Page 37 of The Heartbreak Hotel
“How it’s so consuming.” Her voice pitches upward at the end of each thing she says, turning her sentences into questions. “Losing someone. And you can’t see the world past it.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. I can tell there’s more she wants to get out; I’ve learned that if you let the awkward silence linger, someone will always fill it. And if it’s not me, it’ll be Kim.
“Bea’s so angry,” she says. She glances over one shoulder, like she’s worried her friend will come down the stairs at any moment.“We both got dumped on grad weekend and it’s like it lit this fire in her and made her even—I don’t know”—she waves one hand in the space between us—“more. And I’m not like that. I can’t—I just, I feel like I’m going to disappear.”
Her eyes come to mine, red rimmed and watery. “It’s like you said,” she whispers. “The world doesn’t feel the same. I can’t see anything except that he doesn’t want me anymore.”
“I understand that feeling,” I tell her. Kim closes her eyes, drawing a rickety breath. “If anger is working for Bea, that’s understandable, too. But if you can’t access that part of yourself right now, it doesn’t mean anything’s wrong with you.”
Kim’s nose scrunches up, like she’s holding back a sob. “She’s so much stronger than I am.”
“I don’t think that’s fair,” I say, and Kim’s eyes break open. “There’s strength in feeling your sadness, too—instead of burying it in anger.”
She shakes her head. “I wish I could be angry, though. I think it would be easier than this.”
“Have you talked to Bea about this? Or anyone?”
“No,” Kim whispers. “I don’t want to bring her down.”
I hesitate. “Bea’s your friend. She probably wants to know what’s really going on with you.”
“I’m kind of sick of myself,” she says. “I’ve been circling this drain for, like, four months.”
“Have you considered therapy?”
Kim’s eyes come to mine. “Isn’t that what this is?”
“Oh.” The word punches out of me, sharp and surprised. “Um, no, I meant—I meant, a dedicated therapist that you can work with on a regular basis. To help you understand what’s holding you here, and how to take care of yourself through it.”
“But that’s why we came here,” Kim says. “To talk to you and work through it.”
“I’m a therapist,” I say, feeling the near lie grate on the way out. “But I’m notyourtherapist. It’ll be so much more beneficial for you to work with someone one-on-one.” When she looks helplessly up at me, I add, “I’d be happy to help you find someone, if you like. Before you go. I know it can be intimidating to get started.”
Kim sniffles, nodding once. “Okay,” she says softly. “Yeah, that would help. Thank you.”
When she starts to stand up, I add, “Hey, Kim.”
She looks at me, swiping one sweatshirt sleeve under her nose. “Remember the other thing I said, about how heartbreak isn’t apples to apples? The same goes for reacting to it. It’s not better to be angry or better to be sad. It’s just different. But it’s all valid.”
She manages a smile, frail and fleeting. “Thanks, Lou.”
I watch Kim go, rounding the corner toward the dining room in the direction of the first-floor bathroom. When I stand from the stool, turning toward the front hall, I nearly jump out of my skin.
Henry’s in the doorframe, one shoulder leaned against the wallpaper. There’s a rag in his hands, smudged with oil, wrapped between a few of his fingers like he’s been wringing it out. He got some sun, today; the tops of his cheeks are the faintest bit burned.
“How long have you been standing there?”
“A few minutes.”
“Are you spying on me?”
“Yes,” he says seriously. I have a flash of his eyes in the woods, dipping to my mouth. “I’m spying on you.”
I squint at him and he shakes his head, dropping his gaze to the floor as the shadow of a smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. “I fixed the door.”
“Great,” I say. “Thank you. And I’m sorry everyone’s so, um—” I break off, and he looks back up at me. “Obsessed with you.”
I think he’ll brush it off, tell me it isn’t true. But Henry’s nothing if not a surprise, and when he says, “Everyone?” I feel it under my skin like a sunburn. I think of my palm on the smooth skin of his jaw, that night in my kitchen, and make myself turn away.
