think about it and then say, honestly, “I think because Dom was with me.” It’s the truth. He gave me strength. “I think having him meant that I didn’t fold into the old wounds. I just…called it like I saw it.”
