Page 2 of Drop Three

I can’t help but shake my head at her question. How does she anticipate it felt? Not like a fun walk down memory lane, I can tell you that much.

I answer her, “Like facing it a thousand more times wouldn’t be enough to equal the pain she went through. Not even close.”

It’s useless to compare. I got off easy while Gwendolyn fought like hell.

Dr. Banks lets out a long exhale. “That’s it for today. We’re making progress, Bodhi. I’m hopeful. See you next week.”

Progress?

Her expectations of me are far too high.

She has her work cut out for her.

1

BODHI

As if Ididn’t have all the time in the world at therapy to talk through my feelings, the distance from my house to Dr. Banks’ office gives me an additional moment of reflection.

I imagine she must have planned this location intentionally, knowing her clients would have a long drive back to stew over their discussion and reach some angelic resolution.

A come to Jesus moment.

Not likely.

Dr. Banks’ office is located in a rural area of Atlanta on the city’s outskirts. It should take no more than twenty minutes to get there, but with Atlanta traffic on a Friday night, I can count on adding another thirty minutes to my drive back home.

Atlanta is a city with a magnitude of possibilities. There are endless options for places to live, whether you prefer countryside living, city nightlife, or coastal leisure.

I prefer the city. Not because of the nightlife—I hate that shit. But I thrive on keeping busy. It helps distract my thoughts and allows me to blend in. I’m not someone who enjoys big crowds—I hate attention and when people notice me.

I do my best to blend in.

My job as a Major League baseball player does me no favors with that. You’d think I would be accustomed to swarms of people by now, yet they only make me more anxious and on edge. I can talk with fans, sign swag, or anything in close quarters. But if large groups bombard me at once, I revert to an inward panic.

Like most people with trauma, I’ve got triggers.

Overstimulation is mine.

Despite my difficulties in those situations, I fucking love my job.

I live, breathe, and sleep baseball.

It sounds cliché, but it’s in my blood.

It makes me feel alive.

It might be the only thing that does at this point.

The drive home goes by much faster than usual, likely from my thoughts helping pass the time.

An empty driveway greets me as I pull up to the house.

Being home alone is a true rarity when living with three other dudes. I’ll take it, though. I’ve had a long day of press, weight training, and practice before therapy; a hot shower and an early night are what I need.

I may feel my best in the city, but the home my teammates and I share is nothing like a home I would want for myself— it’s modern and luxurious.

We aren’t exactly hurting for money, so sharing a place of this size makes sense for us. We’re all single, and there’s no guarantee we’ll be in Atlanta forever.

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