Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116372 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116372 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Kodiak’s family moved to a different state the summer before he started high school, and life moved on without him.
And I’ve done better. I’ve learned how to manage the panic attacks. I’ve realized they’re attached to memories I’ve suppressed. Those have surfaced slowly, and they always seem like they’re more dream than reality. I hate clowns and small spaces. But I’ve learned how to deal with the monsters that live in my head.
I’ve also found a group of friends who like my weird and my quiet. I take sewing classes in my spare time. I see Queenie regularly. I volunteer at the art center and work with other kids who have anxiety and PTSD. I pour my energy into being productive. I try not to think about Kodiak.
But like a true addict, sometimes I relapse.
I don’t text or message. I’m smart enough to know better. But sometimes I creep his social media with the fake account I created. Tonight, I’m restless, missing my old life and the people who used to make me feel safe.
I pull up his profile, and my heart skips a beat. Kodiak is a junior this year, and I’m a freshman. We’d be at the same school again if they hadn’t moved. He’s filled out in the past two years. He’s tall and broad and growing into his body.
Kodiak’s nearly jet-black hair sweeps across his forehead, and his northern-light eyes stare back at me. He’s not smiling. In fact, he looks more annoyed than anything about his picture being taken. He’s sweaty, and the background tells me it’s post-practice of some kind. The caption reads: Missing my boy Mav, and my brother is tagged.
I tell myself I’m allowed to look at three pictures, and then I’ll log out and shut it off. I scroll down, and suddenly all the air and happiness is sucked out of my lungs. I want to unsee this picture.
Because in it, Kodiak is smiling, and there’s a girl tucked under his arm. Pretty, blonde, and tall. She looks like a model. I force myself to read the caption. Date night with my favorite girl.
And my poor, stupid heart breaks all over again.
But it’s the last time I creep on him.
It was bad enough when I saw him kiss that girl the night before he moved away. I’d been working up the nerve to go over there, wanting to keep it together long enough to say goodbye. When I’d decided I was ready, I looked out my bedroom window and there he was, kissing the same girl he’d taken to his eighth-grade graduation dance.
My chest felt like it was caving in then, and it feels the same now. I can’t watch him fall in love, not while I live in a bubble created by my overprotective family where I can barely talk to someone of the opposite sex, let alone contemplate dating.
After a restless night’s sleep, therapy with Queenie the next day does not go as planned. All I want to do is sew. I crave the satisfaction of creation in the midst of my own personal destruction. All the little lies I told myself to make the truth less painful have finally caught up with me.
I pull out the finger paints—I rarely use them anymore, but they’re always my default when I’m feeling particularly volatile.
Queenie waddles over. “Bad day?”
She places her palm on her swollen belly, pregnant with baby number three. Kingston, her husband, has been playing for Seattle forever. He’s a goalie and closing in on retirement—at least that’s the conversation I’ve overheard between him and my dad. Kingston has the kind of personality that puts everyone around him at ease. He reminds me of still water, always in motion, but still somehow serene; whereas Queenie is a carbonated beverage—bubbly, effervescent, and always exciting to the senses.
I take a breath, an attempt to quell the storm inside. I don’t want to snap at Queenie, and I’m very aware that getting shitty with a pregnant woman will make me feel bad, but I’m on edge today.
So I blurt out the truth. “Kodiak has a girlfriend.”
Her hand stills on her stomach, and her eyes flare, which tells me I’ve shocked her with this revelation.
“Have you spoken to him?”
I can’t figure out her tone. She sounds half-concerned, half-hopeful.
I dip my fingers in the lime-green paint, desperate to do something with my hands. “No.”
“So how do you know he has a girlfriend?” Her words are careful, calculated, and yet still conversational.
Queenie is an excellent therapist. I’ve learned a lot from her over the years. She’s almost my friend. Almost, but not quite. She’s halfway to maternal, because she’s only ten years or so younger than my mom. She’s also paid to help me, though I’m aware not all of our sessions are billed, because her and her husband are friends with my parents. But I’ve been confiding in her for over a decade.