Page 139 of My Debacle with De Lorenzo

February 05, 2027

Anger management therapy: Session #8

The air is loaded in here. No one says a word. All of us just let the reality of what has happened seep into the present. Dylan and I have to take some time to find our bearings, root ourselves in the here and now instead of floating in what could’ve been because that one day, that one moment, changed the entire course of our history.

Dr. Burkman is supposed to remain impartial, and I’d asked her not to judge me, but right now she’s looking at me like I’m public enemy number one. It seems like she wants to rewrite the past for us, give us a happier ending, but she can’t. What’s done is done. And while I regret ending it the way I did, it needed to end.

“So, that was my debacle with De Lorenzo, Doctor.” My voice slices through the heavy silence. “Dylan went back to Francesca, and the rest is history. That was the end of us.”

“Well, not quite the end.” Dylan lets out an annoyed humph. “I mean, we’re here, aren’t we? And she makes it seem like I was knocking on Fran’s door the next weekend. It was almost two years later that we got together because...I just...I couldn’t get over this chick. I also dated three other girls in that time, but God forbid we mention any of that and pop Bella’s little bubble of obsession.”

“I find it fascinating.” Dr. Burkman gets lost in her thoughts for a minute or two before she looks at Dylan. “The two of you are so compatible, but you could not have chosen anyone more destructive to your psyche. Isabella’s substance abuse problems and the attention she gets from men brought out behavior and emotions you tried to keep hidden.” Her focus shifts to me. “And Dylan’s habits, like switching off his phone and leaving you in the lurch, aggravated all your abandonment issues. The two of you were quite toxic for each other, yet on the surface, you seem like the perfect couple.”

“On the surface is where we thrive, Doctor,” I reply with a sardonic smile. “You can’t go deeper. There’s nothing there.”

Dylan shakes his head and laughs softly to himself. His eyes dance with amusement when he looks at me. “If we had nothing, it wouldn’t have left a permanent mark on both of us. Physically and emotionally, we didn’t come out of it the same way we went in.”

He reaches over to trace his fingertips over my tattoo the same way he did earlier. I hate it when he touches me. The tiniest bit of contact sets my skin on fire, and it weakens me, dissolves my animosity. I want to hold on to it because this fucker toys with my emotions and I refuse to get played again.

“You’re looking back with your turmoil-tainted glasses,” he says, “so everything you see is warped by the hurt I’ve caused. But you know what? You can keep deluding yourself into believing we weren’t amazing together. Keep telling yourself that we were nothing then and we’re nothing now. If it makes you happy, you can continue clinging to that false narrative. You can pretend like you don’t see how badly I want you, make it seem as if your pulse doesn’t race every time I touch you.” Dylan isn’t an egotistical guy, but the smirk he gives me is nothing short of arrogant because he can feel the rapid thrumming of my pulse beneath his fingertips. “You can go through life acting like I didn’t love you to the depths of my fucking soul, distort all our memories as much as you want if that makes you feel better about what happened...but deep down, you know the truth.” Our eyes clash and I get trapped in the nostalgia. It seems like he’s rewriting the past in his mind, too. All the moments we’ve both longed for but never had are encompassed in his eyes. “Things could’ve been so different, Bella.”

“Yet still the same,” I counter, lightly slapping his hand away. “I still don’t know why you disappeared for three weeks. Don’t make it seem like I was just insecure and fabricated all this in my head. Take some of the blame, too.”

Dr. Burkman intervenes then. “Dylan, do you want to give your side now and explain what happened?”

He shakes his head. “Doc, if it’s okay with you, I’m going to save that for another session. I’ve had to relive some of the most painful moments of my life today...and I don’t have enough left in me to go through the memories of what happened in those three weeks...not today.”

“Okay. Whenever you’re ready.”

She talks us through the next phase of the cognitive-behavioral therapy plan she’s drawn up for us. Dylan doesn’t get any homework today. He’s been through the wringer. I can see it on his face, in his body language, and she tells him to go home and rest. I, on the other hand, have to do some self-reflection because I apparently have distorted thinking patterns, which leads to me acting irrationally. As a useful tool, she suggests I start keeping a journal of all my negative thoughts and reframe them in a positive way. She specifically wants me to re-look at all the negative thoughts I had on the day Dylan and I broke up and consider if they were truly valid. While I don’t think I reacted irrationally that day, I agree to do the exercise.

Based on the circumstances at the time, I know I had every right to rip into him that day...but right now, the guilt is eating me. He was just a kid back then, struggling to handle an incredibly overwhelming situation, and I made it worse for him, so much worse than it needed to be. He helped me through the hardest time of my life, and I made his even harder.

I’m finding it so hard to look at him because I’m torn between hurt and anger, regret and dismay. Why didn’t he just tell me? I want to yell at him. I want to scream! I want to shake him, shake him hard. I’m so angry, yet my anger worsens my guilt because now it seems like it wasn’t warranted. I feel like I overreacted then and I’m overreacting now when I know it’s justified because he was a jerk then and he’s still one now for doing what he did to me. I can understand that whatever happened was probably awful but making time for one ten-second phone call inthree weeksisn’t a big ask.

I stand up while Dr. Burkman is still wrapping up the session. After we finalize our plan for next week’s session, I give her a quick wave before I walk out as fast as my heels will allow. I don’t get far before I hear Dylan’s footsteps behind me.

“You’re mad.”

It’s a statement, not a question, which I don’t confirm or deny. I simply continue my journey down the long, narrow corridor to get to the elevators. “I thought I told you to confine our talking time to that room.”

“It’s okay to be mad. I would be too if I were you.”

I’m actively trying to avoid an argument because this has been a pretty shitty day for him, and I don’t want to make it worse. Somehow, he reads that off my body language.

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