Back at his place, the sex was even quicker and more perfunctory than usual: he flipped me, and we were tucked in within twenty minutes. Afterward, I laid my head on his chest, but I could feel him staring at the ceiling. I sat up.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Brandon’s gaze didn’t waver from the crown molding. “Please don’t talk about me in your group.”
“What?” Did he know how therapy worked?
“Don’t mention my name.” I’d yet to tell him that my “group” was actually two groups and that I went three times a week.
“They already know I’m dating you.” They knew everything. One Monday after group, Max and Brad googled Brandon and discovered that his apartment was worth more than a million dollars and that his mother was a major donor to Catholic Charities.
“Do they know my name?”
I nodded, and I felt my face burn red. I wasn’t supposed to say his name?
“Please”—he turned to face me—“just leave me out of it.”
I nodded—not because I agreed, but because I understood what he was asking. He took my silent nodding as assent, leaned over to kiss me on the cheek, and settled back on his pillow.
33
“How was the birthday?” Max said.
I praised the salmon and the black truffle panna cotta at Custom House.
“Did he give you a present, like looking at your face while he fucked you?” Lorne asked. I gifted Lorne my middle fingers.
“Can we move on?” I asked.
Max narrowed his eyes. “You’re usually such a blabbermouth—what he said, how he kissed you, whether he was in denial about his OCD—”
“How he flipped you—” Lorne said, and I gave him two more middle fingers.
“Now you’re acting like it’s none of our business.” Max said.
I looked at Dr. Rosen. “Can you help me?”
Dr. Rosen and I had spoken on the phone the morning after my birthday. He said he would not force me to talk about Brandon in group, but he strongly suggested that I let the group know what Brandon had asked of me. Now he gestured for me to go ahead. I took a deep breath and explained Brandon’s request and my tacit agreement not to discuss him in group.
Everyone asked the same question: Why would he jeopardize my treatment? I pursed my lips. They were so dramatic. Brandon simply wanted privacy. Just because I was comfortable telling my groups what I ate and how I fucked didn’t mean he was. What was the harm in trying it Brandon’s way? If I returned to suicidal ideation and apple binges, I could always change course.
The group lobbed more questions at me. Grandma Maggie wanted to know how I would get help with the relationship. Lorne wanted to know if Brandon knew his nickname was “Flipper.” Max’s question landed hardest: Was this relationship worth the sacrifice I’d agreed to make?
Dr. Rosen sat silently as I fielded questions. I looked over at him several times. In one moment, I would see approval for my decision to be open to Brandon’s request. When I looked again, I’d see the straight line of his lips and detect a wariness that made my spine stiffen. I wanted to press my palms to my ears and scream. Why did every one of my relationships have to be such a goddamned production? When would this get easier?
By the end of the session, I’d struck a bargain with the group: I would not bring in stories about Brandon, but when I needed help with the relationship, I would leave a message for Dr. Rosen, who would counsel me outside of group. Then I would disclose to the group, not the substance of the conversation with Dr. Rosen, but simply the fact he gave me feedback outside of group.
“This is never going to work,” Lorne said. I saluted him with my middle fingers once again. But even as I acted confident about the bargain I’d struck, worry tugged at me. I’d spent five years learning to bare myself to Dr. Rosen and my groups, learning to “let them in.” What would be the cost now of shutting them out?
“Christie,” Max said in his most serious voice. “Seriously. What’s this about? Why can’t you talk about him in your therapy?”
I figured there was some ancient family secret he was protecting out of allegiance to his bloodline. My best guess was a family history of something he was ashamed of, like addiction, mental illness, or a pregnancy out of wedlock. I knew that his dad died when Brandon was young, and I sensed both pain and shame woven through that story, which Brandon had alluded to only once. In time, Brandon would learn from me that secrets were toxic and that disclosure was the route to freedom and intimacy.
That night over sushi, I told Brandon that I was willing to sequester him from my group as long as I could tell Dr. Rosen anything I wanted. He said he could live with that. I rose from my chair and walked around to his side of the table so I could give him a hug. He blushed at the public display. We ordered a lemon tart with two forks. The mood was celebratory.
The next few weeks in group were awkward. Before Brandon’s edict, I had a place in the hot center of the action every session, talking about who I was sleeping with, who just dumped me. I tore up rags, tore out my hair, and demanded to know how group would help me. They had taught me to laugh at myself and look at my relationships from multiple angles. Now I curled into myself when sex or relationships came up, pressing my lips together to remind myself and all of them that I would not be sharing anything.
After every date with Brandon, I left data-filled
