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Chapter Two

T
wo weeks have passed since spring break and things have gone back to normal. Well, normal for me, anyway. Mom goes to work, I go to school, and Sam and I try to pretend like we didn't have a sex marathon and profess our undying love for one another just fourteen days ago.

Yep.
Normal
.

I didn't know how things would be when we got back to school, but Sam came by my house the day after he got home, and though we didn't actually talk about anything that happened between us, I knew he was setting the tone for how things would be. Making sure it wasn't awkward. And the weird part is he was so good at it that I actually started to wonder if he was ever really in love with me at all. The only thing that was different from before was how careful he was not to touch me.

And has been ever since.

In fact, it's the only indication that there even
is
a
before
and
after
, because everything else is exactly the same as it was. We still walk together to class after calculus, but there's no hand holding or playful elbowing. We still sit next to each other at lunch most days, but no hand squeezing or soothing circles. It's almost like when he first started tutoring me—when we were already becoming friends, but before I began to trust him enough to tolerate his touch. To relish his touch.  

To freaking crave it.

And I think it's probably a good thing that Sam no longer wants any physical contact. Because it's hard enough for me to be so close to him and so far away at the same time. Hard enough to endure the constant state of longing. We definitely don't need to add to the complication of our situation with physical contact. I don't need the tingles, the goose bumps, the shivering, the unbridled attraction, or any of my other pathetic reactions to his touch constantly reminding me what I gave up.

Because the truth is I need no reminder. The perpetual unsettled ache in my chest is effective enough.

But Sam is okay. He is safe.

If Robin finds some way to stalk me again, to come after me, Sam won't be a target the way he would if he was my boyfriend. He won't get into fights because of me, won't end up in fucking
handcuffs
, won't risk his life or future. No, he will continue to lead the carefree life he led before I showed up and complicated everything. He'll graduate in June and then go off to Columbia two months after that, and the most I can hope for is to remain his friend. Only time will tell if I can handle being as close friends as we were before. If he even wants to be.

For now, Sam still seems serious about going back to our friendship. He even sent Kendall, his former “regular” hook-up and current “good friend”, to check on me after he got my note saying I'd gone back home.

Talk about awkward.

Even more awkward—Chelsea apologized to me on our first day back to school. I just rolled my eyes and walked away. I realize it wasn't exactly gracious of me, or even mature, but I never claimed to be either. I really don't care if she's sorry or not. And it's not even that I'm holding a grudge, I just don't want anything to do with her. I don't want to forgive or forget, and I don't want to punish her either. I just want to get on with my life, and I'd simply prefer not to have her in it. I have enough issues to deal with without another fake friend I can't trust.

But, of course, our groups of friends are comingled to the point of freaking incest. So whether I forgive her or not, she still ends up at my lunch table from time to time, and she was of course present at the single party I dragged myself to attend since we all got back. She and Lily made up too, and though Carl and Tina still aren't her biggest fans, they are all technically friends.

But the worst part is that I'm not the only one she apologized to. Apparently, after our trip, Chelsea's mom hosted the Caplans for brunch and Chelsea and Sam made up. She's sorry, or so she says. She was only trying to protect her life-long friend, though she admits she was misguided in doing so. She claims her feelings for Sam were meaningless—just a silly childhood crush, and she's over it. Sam has forgiven her, and why wouldn't he? She didn't really do anything to him, her actions were against
me
, and since she's apologized, Sam really has no reason to remain angry with her. After all, they've been friends a hell of lot longer than he and I have.  

I rush around the perimeter of the school to the student lot and hop in my jeep. It's always a nightmare navigating the end of day campus traffic, and I'm always stuck smack dab in the middle of it since I have no choice but to take my detour to avoid passing the locker rooms. But that's one trigger I'm certain still wields power over me, and probably always will, and so I still take this precaution daily.

I glance nervously between the gridlock in front of me and the clock on the dashboard, sure I'm going to be late to my appointment. I've never been an especially punctual person, but as a fun extra side effect of my fun new anxiety disorder, every time I'm late for something, it makes me crazy. Like the world is going to end if the light doesn't freaking change, or that asshat in front of me doesn't just drive faster. Rationally I know it's ridiculous, but that doesn't change the physical reaction. The racing pulse, the shortness of breath, or the irritability.

I know Dr. Schall won't give me a hard time for being a little late, but I know once it's past ten minutes into the session, Kathy, the receptionist, will call and ask to reschedule for tomorrow. But tomorrow's Thursday, and I have calculus tutoring with Sam.

The relief I'd felt when Sam didn't discontinue our tutoring sessions after Miami was truly pitiful, but he's trying to act like everything is the same as before and I'm not going to stop him. Truthfully, I'm just grateful that he doesn't hate me for leading him on and then ending things so abruptly.

And so, despite the fact that I'm little more than an exhausted, depressed zombie these days, calculus is one class I'm still doing okay in. My state hasn't quite affected my grades that much just yet—tests are seldom given now that graduation approaches. But finals get closer every day, and it would suck to ruin my GPA because of the last few weeks of high school.

