Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
I had the chance to do better, to be better. But I wasn’t. And I will live with the consequences of my actions for the rest of my life. But I’m okay with that because life is precious. Everyone has something to give and to gain.
Every mistake is an opportunity—a chance to be humbled, to learn, to grow, to make amends, to do better.
Unlike how she wrapped her horrific message to Steven in poisonous Saccharin, I didn't sugarcoat anything for Molly. Truth? She will think of Steven every day for the rest of her life. And she’ll think of me. We will forever be reminders that bad decisions come with accountability. The memories of us will be her new god—the north of her new moral compass.
“I have a new job.”
My therapist smiles curtly. “You’ve mentioned that several times, but you haven’t said how you feel about your new job?”
I gaze at my glass of water on the oval wood coffee table between us. I should have asked for ice. I hate the taste of her water. She needs a glass pitcher instead of a metal one. “Privileged.” My gaze shifts to hers, assessing her assessment of me. “I’m a terrible patient. Just say it.”
Dr. West shakes her head. The last time I saw her, I’d lost my job. And I needed someone to tell me I wasn’t an awful person.
She’s good at listening but not reassuring. I never did get her to say the words I wanted to hear. Now, I want to talk about the fire, but I don’t know how to bring it up, and we’re on our third session this month.
“How would you describe your mood?”
“Melancholy.”
“Why do you suppose you feel melancholy?”
“Because I …”
Dr. West doesn’t hurry me. She’s patient. Maybe too patient. Sometimes, I want her to drag more out of me and do it faster than she does with such benign, open-ended questions.
Drawing a slow breath, I let it and everything else out simultaneously. “I went to Boone to go through their belongings. I met a man. Fell in love … I think. And another man sexually assaulted me. But I didn’t fight back. In many ways, I let him. So, I’m not sure where that falls on the spectrum of assault. It’s messy. I’ve been trying to ‘check in’ with myself to see if I’m suppressing a catastrophic breakdown. And I don’t … well, I don’t know how I feel. Maybe there’s nothing to feel. I dealt with everything in the moment, and I’m good. Or perhaps I’m headed for a massive breakdown with no warning, like when I lost it at the CVS and had sex with the dean’s husband. Thoughts?”
She nods slowly. “I’m so sorry you experienced that. Are you ready to walk me through it?”
I don’t want to tell her about my revenge plans or the suicide note. I want her to tell me it’s okay to put it behind me and move on. Maybe we can run through it instead of walking through it—no need to dwell.
“I’ve known a handful of married women who had sex with their husbands when they didn’t want to … so … without consent.” I stare out the window at New York in the fall; trees adorn it in shades of gold and orange. “Is that a gray area of applied consent or ‘the right’ to have sex with your spouse? I can’t imagine why marriage would change bodily autonomy. I, however, was a willing participant for weeks, but it never went that far for different reasons. Then, the night I was not a willing participant at all … that’s when it happened. He was angry because he felt betrayed since I found a new guy.”
When Dr. West doesn’t respond, I shift my attention back to her, running my hands nervously over my gray wool pants. Omitting ninety percent of the story will likely yield a ten percent success rate with this therapy, but I must try.
“Did you report it?”
I glance at my watch. “Time’s up.”
“We have five minutes.”
I stand. “I have class. Thank you. I’ll schedule another appointment, but I don’t know when. But you think I’m good, right?”
Her lips part, but nothing comes out.
“Good enough?” A nervous laugh escapes as I slide my bag onto my shoulder.
“Francesca …”
“Have a good weekend.” I skitter out the door, tossing the receptionist a faint grin before speedwalking out of the building. When the cool air hits my skin, I stop and just … breathe.
“You might enjoy it.”
“He’s dead,” I whisper to myself.
There’s something gratifying about teaching grad students. By this point, they’re dedicated and have a greater appreciation for the professors who are not merely teachers … we’re mentors. I served my time with undergrad students. Molding ripe, young minds comes with its own level of fulfillment, but it also comes with the tedious patience of weeding through the ones who are lost and not ready to be found.