Chapter 2

The sound of someone pushing open the heavy glass door startles me and I open my tired eyes and try to remember where I am. I must have fallen asleep because now the waiting room is crowded and the only spot left is the space next to me on the couch. I figure this out right about the same time the new arrival does, and I sit up straight, putting my feet back on the ground so he can sit comfortably. The boy looks familiar but I can't quite place him. His dark hair is cut very short, like Brady wears his for football, and his face is clean shaven. What really stands out, though, are his unusual multicolored irises.

I quickly turn my head so I'm not staring, and he sits down beside me, the scent of men's soap drifting past me as he gets comfortable. He's wearing jeans that hang a little from his hips and a black hoodie. I also notice he has on flip-flops and for some reason that makes me smile. He's holding a spiral notebook on his lap and I chance a quick look at his face again, curious about all the colors in those unusual eyes—the ones I find looking back at me a second before he looks away.

I've never actually seen anyone my age in the waiting room before. I know that plenty of other teenagers see therapists, but sometimes it feels like I am the only one my age who actually goes to one. I wonder what the boy's story is and whether it is anything like mine. I try not to look at him as he pulls a cell phone from his pocket and checks the time: 3:50. I must have been sleeping really soundly. The door to Laura's office opens and a mom with a baby on her hip makes arrangements to meet with her again. "One minute," Laura mouths to me and I nod my head. The woman and baby leave and Laura's door shuts.

I wonder if she saw me out here sleeping. How embarrassing. I take a deep breath again, catching a hint of the boy's fresh scent. The faint smell of chlorine has me intrigued—maybe he's a swimmer or a pool cleaner. One of the reasons why I got into volunteering and peer mediation is that I love talking to new people and finding out about their lives. It's probably why I'm almost tempted to ask him about it, but I don't know what the rules are here—not the actual rules, I'm sure I'm fine there, but the unwritten ones. Is it okay to talk to another person while you wait for your therapist? While they wait for theirs? What's he here for?

I know that looks can be deceiving, but he seems fine. He smiled, even. There are probably a million reasons why someone would go to therapy. I don't get much of a chance to really think about it though before Laura steps out of her office again and motions for me to come in. I stand up and take a few steps in her direction, but stop short when I hear a low voice call to me from the couch.

"Everly, you forgot your book." I turn and watch the boy close the distance between us and hand me the tattered paperback I'd left next to the couch. He looks down to the cover and smiles. I open my mouth to say something, but the door next to us opens and an older man steps out.

"Gabe, are you ready?" He looks right at my cute boy—not my cute boy, the cute boy. With a slight smile Gabe lets go of my book and slips inside the office of the gray-haired man, closing the door behind him.

"I'm sorry, Everly," Laura says as I move around a few of the pillows on her couch. I grab one and hold it in front of me to give my hands something to do. "That boy knew your name. We can switch your appointment time if you want more privacy. I try to make sure I don't book kids the same age back-to-back to avoid awkward waiting room run-ins, but I can't control the other therapists' calendars."

"That's okay," I assure her. "I don't know him. Maybe he knows me because of my sister or something." If he went to my school I would have noticed him before, wouldn't I?

"If you're sure." She looks at me carefully like she might have the power to see if I'm lying.

"I'm sure. He might not be here for therapy every week like I am. Probably won't see him again." I wonder if she will give me a little more information, like maybe that she's seen him here before or that he always comes here on Mondays so him being here today was a surprise. My therapy appointments are always on Tuesday. Instead she just shrugs and then sits down in her high-backed chair.

"How has the week been?" She looks at me empathetically and I answer her with a slight lift of my shoulders.

"As horrible as I expected."

"Anything new happen since we talked last?"

"I sort of lost it again today." I pick at a feather that's escaping the pillow on my lap through the fabric. "I saw him holding her hand and I just froze. A poor freshman behind me bumped right into my back and dropped all of his books. I couldn't even help him pick them up. As soon as my brain figured out I was standing in the middle of the walkway staring at their stupid hands I burst into tears and hid in the bathroom." I feel the embarrassment of the whole experience again, but surprisingly the tears don't flow. Maybe I'm finally all out of them.

"Remember the chart I talked to you about last time? I told you we would work on it this week and I'd want you to take it home for homework?" She reaches for a fresh sheet of paper from the notebook on the desk. She hands it to me on a plastic clipboard and then digs around for a pen in her desk.

"I remember," I answer as I watch her move around the contents of her drawer. She seems so put together, but small moments like this make her seem more human.

She finally tosses a pen at me. "I want us to start with what happened today. Make four columns. Title the first one Situation." I do as she asks and then wait for her next instruction.

