Page 66 of Burn the Script

“Is that your second question?” I ask, quirking an eyebrow.

He leans back in the brown leather chair that matches mine. A round coffee table and my avoidance tactics stand between us in his small, bland office. I had expected a sofa to lie on, but a full-size one would take up half the space.

“You contacted me, Miguel, and I imagine you conducted thorough research in advance. So you know about my direct approach. You set a goal; I help you identify and overcome the obstacles between you and achieving it. Honesty is a key part of this process. Otherwise, we both fail.”

He’s right. I volunteered for this and went through the trouble of filling out all his online forms. Real therapy may not work for someone as far gone as me, but it’s still worth a shot.

I stuff my notepad and pen beside my hip, then tuck my hands between my thighs. “Sometimes, I feel physically sick. Nauseated. Like my stomach will eat itself if I don’t know what to expect and can’t prepare for the worst.”

“Define ‘prepare for the worst,’” he says.

“You know, by avoiding things that give me anxiety altogether.”

Victor steeples his fingers beneath his salt-and-pepper goatee. “When did you first start experiencing the symptoms you listed?”

“In college.”

He nods, like it’s an answer he hears often. Based on the dates next to his credentials on the website, he’s in his fifties and has been a therapist for over twenty years. A lot of people have sat in this chair. I tuck in tighter to avoid touching the armrests.

“Remind me of your goal.”

“I have two now. To stop caring what other people think and to be more daring. The second one is new.”

“More daring?” he asks, fingers grazing the tip of his goatee.

“Exactly. I want to try new things, but my friends usually have to drag me along, kicking and screaming. If I don’t have all the details or know the outcome in advance, I find an excuse to back out.”

Victor’s shiny right shoe slides on the woven rug before he crosses his legs. “Anxiety may affect your choices, but it doesn’t have to stop you from trying new things. If you know your limits, stay within them until you’re ready for more. But keep trying for more.”

“Baby steps,” I mutter under my breath. “Story of my life.”

All along, I’ve taken the position that I shouldn’t have to leave my comfort zone until I’m ready. To have a licensed professional agree with me feels validating. However, the baby steps are where I falter. I’ve tried, with some success, but my efforts haven’t gotten me far.

Since I shouldn’t outright ask a therapist for date ideas, I ask, “So what do you suggest I try?”

“I can’t make specific suggestions, but we can narrow down some options. What’s your biggest concern when trying a new activity outside the home?”

“People.” My clipped tone earns no reaction from him.

His voice remains frustratingly neutral when he waves both hands in a problem solved gesture and says, “Eliminate the crowd. There are plenty of safe, beginner-level activities you can try that don’t involve a lot of people. Pick one and give it shot.”

Years ago, I thought a morning bike ride at the beach instead of the lake in my neighborhood would be a safe adventure. Hardly anyone was around, and still, a guy on an electric scooter almost killed me. I stopped riding my bicycle soon after because a more exciting adventure had come along.

Since Sunday, I’ve been mulling over ideas for taking my leap with Graham. Restaurants and shopping are out of the question now that he’s back in the headlines. And he’s not a fan of either of those things, only tagging along to make others happy. Our next date should involve something he enjoys, even if that means digging out my one pair of sneakers and breaking a sweat.

28

MIGUEL

THEN

November, Year Three

Graham’s forehead felt cool and clammy against the back of my hand. I sighed, relieved his fever had broken. For three days, he’d been confined to bed with the flu. I medicated him, fed him soup, and held a cold, wet cloth to his head. Never in my life had I made such a fuss over someone with a contagion, but watching him suffer was unbearable.

“Come on, my love. Let’s get you in the bath.”

“I can’t move,” he said, jaw clenched. The last wave of chills forced him into a ball, and he’d been in the same position since.