Page 82 of The Bright Side of Brooding
“I’m not good at that. I don’t know how to do that.” My stomach curled into a fist, drawing so tight, I could hardly breathe.
“I don’t understand. We already said that’s what we’re doing—we’re dating. Exclusively.”
Frustration with myself, with him, with the whole damn day boiled over, an unwatched pot I couldn’t even try to remove from the heat.
“I don’t need a babysitter, Nick. I’m not someone who likes to be checked up on. I’ve lived my life being independent, doing my own thing. I don’t need someone telling me they miss me when what they really mean is I should slow down, I should ease off whatever obligations I’ve chosen to engage in, to make time for what they want me to do.”
A pause came from his end, then, “I don’t want you to stop doing the things you enjoy. I said I missed you because I do. I like you, Summer. I think I might even—” He grunted, then continued. “I care about you. I want to be around you. I want to talk to you. I don’t know how to help you understand I don’t have an ulterior motive.”
Bitterness like I’d only tasted one other time in my life rushed to my throat, and the words spat out. “Well, don’t concern yourself with helping me understand for a while, okay? You take your trip, have a good time, and we’ll see what happens.”
“We’ll see what happens?”
For the first time, heat entered his voice. Frustration, and maybe disappointment. Maybe hurt. Good grief, how many times had I heard those same things from other people. I’d never cared so much until him. That should’ve made me hang up all the faster, but instead I calmed, just a little.
I blew out a breath. “Listen, I’m sorry. I just need sleep. Space. Something. I’ll talk to you next weekend, okay?”
“Okay. Night, Summer.”
I waited an hour, hoping he’d knock on my door and bust past my mile-high defenses. That somehow, he’d know only part of me wanted to push him away while the rest of me wanted to hold him to me and never let him loose. I trembled at how cold I’d been, how opposite to what I actually felt. But that smaller part screamed louder today after the events with Major Hall and even the news of Nick’s interference.
By Sunday of that same weekend, I felt hollowed out. My efforts to spin all this into something positive failed and failed again. All my mantras and smiling into the void meant nothing right now.
Ariel called, and I clutched at the phone, desperate for someone to connect to and tell me I hadn’t done an insane, horrible thing by sending Nick away without seeing him.
“Hey, how have you been?”
“I’m good. Enjoying the last big hurrah with the family all together here. Your text earlier worried me.”
I’d sent her a little SOS message. I’d never been good at leaning on friends, but I wanted to. I could admit that, and somehow, it seemed far less terrifying.
“Sorry. I’m fine. But I think I’ve broken everything good in my life, and I’m broken.”
My voice caught on the last word. Until that moment, I hadn’t ever said those words, even in therapy, even though they resounded clear and true through me.
“Why do you say that?”
I liked that about Ariel. She didn’t immediately spring to my defense and tell me I hadn’t done anything wrong. She just asked the question.
“The way I grew up, the culture in my family and all that—I’ve had therapy for this. I have. But lately, I’ve been finding the idea of needing anyone to be unbearable. I’ve always struggled to accept help, and I knew that was a hold-over from childhood. But with Nick…” I sucked in a breath. Saying his name hurt.
“With Nick?” Ariel asked gently.
“I think I need him. Like,love himneed him. And I am… not mature enough for that.”
She chuckled into the phone. “I’m not sure that’s quite right, but maybe it is. Only you can tell for sure.”
I exhaled, a small measure of relief coming from just saying these words out loud to someone. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Be in a relationship?”
“Ask for help.” I sighed. “Sorry, this is all messed up because I’ve bungled not only things with Nick but also my whole resumé builder project thing. I’m basically a mess. And I think I need to ask for help.”
And something distant and timid said,It’s not just help you need. It’s trust.But help was the tangible, fixable problem I could present a friend with, and so I listened to her response.
“I know how hard that can be. But you should ask whoever you need to, and ask as many people as you need to. I didn’t reach out when I needed it—before Jim and I married and definitely not after. It was pride and maybe the reluctance to bother anyone. But if I had, I would’ve saved myself so much grief. And I would’ve saved myself period, I think. Sooner than I did, anyway. I know that’s totally different, and it may not actually apply, but I wholeheartedly support you asking for help.”
“I’m sorry you went through any of that. And thank you. I will. I’m going to.”
