Worth It (38 page)

Finally, she nods reluctantly. “You’re probably right, Jed. I actually thought about it briefly last week when I bolted.” She sighs and leans her head back to look at the ceiling of the truck’s cab. “I just feel stupid and weak going to see someone, like I’m not strong enough to handle it on my own, you know? Sure, I’ve had some shitty experiences, but they’re nothing compared to what a lot of people go through.”

The relief I feel that she’s not shooting down my idea, but she’s really thinking about going is overwhelming, but we’re not there yet. I think about what she’s saying, and I understand to a point. “How do you know they’re not going to therapy?”

She scrunches her lips to the side, thinking about what I said. I almost want to laugh because she looks so damn cute, but that wouldn’t be inappropriate, so I reel it in.

“Good point,” she finally says.

“And how do you know that those people you’re comparing yourself to wouldn’t look at you and say, ‘Wow, I thought my problems were bad’? Everyone carries around pain, and it’s not fair to compare yours to someone else’s because you are not that person, and that person is not you. Do you see what I’m saying?”

She takes in a deep breath and nods her head, absorbing my words of wisdom. I’m surprised that I’m making sense here. I must be channeling my dad or something.

“Yeah, I get what you’re saying.” She looks out the window for a minute, lost in her thoughts.

Although I could have really done without the trigger that spurred this conversation, I’m glad I decided to push a little here because something had to give. I care about her. I’m falling for her. I might have already fallen, and I want to be there for her, but there’s only so much I can do to—

“You know what?” she practically shouts.

She startles me although I don’t show it.
Holy crow, woman!

“You’re absolutely right. I’m going to do this. I’ll call a therapist first thing on Monday and see if I can get this show on the road. I don’t want to be scared of my own shadow and let people walk all over me. I’m tired of dealing with this and pushing it aside. Obviously, trying to bury everything isn’t working, so it’s time to try something else,” she announces proudly.

I grin back at her. “Good.”

“And, Jed?”

“Yeah?”

“I really am sorry for the way I behaved today—for freaking out and not talking to you. I should have trusted you more, and I’m sorry. I think it was just a shock, and with everything else on my plate, I didn’t think. I just reacted. I’m sorry.”

I make the turn for the exit to my apartment, and I glance back over at her. “Baby, I don’t need apologies. I just want you to trust me. I do understand where you’re coming from, but try to see where I’m coming from, too, okay? I’ve already told you I’m falling for you, and I trust you. I haven’t done anything to make you think that I’m not telling the truth. I’m not like your exes, and you’re not like mine. I’m trusting you, so I think I deserve some trust in return. Get me?”

She nods. “I understand, Jed, I really do. I’ll really, really try to trust you more.” She sits in silence for a minute. “If it counts for anything, you’re the only person I’ve trusted with that dream I told you about.”

I nod. “I appreciate that, baby. Believe me, I do. I’m going to help you see the beautiful woman inside you, and you’re going to help me be a better person, too. You already do.”

She looks at me with pinched eyebrows, and I sigh.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that I have an extremely short fuse, right?”

She nods hesitantly.

“Well, I’ve already gotten better at controlling it since I’ve been with you. Actually, I got a story for you. When I was in college, a couple of friends and I were invited to a frat party, but when we got there, they weren’t letting any more guys in because of the dick to pussy ratio.”

I look at her quickly, realizing how that sounded, but she’s laughing.

“Dick to pussy ratio?” She’s full-on laughing now.

God, she’s beautiful.

“Shut up,” I joke. “Anyway, I had already pregamed—you know, drank a little before heading over.”

She nods, indicating she understands.

“So, when the little twerp at the door said we couldn’t come in after I told him we had been invited, I asked him, ‘Says who?’ He said, ‘Me,’ and I said, ‘Who are you?’ He told me he was the president. So, I go over and rip off one of those arm barrier gates that go up and down, like in a parking garage.”

I glance over to make sure she understands me, and she nods again.

“I rip it off, walk over, and smash it on the ground. I shout, ‘I’m the fucking president!’ The little shit was so scared that he ran inside.”

She’s laughing so hard that she’s bent forward. “Oh my God, Jed. You’re joking, right?”

I chuckle. “I wish I was. It does make for a funny story, but I’m lucky I didn’t get expelled. I’ve never seriously hurt anyone, and I would never touch a woman, but I guess a short fuse is just one of my faults.” I smile over at her. “We all have faults, baby, but you help calm me.”

“How?” she asks, scrunching her face up in confusion.

I fight the smile on my face because she looks so freaking cute.

We’ve reached my apartment, so I throw the truck in park and look at her. “I don’t know really. I guess I’m just happy, so being happy is naturally going to make me calmer. Maybe it’s your personality or just how you are, but I consciously make an effort to rein it in. I want to be better for you.” I pause. “Am I making any sense?”

Her grin is infectious. “Yeah, I understand what you’re saying.” She leans over and kisses me softly, and then she pulls away a little to look up at me.

I reach up, cup her face, and run my thumb along her cheekbone. “Good,” I whisper. “Let’s head inside.”

Sitting in the waiting room at a therapist’s office is possibly one of the most uncomfortable things I have ever done. I’m trying to read on my Kindle, but not one of my book boyfriends can keep my attention when I feel the eyes of the flawlessly dressed middle-aged woman sitting in a chair a few down from me. I know she must be wondering what I’m doing here, what my problem is, and she must notice my giant neon sign that screams,
Nutjob
. Every few minutes, I peek at her in my peripheral vision to try to catch the judgmental look on her face, but she’s faster than me. I only see her reading a parenting magazine with rapt attention.

