Page 91 of My Cosplay Escape
The university therapist’s office is much cheerier than the windowless waiting room. Filmed windows filter in some natural light. A large, overstuffed couch faces an armchair, and a box of tissues is positioned conveniently and prominently on the table between them.
“Janet called and said you needed to come talk.” Yes, I told Janet, the counselor who got me set up this semester, that I’d hit a speed bump, and she set this up. “So what’s going on?” Brad asks, and I swear he smooths his beard.
“I’m crazy,” I say.
He laughs in the affable I’m-a-professional-and-we-will-see-about-that way. “Why do you say that?”
“I’m twenty-two. I’m divorced. The only reason why I’m not still married is because I have an incompetent cervix. I literally run away from all my problems. Today alone, I’ve gone out for two four-milers. I swore off all relationships, and despite that, I’m now in two relationships with the same guy.”
The therapist furiously writes notes. “When you say you are in two relationships, are you saying youfeellike you are in two relationships? Or—”
“No. I am in two relationships. He thinks I’m two different people.”
Brad clicks his pen into action but seems stumped as to what to actually write. He frowns at his notes.
“You want me to start at the beginning?” I ask.
“N-no. If you had the choice, would you still like to be married?”
“No. Daniel is an idiot. He’s writing his memoir about fatherhood and marriage and living in China. He called me, for the first time ever, and was upset when I didn’t want to give him carte blanche to all the personal details of our relationship. Is that wrong?”
“No.” Brad is still writing. “Why did he call?”
“His dad made him do it.” I pull the sleeves of my hoodie over my hands.
“What about your parents?” Brad asks.
“My dad died when I was ten. Stupid car accident.”
More furious scribbles. “And your mom?”
“My roomie. When my marriage ended, I moved back home. She’s very… routine-oriented.”
“What was her reaction to your marriage and divorce?”
“She was disappointed. She kept saying things like, ‘If only your father were here, none of this would’ve happened.’ ‘If he could see you now,’ etc.”
Brad, who has filled several pages of notes, flips through them. “I want to come back to this idea that you are in two separate relationships with the same man. Why do you feel this way?”
“Because I first met him while cosplaying—”
“Meaning?”
“I was dressed up as…” I close my eyes and wince. “As a superhero.”
More furious notes on Brad’s end. “Why were you dressed up as a superhero?”
“Oh, for the love. Have you been to Comic-Con? People dress up. I was dressed up as Catstrike, full-blown ’90s freak fantasy. My own mother wouldn’t have recognized me. Adam saw me and offered me a job cosplaying at his escape room.”
“Why did you say yes?”
“Why not? I needed the money.”
“And it was fun to be someone else?”
“I wasn’t someone else. I was just a different version of me. I don’t get to be sexy and confident. I’m the loser who screwed up so bad she had no other choice but to marry the village douchebag. And then I miscarried, my own fault, just a colossal screw-up screwing up colossally. I lost my baby and was supposed to be relieved because, ‘Hey, Sarah, Daniel and you can make a clean break. Isn’t that great? You have nothing to be sad about, Sarah. It could be so much worse. Don’t be sad. Smile, move on.’”
“Did you move on?”
