Finding Audrey

It won’t be forever. You’ll be in the dark for as long as it takes and then you’ll come out.

I stare at what he’s written, a bit taken aback. He sounds so confident.

You think?

My aunt grows special rhubarb in dark sheds. They keep it dark and warm all winter and harvest it by candlelight and it’s the best stuff. She sells it for a fortune, btw.

I lift a hand, my face twisted resolutely away, desperately wishing I could turn towards him, telling myself to turn—but not turning.

They talk about “body language,” as if we all speak it the same. But everyone has their own dialect. For me right now, for example, swiveling my body right away and staring rigidly at the corner means, “I like you.” Because I didn’t run away and shut myself in the bathroom.

I just hope he realizes that.

I’d laugh, only my stupid lizard brain has disabled the laugh button for now. I’m too frozen up with tension. I am owed so much laughter. Sometimes I hope I’m building up a stockpile of missing laughs, and when I’ve recovered, they’ll all come exploding out in one gigantic fit that lasts twenty-four hours.

Linus might come over. He might not. Either way is fine. Either way, his decision is about himself, not about you. You are not responsible for his feelings.

What’s the point of you? Try this, for starters.

And underneath there’s a long list. He’s written a long, long list, that fills the page. I’m so flustered, I can’t even read it properly, but as I scan down I catch beautiful smile and great taste in music (I sneaked a look at your iPod) and awesome Starbucks name.

“Look, Linus…” I try to explain. “I have to do this.”

“Don’t give me that bollocks!” he yells. “I thought your therapist banned those words? I thought the only thing you ‘have to’ do in life is obey the laws of physics? Didn’t you learn anything? What about living in the present, not the past? What about that?”

I stare at him, silenced. He was listening more than I realized.

“You don’t ‘have to’ do this,” he continues, “you’re choosing to do it. What if you have a relapse? What then?”

“Then…” I wipe my damp face. “I won’t. I’ll be fine. I’m better, in case you hadn’t realized.”

Here’s what I’m not supposed to do after a stressful event: Ruminate about it. Brood. Replay it over and over. Take responsibility for anyone else’s emotions.

Here’s what I’ve been doing ever since my fight with Linus: Ruminating about it. Brooding. Replaying it over and over. Taking responsibility for his fury (yet resenting it). Lurching between despair and indignation. Wanting to call him. Wanting to never call him again.