There’s also a strung-out woman with murky blue eyes and brittle blonde hair sitting a few chairs down on my other side. Her knee is bouncing up and down in an agitated rhythm, and she looks much older than her clothes would suggest. I’m not sure why she’s here, but I’d be willing to bet that her issues are much worse than mine, so she’s probably wondering what the hell I’m doing here. She must think that I’m taking up a spot that someone worse off than I am deserves. She probably thinks—

“Anna Matuszak,” a soft voice calls.

I leap to my feet and tuck my Kindle into my purse. I hurry to meet with the nice-looking older lady who must be my therapist. I’m terrified of what’s going to happen during this appointment, but I’ll do anything to get away from the prying eyes of the perfect business lady.

As I approach the therapist, I notice her short slim figure is clothed in business-casual attire. She has a graying brown bob and kind brown eyes. When I reach her, she holds out her hand.

“Nice to meet you, Savannah. I’m Katherine Jenson.”

I blanch. “It’s Anna.”

“Anna,” she says and nods her head.

I smile back nervously and wipe my sweaty palms on my pants before I take her hand for a polite shake.

“Come on in, Anna.”

She gestures toward the open door, so I walk in. I’m surprised to see a very small desk facing the wall with an accompanying office chair as well as two extremely comfortable-looking grandma chairs on the other side of the small office space. I think the clinical black leather couch and masculine mahogany desk is what is ingrained in all of us, so I’m a little taken aback at the homey feeling of the place. I walk over to the cream-colored, floral-print chair, plop my coat and purse on the floor next to me, and begin my nervous nail-biting ritual.

She walks over to the desk, grabs a few pieces of paper, and attaches them to a clipboard before handing it to me. “The top page is just for insurance, and the second page is just a quick little questionnaire. Please take your time filling it out, and then we can talk a little bit. Are you okay with that?” she asks soothingly.

My therapist was highly recommended from the research I did online. Just like I’d told Jed, I called first thing Monday morning, and I was able to get an appointment after class on Tuesday because she had a cancellation.

I take the clipboard and pen, nod, and get to work. I quickly fill out the paperwork. Insurance isn’t a problem, but the idea of a questionnaire makes my stomach twist with nerves.
What kind of questions are they?
It’s taking everything I have in me to calm my nerves about discussing my past, but the thought of having these things on paper, having to write it down, makes my stomach roll with nausea. While finishing up the insurance form, I struggle with the rising panic at answering the questionnaire.

Dr. Jenson interrupts my inner turmoil with her soft voice, “Anna.”

My head snaps up to lock eyes with hers. Her gentle face and kind expression help calm my raging emotions.

She says, “You seem really nervous and scared. Do you want to tell me why that is?”

My jaw works a little at discussing my emotional state because I’m so used to hiding and burying my feelings, but then I remember why I’m here. I’m determined to work through this, work through my past and my feelings, so every day doesn’t have to be a struggle. I’m sick and tired of living that way, and like I told Jed, my way wasn’t helping, so I’m going to put my all into this.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I scratch my head nervously with the end on the pen. “I’m just stressing about answering the questionnaire.”

She nods. “Why are you stressing about it?”

“Well…” I start and then pause to think out my answer. “I’m just nervous about what kind of questions are on it.”

“Okay,” she begins. “What’s the worst thing that could be on there?”

I search my brain for the worst thing that could possibly be on there, but even the worst thing doesn’t seem adequate for the level of panic I’m feeling. “The worst I can think of is…why are you here?”

“Okay, why is that the worst thing?”

“Because then, my answer will be on paper.”

“And why is that a problem?”

I sigh, slightly annoyed, because I don’t know if I really have a concrete answer for that. “I’m not really sure, but I think having everything down on paper is scary, like it’ll be real then. Or maybe, I’m scared that what I write be analyzed and critiqued, not that I think you’d really do that, but having it down makes it a possibility.”

She nods again. “So, you know that I would never judge or criticize your answers. You’re right. I wouldn’t. That’s not my job. I’m here to help you. Anything we discuss and what you write down will never be shared. If nothing else, it’s a gross violation of doctor-patient confidentiality,” she explains.

Her words help calm my fears.

“And whatever you put on paper
is
real. We haven’t discussed anything yet, but whether you write down thoughts or events, whether in your mind or in reality, everything is real and valid. It’s okay to be nervous about things. It’s part of human nature. I’m hoping to help you acknowledge and decipher your feelings because your feelings will tell you a lot.”

I sit there quietly, nodding, and the more her words sink in, the more my anxiety dissipates. I’m not sure why exactly. She hasn’t said anything truly profound, but having my feelings validated and hearing a logical reason why I shouldn’t worry helps. I nod and quirk my lips, which she reciprocates with a genuine and kind smile. I return to the paperwork.

When I get to the questionnaire, I want to laugh out loud, and I barely contain it. I glance at her to see her smiling because I’m sure she knows what’s so funny. The questions are easy and relatively impersonal—favorite food, favorite hobby, interests, and so on. A few of them are a little more intimate, having to do with religion, medication, and alcohol consumption, but it’s nothing that would make me want to bolt from the room.

Once I finish, I hand her back the clipboard, and she quickly glances over my answers before setting it on her desk.

She turns to face me. “So, Anna,” she begins gently with kind eyes, “tell me why you’re here.”