"Write down what happened. Not all the details, just the part that hurt the most." She waits patiently while I write Brady held Elle's hand. "Now title the next column Feelings. Write down what you felt. Note if you felt sad or if your stomach ached." She waits again and this time I take a minute to think about my answer.

I write sad, hurt, devastated. Then below that I write stomachache, headache, heartache. Laura peeks at my paper and then nods her head. "Title the next column Unhelpful Thought. Write down the thought that hurt you."

"I don't know the thought. I just saw them and then lost it." I hold the pen above the paper and feel the roll of my stomach again just from replaying the situation.

"Take your time." I know this means that I'm not getting off the hook. I think about being in the hallway and watching him take her hand as if he'd been doing it for years. I let the tip of the pen slide along the paper as I write, It should be my hand. He doesn't love me anymore. I'm not his anymore. He is not mine. Then I save her the trouble of peeking by reading what I wrote.

"Now title the last column Alternative Thought. Let's see if we can reframe some of those negative thoughts and come up with some more helpful ones."

I move the pillow out from between my body and the clipboard. "I don't know what to write."

"Let's start with the first unhelpful thought, 'It should be my hand.' What's an alternative thought to that? Remember last time we talked about not using the word should." My mind is still blank. I can't think of one thought that erases the pain of the thought on the paper in front of me. I'm used to being a good student, so I feel this pressure to answer her and give her the right response.

"Um, I guess at least I got to hold his hand?" It sounds more like a question than an answer, but she smiles at me and gives me a little nod.

"That's a good start. This will get easier. Let's move on to 'He doesn't love me anymore.' What evidence do you have that that's true?"

"He's with her. He was talking to her when we were still together. He doesn't care that it hurt me or that my life feels like it's been turned upside down. He doesn't care that I'm embarrassed at school because everyone knew except me." I reach for the tissues on the ottoman between us.

"It's not possible to love two people at once? Being with her means he doesn't love you?" She waits for her words to sink in and then continues, "He's told you he doesn't care that it hurt you? I thought he was visibly sad when you confronted him about her. Could those feelings be gone already after only two weeks?"

She's right of course. It's possible to love two people at once, but why does he have to love her? Maybe it isn't even love yet. Maybe he just really likes her. "He was upset when I found them. He told me he didn't want to hurt me. His actions just said otherwise."

"Okay. So what I've heard is that he still cares about you. It might not be in the way you want, but he cares. He told you he didn't want to hurt you. His actions were painful, but it's possible he was trying not to hurt you, just really messing that up." She smiles at me and I smile back.

"He really messed that up."

"How are things with Elle this week?"

I let out a big sigh and take my phone out of my pocket to show her the texts from Heather. "I've had three different girls confront me about something she told them I said. I don't get it. Why does she have to keep doing it to me?"

"There's a saying in recovery 'Keep your side of the street clean.' It means don't worry about what other people are doing and why they are doing it. Just do what's right on your side and let the universe take care of the rest." Laura spins her pen once in her fingers. I watch it closely, letting her words sink in.

"So you're saying I shouldn't defend myself or attack Elle?"

With a few nods Laura answers, "If you said mean things, apologize. Everyone makes mistakes. If you tell others what Elle told you, you are no better than she is and what would it prove? It would only hurt those people to hear her opinion. Just let it go and be the bigger person. Eventually all this drama will stop." She sets the folders aside and reaches for her appointment book. "I want to start working on your staircase of fear. We will work on conquering your fears one step at a time until the biggest fear doesn't feel so overwhelming anymore. Be thinking about what those fears might be."

The hour is up so we book another appointment for next week. She offers me a different time in case I want to try to avoid the boy from the waiting room, but I tell her I'll keep my usual spot. I've been coming here for two years already and this is the first time I've ever seen him so it's entirely possible he won't be here next week.

I notice he's not in the waiting room as I make my way toward the exit. The office he disappeared into is closed and there are only a few people in the waiting room. I open the heavy glass door and then make my way down the steps and out to the parking lot to my car. I slip inside and pull out of my spot.

As I push the preset buttons on my radio until I find a song I don't hate—no one tells you that being dumped will ruin every love song ever written—I notice the big truck in front of me waiting for an opening in traffic so it can pull out onto the busy street. My eyes flick up to the driver's-side mirror and I can see the boy from the waiting room in its reflection. I watch in the mirror as he rubs his head then rests his arm just outside the window. His gaze falls down to the mirror and our eyes lock.

He doesn't look away immediately. I see him smile slightly and then his eyes return to the road. When there is a break in the traffic he turns left, lifting his hand in a good-bye wave as I watch his truck pull across the traffic lanes and then disappear around a bend in the road.

*****I hope you pick up a copy on August 8th!******

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