“You’re saying that’s not you.”
He didn’t answer.
“You don’t look so hot,” Max said.
I still had on the same clothes from the day before—a sweater, now wrinkled, and shirt, now untucked. “Brandon and I broke up last night.”
Gasps. All eyes wide.
“Are you hiding any sharp objects?” Lorne asked.
I held my hands up in the surrender pose. No weapons. I had no urge to hurt myself or smash my stuff. This breakup, unlike the others, carried something novel: a strong whiff of relief. Now I could stop pretending that Brandon was my soul mate and get on with my life. When I told them about Marcie and Cancún, no one seemed shocked.
“Dr. Flipper has major issues,” Lorne said.
“Money can’t fix crazy,” Max said, shooting a look at Brad, who remained steadfastly convinced it could.
Dr. Rosen stared at me long and hard.
“I know what you’re going to say,” I said to Dr. Rosen. My palms were open, all fight drained out of me. Dr. Rosen opened his palms. A mirror image of mine.
“I’m listening.”
“You’re going to say that this group loves me. My other group loves me. That you love me. That I’m going to be okay.” Of course he would insist that this—sitting in this circle in my rumpled clothes turning my thoughts and feeling over to him and the group—was enough.
“Wait—” Lorne’s face lit up like a jack-o’-lantern. “Can you tell us his secret now?”
I looked at Dr. Rosen, whose face was wholly inscrutable. I wanted to tell them everything—to go back to the way it was before I picked Brandon over them, but not like this. Not to satiate Lorne’s curiosity, and not while I was still so raw. I shook my head—I’d tell them later. I started to shiver uncontrollably. My teeth chattered like pennies falling on marble. My knees jolted up and down. I hugged my arms into my body and tried to sit still. It was impossible.
“What’s going on?” Dr. Rosen asked.
I shook my head. No amount of effort could stop the shaking that was growing more violent.
“Give her a blanket,” Patrice said. I glanced in the corner at Dr. Rosen’s sad collection of 1970s fringed pillows and a ratty old brown blanket that screamed smallpox.
“No thanks,” I said through clattering teeth.
Dr. Rosen stood up and moved his chair back. He sat on the floor with his legs hips width apart and opened his arms wide.
“Oh boy,” Max murmured under his breath.
“What’re you doing?” I asked.
Dr. Rosen smiled broadly. “I have an idea.” He opened his arms wider. “My sense is you need to be held. You’re on the edge of a new identity and a new way of thinking about yourself.” He stretched his arms wider.
“He’s offering to hold you,” Max said.
“How?”
Max tossed me a pillow. I walked over to where Dr. Rosen was sitting and handed him the pillow, which he positioned like fig leaf. I knelt and then eased myself onto my butt. I stuck my feet out so they were perpendicular to his body. He bent his left knee so it was supporting my back and his right knee formed a bridge over my outstretched legs. I was still shivering, hands and legs jerking.
“Breathe,” he said.
I inhaled until it felt like my chest would explode. I slowly let the air out, molecule by molecule. The shivering continued but with less force. A wave of shame about being in this room with another failure on my docket washed over me. I let it. I didn’t try to outrun it in my mind or spook myself with thoughts about dying alone. Dr. Rosen held me. I let him.
After a few minutes, I put my head on Dr. Rosen’s shoulder. He put his arm on my back and held me closer. I buried my face into his shirt like a child and began to rock back and forth. He patted my back gently. On and on I rocked. I went to some other place—some preverbal time when I was rocked to sleep as a little girl before I had language and knew the words failure and loser.
The group continued as usual: Lorne told a story about his ex-wife, and Max said something about his daughter’s college application. They were all right there, but I was far away—I was a child, a toddler, a baby. When Dr. Rosen spoke, his neck vibrated against my scalp. I kept my eyes closed, but when they flickered open now and then, I saw Dr. Rosen’s watch, Max’s shoes, the mottled carpet. Twenty minutes went by. Then twenty more.
At some point, Dr. Rosen said, “We’ll stop there for today.” We were still on the ground, and now group was over. I opened my eyes and sat up. My hip flexors ached, and I wasn’t sure I could get to my feet by myself. Max grabbed one hand, Brad the other. I stood up and joined the circle.
37
To help me move past Brandon, Dr. Rosen gave me two prescriptions: to feel my feelings anywhere, anytime, and to commit no acts that required safety goggles. I agreed and decided I would be single differently this time. I would embrace and explore it. I would let go of the story that being single was a death sentence or a fatal disease. At night, I’d sit on my couch and stare at the Chicago skyline. When my fingers itched to throw something that would shatter, I would call Rory, Lorne, or Patrice. I’d crawl through the loneliness to their familiar voices that promised comfort.
One night, the stillness felt like a curse, and no one was around. I paced from my kitchen to my bedroom, where I stood in the doorway staring at my bed and imagined the ghosts of Jeremy, the Intern, Alex, and Brandon hovering just above my comforter. Good-bye, I whispered, and then turned to my laptop, where I scrolled through furniture stores looking for a new bed. I liked the symbolism of a new
