Page 48 of Well, Actually
She fixes me with a gentle smile, and I offer a tense one back, the urge to flee itching through my muscles. What has Cooper said about me? How did he frame it? Why would I even come up at all, though? Has he… has he thought about me that much over the years?
I shake myself. That’s ridiculous. I’m sure it’s just that the past few weeks have jarred him too, even if he’s faring better financially and in the court of public opinion than I am.
I look away from Roberta’s intense gaze and take in her office. It’s a warm, welcoming space, the walls lined with shelves cradling equal amounts of worn books and pieces of art. Roberta sits across from us in a comfortable-looking velvetarmchair, one leg slung over the other, hands resting on her stomach.
I squirm on the couch, burrowing as far as I can into the corner to put as much distance between my hip and Cooper’s where he sits next to me.
“While this space is safe and being held for both of you to have this conversation,” Roberta continues when my fidgeting stops, “I would be remiss not to reiterate that he is, first and foremost, my patient as an individual, not the pair of you as a unit. That being said, I’m not here to take sides or pass judgment or do anything outside of facilitating the conversation and helping everyone dig a bit deeper into their emotions.”
“Why do I feel like this is a really nice way for you to imply you’re about to be mean to me and call me on my bullshit?” I ask with unfounded confidence in my voice. Roberta’s kind smile and penetrating gaze tell me she sees right through my false bravado.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Cooper chirps. “She’ll do that to both of us indiscriminately.”
“Calling Rylie on his bullshit is the majority of our sessions,” Roberta adds, shooting him a conspiratorial wink.
An awkward silence drops through the room, Roberta smiling expectantly at us, Cooper’s body angled toward me, and mine practically hanging over the arm of the couch as I try to escape the threads of expectant intimacy weaving between us all.
“Shouldn’t therapy have a bit more talking?” I ask drolly, looking at my nails.
“It’s nice when it does,” Roberta replies. “What would you like to talk about?”
“Uh-uh. He dragged me here.” I cock my thumb at Cooper. “He should be the one who has to start.”
Cooper lets out a measured breath, sitting up straighter. “Of course. Yeah. Well…” He drags a hand through his hair, tilting his head back as he searches for words. “I guess what I was hoping for with this, uh, session was to dig a little deeper into our past, um, bullshit. Create an open forum to air grievances and work through everything that happened.”
“So what I’m hearing,” Roberta follows up, “is you’re wanting to revisit your past relationship and come to a mutual understanding of what happened and perhaps why you both acted in the ways you did?”
“We weren’t in a relationship,” I say like an impertinent child. Both of them turn to me. I feel my cheeks heat, but I clear my throat. “It was like, four dates and a lousy hookup. I feel like all of this”—I wave my hand around the room—“is making too big a deal out of what it actually was.”
“So you feel like the time you spent together didn’t hold much significance in the grand scheme of things?”
I shrug. “I was hurt by how it played out, but it’s kind of ancient history at this point. We all need to move on.”
“And moving on includes blasting me on social media?” Cooper asks. There’s an impish curl to his mouth, one brow quirked. He said it in a gently teasing way, but my hackles rise.
“We all say and do stupid shit on the internet when we’re drunk and see our biggest mistake’s face pop up in our feed.”
“You feel as though your time with Rylie is your biggest mistake? That seems worth talking about, Eva.”
My gaze whips to Roberta. “Jesus. I was hyperbolizing. I… It…” A small tornado of anxiety swirls up my arms andtouches ground in my chest, sweat prickling at the back of my neck. I feel naked, exposed. I don’t want them to see these hideously weak spots.
I take a deep, measured breath, leg jiggling, eyes burning a hole into the fabric of the couch. “My thing with Cooper was the first time I ever romantically pursued someone I liked. He was my first date. My first kiss. My first, uh, sexual partner. So, yeah, I didn’t enjoy being ghosted by the person I handed all those firsts to and I harbored some resentment. But that doesn’t mean the whole situation is something I think about anymore. I’m over it; there’s no need to harp on it or make it into this giantthing.”
Liar, a voice hisses in my ear. It sounds a bit like Cooper’s.
“I didn’t know that,” Cooper says gently like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. “That I was your first for all of those things. Why didn’t you tell me?”
I scoff. “Would it have changed how you treated me?”
“It might have,” Cooper says, face etched with earnestness.
My sneer is pure acid. “It shouldn’t. Someone’s experience or lack thereof with relationships and sex shouldn’t be some metric to determine how shitty you can be to them.”
“It still would have been nice to know.”
“And it would have been nice for you to ask,” I say in a patronizing tone, throwing up my hands. “No one likes to admit how inexperienced they are when they’re young and trying to impress someone they like; it makes them feel… I don’t know, like they’re weird or sheltered or behind the curve. I always felt like I was on shaky ground with you anyway, I wasn’t about to scare you off even more by being vulnerableand shit.” I already felt like I was handing over way more of myself to him than he was returning; I needed some level of preservation. “So, I didn’t tell you. I didn’t confide in you about my history because history wasn’t something we talked about. Did I attach a lot of unnecessary meaning and emotion to all of those firsts? Yes. Of course. I was a young girl desperate for male validation in any form I could find it. But you also weren’t entitled to that information if you weren’t willing to hand over any of your own.”
“Eva.” Roberta’s voice is kind, its tenderness dragging my unwilling gaze to hers. “Before we continue, I do think it’s important to correct one thing you just said. Your emotions and the meaning you attach to things that happen to you in your life areneverunnecessary. Attaching meaning and emotion to events is the most necessary part of living. It’s your story. It’s your narrative to write and rewrite and revise as you see fit, but, at the end of it all, it’syours.”
