Page 40 of Rebound
Krys, like Vera, owns her luxury skincare company outright. She’s made a big name for herself and the majority of her clients are wealthier than any of us can comprehend. Even Vera, who makes tons of money, isn’t as rich as the ones who come to Krys for help. The only problem is Krys is not boss material. She’s sweet and kind, she never raises her voice or scolds anybody. She’s the soft kind of boss all of us wish we had when we were starting out, but that also means they take advantage of her and clearly that’s what happened today.
“This is why I would rather talk about Tamamama and not myself or anything else.”
“That’s a cheap shot,” I grumble and my friends snicker.
“We only want to know why you’re so tightly wound when you’ve got an Indian Viking living in your flat.”
I shoot Millie a glare, but she shimmies her shoulders and ignores my frustration. I knock back the ginger ale like it’s a glass of whiskey and then tell them everything. From the first time I met him to falling in love as a teenager to having my heart ripped open and trampled on. Then to seeing him at Mahabalipuram and fucking in Elias’s house. By the time I’m done, I’m so tired of being stoic and difficult, I want to cry.
This is not me. I’ve never been a mean girl, like Patrick said. I’m not rude for no reason and I don’t mistreat people. But he’s flipped a switch in me and I don’t know how to turn it back.
“You’re just protecting yourself, T.”
“But at what cost? Am I making this harder on myself or being an asshole unnecessarily?”
Millie shrugs. “Yes. But what’s the alternative?”
“They could talk about why she’s angry and start fucking again.”
I laugh at the simple way Vera laid it out. “I don’t even know how to bring that up anymore. Talking is what got me knocked up.”
“I should talk to Venkat more,” Krys adds and we all laugh. She’s got two adorable kids and a really great husband, but I doubt Krystina wants more kids.
“Okay, here’s my suggestion,” Vera says and leans forward, her elbow barely making contact with the table before it unbalances her. She laughs and catches herself, then continues, “If you’re not ready to talk, at least soften your edges. I respect and support your decision to be angry with him and to set boundaries, but it’s clearly bothering you being so mean. So be yourself. Keep those walls up, but maybe they can be transparent instead of brick? If he’s going to be there for you and the baby, let him. Accept the help, Tam. You don’t have to love him or fall back into bed with him.”
I swallow the ball of emotion trapped in my throat and nod. “Transparent walls,” I repeat and my friends nod.
Hours later, after we’ve gone for a long drive to get fresh air and stuffed our bellies full of greasy food, I drop them off at their respective houses and head back to mine. I stumble into the flat as exhaustion weighs me down. If I’m this tired at fourteen weeks, how will I survive at the full term? Once I’ve locked up, I walk into the kitchen to get some water and spot a stack of things waiting for me. Baby books with pretentious titles, a wall calendar with the month designed like baby blocks, a box of Crayola sketch pens, and a stuffed elephant. A piece of paper sits below all of this with a note in neat block letters.
Something tells me you like to colour coordinate your schedule, so I figure we could do it for the baby and important dates related to them. Wherever you want the calendar, let me know and I’ll put it up tomorrow. A little kid was selling the elephant on the side of the road, so I bought it. Don’t worry, I washed it first, but it still might smell weird.
I know this wasn’t part of your plan, but we’re here now. Let’s make it work.
Love,
Trick
Fourteen. We’ve got this, yeah?
Patrick
I think we’ve reached some kind of balance, but I’m not entirely sure. She doesn’t look like she’s planning my murder every morning and she’s a little more pleasant these days. But it could be a farce. A trick to make me think we’re okay. I want to give Tamara the benefit of the doubt, but she’s a crafty woman. The upside is, in the week since I hung up the calendar, our lives have settled into a gentler routine.
Now, she offers me the newspaper when she’s done and makes random conversation during breakfast. She thanks me a lot—when I offer to pack lunch or remind her to drink lots of water—and texts me if she’s going to be late or not home for dinner. I’ll take the small changes. It’s better than the ice queen I’ve been living with. I don’t know what happened to change her personality, but I refuse to ask. Lest she returns to snapping and attacking me again.
“I thought you’d do this session in person since we’re in the same city,” Dominic says once the video call connects.
I chuckle and slide my fingers through my freshly washed hair, undoing the few knots I encounter. After Tamara left for work, I called Dom for our weekly session. I’ve been really good about attending therapy now that I’m in the country and don’t have a whole lot keeping me busy. It’s been good for me too, talking to someone about what’s going on. Obviously there’s only so much advice Dominic can give me that I can implement. But I use his tips to ease us into a more settled situation.
“Maybe next week.”
It also never mattered to me where my therapist lived, as long as we could have our regular sessions and I could talk to them without anything getting in the way. I saw Dom when I was visiting in May and had two great sessions before I was on a plane to Paris. Since then, we’ve only talked via the phone or video call. When I moved to Chennai, I didn’t actually consider changing the way we do this, but he’s right. I should do an in-person session at some point.
“And maybe you can bring your baby mama too,” he teases and I roll my eyes.
“If I survive this week, I’ll consider it.” I flip open my notebook and exhale loudly. “I did my homework.”
“All right, tell me what you’ve got.”
