Page 91 of Snowballed

“How are we paying for this?” I ask.

“Noah is paying,” she replies.

“No. No way. We’re not taking charity from him.”

This is so typical of rich people. They use money as a solution for everything. I hate the money. If Noah hadn’t gotten all that money, he wouldn’t have been able to do all these things. He’d still be here. But I realize how unfair this is. Even if Noah still had to live here, we wouldn’t be going out anymore. I pushed him away—even though it was the last thing I wanted, and I need to figure out why.

“I told him we would find a way to manage, but he insisted. He said he’d feel too guilty leaving me with all the extra work.”

Leaving her?What about me, I want to say. But he’s right: while I’m away, it’s my mother who has to pick up the slack.

“He’s a very good person, Zoe,” my mother says.

Why is she torturing me? I know how good he is. Because that’s the best thing about Noah. Yes, he’s crazy handsome, but he’s also sweet, funny, and moral. Maybe that’s our real problem; he’s so amazing that I could never understand what he was doing with me.

“Did he seem unhappy when he left?” The desperate question escapes me before I can stop it.

My mother reaches over and strokes my shoulder. “Well, you know how Noah is. He keeps his emotions locked up pretty tight. But he’s certainly not the happy person he was before Christmas.”

Christmas, when I first started down my path of jealousy and self-doubt. I really hate myself for messing up the most wonderful thing in my life.

“Maybe you should talk to him. Patch things up?” my mother suggests.

I shake my head. It’s not possible.

That night, when I fall into bed, I’m exhausted but I can’t sleep. I keep remembering ways I lashed out at Noah. Why did I do that? Was I pushing him or testing him? Or am I punishing myself?

When I wake up in the morning, I’m sure of one thing. There’s something wrong with me, and I can’t go on like this. I’m going to do what both Noah and Rocky suggested: get help.

After practice, I head over to the student counseling center. It’s quite benign. Nobody points a finger and accuses me of not being able to handle my life. I fill out a form with all my personal details.

“Is this urgent?” the woman at the front asks.

I’m not sure how to answer this question. In one way, it’s not urgent because I’ve been carrying my issues for two years. But in another way, itisurgent because I feel so desperate.

“Sort of,” I say. “I mean, don’t bump anyone for me, but sooner would be better.”

She half-smiles. “Don’t worry, we don’t bump patients. Zoe. But you’re in luck. Lorraine just had a cancelation.

Twenty minutes later, I’m in Lorraine’s office.

“Hello, Zoe,” she says. “Nice to meet you. Please have a seat.”

I wonder which chair to take. Will it say something about me if I sit closer to her? I choose the bigger, softer chair.

Although I’m nervous, I appreciate Lorraine’s calm and matter-of-fact manner. She looks to be in her thirties, and I like that too. I want someone experienced, but not someone my mother’s age in case she’s going to judge me.

“How are you doing today?” she asks.

“Good.” I feel impatient. I don’t want to go through all the polite getting-to-know each other conversations. I don’t have time to go to therapy for years like people in indie movies. Besides, getting to the point is my style.

“I’m having problems dealing with my father’s death.”

Lorraine nods. My confession hasn’t fazed her. “When did he die?”

Then everything pours out of me: my father’s stroke, his restricted life after that, and his death. How close we used to be, and my work on the farm. As I speak, I’m aware of how easy it is to shape the narrative and present myself as the most reasonable, hard-working person. But I try to be honest.

I haven’t even gotten to my arguments with my mother before she gently interrupts me.

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