Page 39 of Because of Dylan

“I’m still here.”

“Why do you think you pick these guys? The real reason this time. The truth of it, not the perception.”

I drag in a long breath, forcing my lungs to expand until it hurts. The urge to hang up and end the call makes my fingers twitch. But instead I curl them into my palms and squeeze my hands into fists. My lips tremble as I try to form words. “I-I do it to punish myself. I do it because I don’t think I deserve more or better.”

“And why is that?” he asks almost in a whisper.

I blink away the tears that come uninvited, suck in another breath and push it out. My whole body trembles. “That’s all I know. That’s all I’ve ever had.”

“But that’s not the truth, is it? That’s the story you were told. That’s the story you’re telling yourself still.”

Oh my God. The sound that escapes me is half cry and half gasp. The sound of a wounded animal. Perhaps that’s all I am. Perhaps when we strip all that makes us civilized, all that’s left is animal sounds.

“I want you to do something for me. Will you? Please?”

“Okay.” I don’t know how I manage to speak.

“I want you to think about the story you’ve been telling yourself. Break it apart. Find when it first started. And then find the real you in the middle of it all. Find the you that never changes. Your essence. Take a day or two to think about it, and call me back, please.”

He waits for a response, and I don’t know if I can answer him. I’m folding into myself, becoming smaller and smaller.

“Can you do that? Please?” There’s so much kindness in his voice, it draws me out again.

“Yes.”

Chapter Seventeen

Thursday night footballgames bring a lot more customers to the bar. Even my boss, Gus, is out front tonight, talking shit with our locals and ribbing the lone Stealers fan sitting at the end of the counter. The New England Pats are ahead by ten points, and the beer is flowing. Everyone is happy. Except the Stealers fan. It doesn’t look good for his team.

With their attention on the game and Gus helping, I have less to do and my mind is working on overtime. I haven’t been able to think of anything else since the call with the therapist. When did my story start? When did I start believing in the lies I was told? And why is it that, even though I know the stories are lies, I still believe them?

My mind flashes through a Rolodex of time and memories. Little flashbacks spark here and there as I search for the real me in the dark corners of my mind.

The one who stays constant, he said. I think I found her—the real me.

The little girl buried under all the bullshit I was fed my whole life.

The teenager who was broken beyond all hope.

The young woman who never believed she was worthy of love and kept on punishing herself again and again. Who gave her body as if it was all she was—a thing to be consumed and easily forgotten.

“Becca?” my boss calls to me.

“Yeah?”

He takes a few steps closer, a benign smile on his face. “I think that spot is clean enough.”

“What?” I follow his line of gaze to the rag in my hand and the spot I have been scrubbing for the last couple of minutes.

He ducks, trying to catch my eyes. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Just thinking. School and stuff. You know.”

Gus looks at me for a moment longer, nods, and goes back to the other side of the bar. Laughs greet him. Save for Pittsburgh guy. He’s not laughing at all.

I push the thoughts away and concentrate on work and all the distractions it provides. I check the game on the TV. Pats are up by seventeen now. I don’t really care for football. Or any sport. The sheer size and strength of those athletes alone can send me into a panic. I avoid them at all cost.

It’s halftime now, and the bar clears a bit, some people heading to the bathroom to make room for more beer, others leaving to catch the second half at home. The bell over the door chimes with each exit, a barely audible ding over the sounds of the bar, now a lot quieter without the game going.

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