Page 73 of Hero Hair
Chapter Twenty-One
Teala
He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not.I tap my big toe on each book on the shelf as I alternate my truths. If I land on a book spine that contains green, I’ll call him.He loves me. He loves me not.Red. Sighing, I roll onto my stomach and prop my chin on my hands. Mom isn’t letting me leave the apartment. I don’t want to anyways. It’s so scary outside these days. My friends come over and it’s easy to pretend I’m normal when they’re here. When I’m by myself everything falls apart.
Something shiny catches my eye. I hop up and walk toward the sparkle against the dark wooden floor. It’s a tiny piece of glass the sun is catching just right. After I put it in the trash I return to the floor in front of my bookshelf. I chose a book with a pink, worn out spine. It’s my favorite novel. I thumb through the pages and stop on a page about halfway through and read a few random sentences. Tears prick my eyes. I throw the book across the room. The kitchen is tidy. Mom must have cleaned all morning long. Everything in the world is starting to return to normal. Trash pickup resumed and the grocers have produce again. The malls and shops are still closed, but will open soon. I can’t even think about opening the studio again.
I tried to teach a few classes in my living room, but it didn’t feel right and I couldn’t focus to save my life. I can’t focus on anything, actually. Water. I need a drink. Opening my fridge, I grab a water bottle and drain it completely. Zero calories. I don’t have to worry about burning zero calories. I drink another one as fast as I can and throw the plastic bottles in the recycling bin. I slide the button on my tablet to bring it to life and check my email. Nothing new since I checked ten minutes ago. On autopilot, I go to my favorite workout gear online shop to read the message about being closed for the time being. No new pants or tanks to look at still.
I meander down the hallway and work my way into my closet. I sort through the clothing and organize it first by color then by shape. I run my hands over the soft fabrics and try to envision wearing them once again. It’s impossible and it frustrates me beyond belief. When my shoes are lined up on their shelves, dusted and loved, I sit in the middle of my bed. Macs’ T-shirt is folded under my pillow. It doesn’t smell like him anymore, but I still remember what he looked like when he wore it. It hugs his muscles in the right places and stretches across his broad chest enough to let any woman know what he’s packing underneath.
I run it in between my fingers and get angry. Whenever I think of him it ends in anger. Every time. He left me. I drove him away, sure, but he didn’t even fight for us. He told my mom I’d be happier without him. He didn’t want to cause me any more trauma by going on work trips. After I’m finished being angry at him, I get furious with myself for being so stupid. For giving my father permission to destroy me. Again. That man really is an asshole. My psychiatrist comes over twice a week and my meds are regulated so that I feel like a normal person most days. Feeling normal only proves to show me exactly how much I lost while I wasn’t normal.
It’s a twisted game of guess what your reality is now! I did go out last week because one of our friends opened her salon for the first time since the attacks. I met Carina there. My hair doesn’t look like Edward Scissorhands got ahold of my head. It’s shorter than I’d ever want it, but I know it will grow back and honestly, in the grand scheme of things, what the fuck does hair mean anyways? Nothing. It sits on your head. You can put products in it or leave it be. It grows. You cut it. Rinse. Repeat. Short hair is easy. I don’t have to brush it. It exists all by itself. Like grown up hairs taking care of themselves.
I lean back on my bed and close my eyes. Did you know it’s impossible to will yourself to sleep? You can’t do it. I can’t take the drugs they give me to fall asleep because I don’t like the way they make me feel. I greet the dark every night with open arms and hope it will pull me under briefly. It rarely does. When I open my eyes in the morning I’m more exhausted than when I went to bed. If I sleep, the nightmares come. They’re vivid and life-altering. I can’t chance it, so I catnap during the day and play dark roulette at night.
I glance at my clock and realize it’s almost time for my doctor’s appointment. He’ll come in using the key my mom gave him. He’ll move the stool from the bar to the center of the living room and sit down like a man on a throne. I’ll perch on the couch, or lie down with my head on the nice blanket and I’ll spill my guts. All of them. My abs get sore from talking so much. It’s my cardio for the week. The one subject that is quite off-limits is Macs Newstead. I don’t go into any depths about my feelings for him, and the doctor knows not to broach it. He warned me we will have to talk about him eventually, but there’s so much baggage with my father, I doubt I’ll be alive by the time we make it to Macs.
I hear the door open and close, so I wait in my bedroom. When I’m sure he’s set up in the way he always is, I enter, plastering a huge grin on my face. Absentmindedly I run my hand through the ponytail that doesn’t exist. “Dr. Rhodes. How are you?” I ask, beaming. I offer him water, which he denies, like always, and gestures to the couch in front of me.
I don’t even want to know how much these in call sessions are costing me. Luckily I was savvy with my money. Responsible.
“How are you feeling today, Teala?”
I tell him I’m fine.
“Doing some reading today to pass the time?” Dr. Rhodes nods to the book on the floor—the beautiful people on the cover peeking up at me, like they’re ratting me out.
I shrug, leaning back on the couch. “It made me upset. It’s my favorite book.”
“I see. Why did it make you upset?”
I’m disappointed he went for the obvious question. How dense does he think I am?
“The man left his best friend and he shouldn’t have. He knows she’s in love with him. It’s more than friend love. It’s forever love.”
He presses his lips into a firm line. It irritates me. “What does she do to let him know she loves him? Is it obvious to him?”
I sigh. “Of course it’s obvious!” Then I think about it. Maybe it’s not. “Well, maybe. I don’t know. He’s an idiot if he doesn’t know, though.”
“I see.” It took therapy for me to realizeIandseeare the most annoying words in the English language. “Perhaps if she was more clear about her feelings he wouldn’t have left.”
I smirk. “You’ve read it, haven’t you?”
He smiles back, in a genuine way that lets me know I’ve caught him. “They find a way back to each other,” he says. “Eventually.”
“Listen. I’m not ready to talk about Macs.” Saying his name is painful. “It doesn’t matter anyways. He doesn’t do second chances. Hell, the man doesn’t do first chances. I’m not sure how I squeaked by with that one.” By lying to myself. It was never just a game or a bet for me.
“You can’t let what you think he’ll allow dictate how you feel.”
I know exactly how I feel. Heartbroken. Scorned. Angry. “It’s a moot point. It’s the past.”
“You know as well as I do that your past is pretty important. It affects the future whether you want it to or not. So do you think you’re ready to leave the house? Begin teaching at the studio again?”
“Maybe if I could sleep.” I throw an arm over my eyes to block out some of the light. I could take five or ten minutes right here and right now.
He clears his throat to let me know a nap isn’t in the cards. “Nightmares still?”
