Page 22 of For a Goode Time Call…
Another long silence.
“I had Rick. I loved thehellout of that man. I’d have walked through fire for him. If he had asked me to give up dance and have his baby, I’d have done that too, and asking me to give up dance is akin to asking me to give up a leg.” A bitter laugh. “So, I ended up losing danceandRick. Ilovedhim, so fucking much. Blindly, really. Maybe I should have seen it coming. The doctors say it was unpredictable the way his brain trauma presented. Some people lose motor skill, others lose memory, some lose cognitive function. Some just…change. He changed. Like flipping a light switch. Maybe what he lost was his ability to…pretend. Or filter through the desires of his id and the better sense of his superego. I don’t know.”
I had no idea what an id was, or a superego. I didn’t say so, though. This wasn’t a speech you interrupted.
“I don’t understand it, even still. He just fell out of love with me. He woke up from a three-day coma and was no longer in love with me.” A sigh, a pause. “In love. What a crock of shit. Do you really fall in love? Is it falling? Should it be falling? Or is it a choice? Something you do, you choose, something youare? Falling makes it sound like you have no choice over the matter. I mean, when I met Rick the first time, I just knew I was going to end up with him. Forever, I thought. I was all in. The sexual feelings, the romantic feelings, they were undeniable, and super powerful, but I was still able to look at the situation with something resembling objectivity and be like, ‘yeah, I want this.’ And I chose it. I chosehim. Even though I knew he was rude sometimes. To me, to others. To anyone in a service industry role, he was a monumental jackass. That bugged me…a lot, actually. He was arrogant, and would savagely ridicule anyone who got in his way, anyone he thought was less than him. Which was just about everyone. But he was also funny, and an insanely talented dancer. And kind, in equal measure to his arrogance. He was entitled, and spoiled. Grew up with a silver spoon. His mother was one of those Upper East Side socialites, and his father was a French architect, so he lived part of the year in Manhattan and part of the year in Paris. Their Parisian condo literally had servants, like in full uniform, or what they called livery. Growing up, my family was always on the more well-to-do end of average, I thought, but then I met Rick and his family was just like…on a whole other level.”
A long, thoughtful, reminiscent silence.
My eyes kept wandering over her form, her rounded shoulders, her spine and the muscles around it…and inevitably to her butt. And then she started speaking again, and I felt guilty for ogling her while she was pouring her heart out.
“I just feel so fucking lost, Ink. Dance was my anchor and my reason for being, and Rick was my wings, my reason to laugh and feel good. Now I don’t have either one, and I…I don’t know what the fuck to do.” A sniffle. “I’ve never been so emotional in all my life. I didn’t even know Icouldcry.”
Finally, silence ensued, and it felt…finished. As if she’d run out of words. She turned, walked back to the row of shitty folding chairs set up in the middle of the laundromat. She sat down beside me—close enough that her thigh touched mine. She was staring at her scars.
“The scar itself doesn’t bother me,” she said, eventually. “It’s what the scar means for me, for my life, that I don’t know how to cope with.”
I sorted through the many, many thoughts swirling in my head. I met her eyes, held them. “This is just my personal opinion. Obviously, I ain’t you. I ain’t in your shoes and I likely never will experience anything like what you’re going through. But, I’ve been through plenty of hurt in my life. Lost things important to me—people, mainly. Been betrayed, been cut down. And I guess somethin’ I learned is that sometimes in order to cope and process, you need to just give yourself time to…not. Not cope. Not process. Just feel it. Just let the hurthurt. Just let yourself be fuckin’ pissed off and angry and confused. Don’t try to figure it all out all at once. You got to eventually, and you will. But right now, maybe this is your time to just feel what you feel and don’t box it up, and don’t label it and don’t try to justify or make light of it.” I touched her scar again, and she still flinched, but didn’t pull away this time. “Just let yourself be a mess. Own it. It’s okay.”
She shook her head. “Mom makes me feel like I have to figure it outright now, like I need to therapy myself into a blissful state of happiness without Rick and without dance. It’s confusing, and it makes me feel guilty for not being able to pull myself out of the funk.”
“I don’t know your mom at all, only met her the once. But if you want my impression—”
“I do.”
“Well, I’d say she’s just worried about you. Maybe she’s pushing you to figure out how to be okay because she can’t handle seeing you all depressed and fucked up and in a funk. She’s your mama. She wants to see you happy. She loves you, and seeing you like this is probably hard for her.”
Cassie sighed, nodding. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” A laugh. “Doesn’t make it easier, though. Like, her pushing me to be better already makes me feel guilty, like I’m letting her down by being so fucked up.”
“So tell her that.”
“You’ve never tried to tell my mom that how she feels about something is wrong.” Cassie laughed at that, an amused cackle.
“Doesn’t change her mind easily, huh?” I smirked, knowing the answer was obvious.
“Yeah, no. Not in the slightest.”
“Probably worth it, though, I think. I mean, you can’t rushyourprocess to your new normal, right? So, at the least, you gotta express yourself to her so she knows where you’re coming from, even if she doesn’t agree. But knowing she loves you, I think she’ll come around to understanding where you’re coming from.”
She laughed again, her eyes searching my face. “You’re good at this.”
I frowned. “At what?”
“Relationship advice.”
I snorted. “Well, it ain’t because I’m some kinda expert. God knows I got my own set of problems with my parents.”
She tilted her head. “Really? Like what?”
“Like, I don’t really see them or talk to them much.”
“That’s kind of sad.”
“Wasn’t a falling out, or a blowout fight, or anything like that. We just…they don’t get me. How I can live in the city. Why I feel so compelled to put all this ink on my skin, on my face. Plus, my dad is what you might call a functioning alcoholic and my mom…” I waved a hand. “Mom is just difficult. And they were just never…supportive, or very affectionate. When they figured they couldn’t change me, couldn’t stop me from doing what I was gonna do, they quit trying. And when they quit trying to change me and talk me out of art and tattoos, they just sorta quit on me in general. It was tough. Itistough. It’s made it hard for me to connect with people.”
She leaned against me, her shoulder on mine. “You connected with me pretty well.”
I shook my head. “This is different.”