I know, of course, that it won't really affect anything. NYU isn't going to withdraw my acceptance because of it, surely. But I worked so hard to get my scores back after I'd fallen behind last year. My mother did, too, as she was the one homeschooling me. And it would just feel like an immense failure to screw it all up now. So I'm grateful to Sam. But if that jerk in the Porsche in front of me doesn't speed the hell up, Kathy is going to push my appointment and then I'll have to reschedule my tutoring session and
I can't freaking deal with this right now!

At the next red light, I close my eyes and count backwards from ten, knowing that I'm too close to losing it. But it doesn't matter if I'm aware that my reaction doesn't match the situation. Self-awareness is a useless tool when my anxiety is in control.

When I finally arrive at the medical office complex, I'm no more than three minutes late, and I have to sit for an additional few minutes in my car, taking deep, even breaths, forcibly calming myself, making me even later. It's not something I ever could have imagined before. Not having control over my physiological reactions to everyday situations. And it makes me resent myself that much more. And then I resent my own self-loathing, perpetuating the vicious cycle.

Dr. Schall greets me, welcomes me into his office, and then excuses himself to use the restroom in an obvious attempt to allow me to get my bearings. His office is not what I ever would have expected of a shrink's office. It's both contemporary and comfortable, done up in steel grays and warm taupes. There is a sofa, but not the kind you would lay down on. More like the kind you'd expect to see in anyone's living room. I sit and wait until he returns and takes his place in one of the club chairs adjacent to the sofa.

"Your mother is joining us today, correct?" he asks, though his tone tells me he has already confirmed this directly with her.

Once a month, Dr. Schall asks my mother to join the second half of my session so we can discuss everything "as a family". Or what's left of our family, in our case. And family session day is today.

I nod, even though I know he already knows the answer.

"So, any good nights since Saturday?" he asks with carefully managed expectations.  

I shrug automatically before shaking my head
no
. He asked the same question on Saturday about the three nights since the previous Wednesday. The answer was the same then, as I expect it will be for the foreseeable future. Maybe forever.  

Since Miami, I've been made to double down on therapy, now spending every Wednesday and Saturday afternoon here, but unlike when I first began the sessions, I don't begrudge the change. God knows I need it.

Before Miami I had progressed to having a few nights a week of relatively peaceful sleep, but I'm not sure I've even slept at all since.

Dr. Schall gives me a sympathetic smile and goes on about how my upswing in nightmares is to be expected with my "recent trauma". He reminds me of this every session, as if he's justifying my regression.

Anyone who bothers to spare me more than a cursory glance could surely see the dark circles under my eyes, despite my attempts to hide them with cover-up. I don't care about being attractive—in fact, in the last year I'd actually taken care to make sure I was
not
especially attractive. But I've recently learned that negative attention to my physical appearance is just as unwelcome as positive attention. I still don't want to be hit on, of course, I'm not sure I could even endure such a thing without panicking, but as it turns out, I don't especially enjoy being asked if I'm okay every five minutes, or told I look tired or ill. I'm fully aware.

I ramble pointlessly, updating Schall on the events of the past couple days—the calculus quiz I did well on, the fact that yesterday I spent the duration of an entire gym period hiding in the bathroom—and he asks me some follow up questions and tells me I'm entitled to hide sometimes if I feel like it, considering all I've been through, and I appreciate his saying so. But while he has gotten to know me fairly well since I began seeing him, I've also picked up on a few things about him, and I'm pretty sure he's just biding time to ask the questions he really wants to get to, probably the topics I'd most prefer to avoid.

"So, Rory," his voice changes subtly—a little louder and a slightly higher pitch I may not have noticed if I hadn't been anticipating it—"let's talk a little more about your dreams."

Here we go…

"They're still the same—the new ones," I murmur, hoping my reference to their content will suffice and he won't make me describe the details, but I already know my hope is futile. Dr. Schall nods thoughtfully and jots something down on his note pad.

I've spent the past year dreaming about Robin, my abusive monster of an ex-boyfriend, hurting me. Usually in the school locker room, sometimes in his car. It usually started with some innocuous event—a party, a football game—and then Robin would get angry over something—my forgetting to call him, losing a game, or he simply drank too much.

Every scene ended the same way, with Robin pinning me to a wall or the ground, and violently forcing himself on me. Sometimes he'd choke me too, and often I'd wake up gasping for air. Sometimes he'd even hit me, even though he'd never actually hit me when we were together. Pushed me around, sure. Grabbed or squeezed me violently, a few times. Though Cam once said it was the same thing. That assault was assault. The emptiness and loss inside me sharpens, reminding me that things aren't as bad as they sometimes seem—no, they're worse.

Before Miami, the only reprieve I had was when I'd been granted a dreamless sleep. I hadn't had a single dream that did not include one of those harrowing scenarios until that trip. But Sam changed that. I only slept two nights in his arms—and one post-orgasmic afternoon nap—but each time, he kept the nightmares away. He also starred in the one and only dream I can remember having in the past year that did not include a night terror. In fact, it was an exceptionally enjoyable dream, featuring Sam and me engaged in exploits not unlike those that preceded that nap. I woke up gasping for different reasons.

But so much has happened since then.