Page 26 of Perfectly Us
I look back at him.
“I’m a psychologist, not a dream expert.” He sits forward, elbows resting on his slacks. “But have you considered the possibility that these dreams aren’t you running toward something, but rather, you running away?”
“Are you saying I need to turn and face whatever’s behind me?”
He shrugs. “That’s up to you.”
Therapy sessions usually leave me a little drained, and today’s no exception. I leave Dr. Larson’s office in a sort of daze. There’s a lot to think over: my friendship with Alex and my reoccurring dream. There’s more that I didn’t tell my therapist though.
What I had so much trouble telling Alex in that parking lot? I don’t know if I’m like him or not. I don’t know if I’m gay, straight, or whatever. It all goes back to attraction. Like those magnets, me and Alex, being pulled together. All my life it seems I’ve met people with the same charge as me, and the poles repelled each other.
But not with him.
Thing is, I’ve found both girls and guys aesthetically appealing. It’s not that I don’t notice physical appearance. It just has no bearing on my sex drive. And in a world that’s so damn sex focused, it makes me feel like an alien or something.
The coffeehouse is busy when I arrive for my shift.
On Fridays, I normally work three to close. I have my appointment with Dr. Larson at one so I can still see him before I go in. Rush-hour times are from eleven to noon, then from five to six. So seeing a line wrapped around the building in the drive-thru as I pull in ten minutes to three causes an instant rise in my anxiety level.
I park in the employee area and head toward the entrance, the hot sun sweltering. Maybe that’s the reason it’s so busy. The heat of summer makes everyone crave something cold and refreshing, like one of our fruit spritzers, smoothies, or an iced latte.
“Thank god you’re here,” Amanda says with a nervous laugh after I clock in and join her behind the counter. “We’re being overrun.”
The inside is just as busy as the drive-thru. A line trails from the counter almost to the door, and many of the tables are full with people talking and slurping drinks. Some are sitting with laptops, earbuds in their ears.
We have awesome Wi-Fi, so gamers often come and stream online. I walked behind one of them once to wipe down a table and saw him playingWorld of Warcraft. Another sat beside him playingSkyrim. I used to play those all the time, but I’ve been on aSimskick lately.
“Hi, what can I get for you?” I ask the next person in line as Amanda speaks into her headset to take the person’s order in the drive-thru.
The rush lasts for thirty or so minutes before dying down a little. Thank god for anxiety meds. Without it, I probably wouldn’t have been able to make it through it. When I expect it to be busy, it doesn’t affect me so bad. But being taken off guard rattles me.
What rattles me even more?
Familiar faces. And not the good kind of familiar.
Eddy Stevens enters the coffeehouse with his arm thrown around some busty brunette—the same girl he was hanging over at Ruben’s party. As soon as he spots me, he smirks, and there’s nothing friendly about it.
“Hey, Walker,” he says. “I think it’s nice how they let you out for a few hours a day so you can feel normal. What’s it like in the asylum? Huh?”
I hate confrontation or any kind of conflict. Whenever the bullies set their sights on me in school, I closed my eyes and pretended I was somewhere else. They kicked and shoved me around, but by ignoring them, it took the fun out of it. They got bored and moved on.
Too bad I can’t close my eyes and ignore Eddy now.
“What can I get you?” I ask.
“Did you hear what I said, loser?” He’s not smiling anymore.
The girl puts a hand on his chest. “Drop it, Eddy.” She looks at me. “Ignore him. He’s being an ass. We’ll have two iced vanilla lattes and a cranberry scone.”
Surprisingly, Eddy doesn’t say anything else. That girl must have him wrapped around her well-manicured finger. He glares at me as I ring up their order, tell them their total, and make their drinks.
There was a rumor in school that Eddy’s dad would come home drunk and beat his ass until he was black and blue. I saw him show up with a black eye once. He told people he got it playing baseball, but everyone knew the truth. Suspected anyway. Bullies create more bullies, a cycle of abusers and the abused.
I might have a bunch of shit going on in my life—anxiety, depression, and massive identity confusion—but I have a stable home. My dad loves me and never lets me go a day without telling me as much.
So I don’t hold it against Eddy. I mean, he’s an asshole. But if a feral dog bites you, it’s kind of hard to be mad at it when you know it’s known nothing but violence and neglect its whole life. That’s how Eddy is to me.
That’s the difference between us. I turn my pain inward, and he lashes out at innocent people.
