The Brightest Star in a Constellati... - Chapter 47: Chapter 47

☆ Evan ☆
"So, are you, like, a psychologist?" I ask Mr. Brennan skeptically. It's our last session, and we've talked about school, and about when I quit soccer. We've talked about my family briefly. It all seems superficial, and it has been. Coach Hayes probably expected me to make progress within six meetings, as if I would come back and I'd have addressed my issues. "Like, can I tell you shit, and you won't call my mother?"
The guidance counsellor turns towards me. "I am not a psychologist, nor am I a therapist. I have a legal obligation to report it if you are being harmed, or if you are planning to harm. However, I won't call your parents or guardians to discuss what you tell me in this room."
A sigh of relief escapes from me. "Great."
"Are you referring to the hockey game?" Mr. Brennan says. "I get the sense we haven't gotten to what caused it."
You did this to yourself. Why don't you deal with the consequences?
I can still feel the phone against my ear. I can still hear Peter's voice, faint and so soft that it made my chest flutter, lingering at the back of my mind. I had considered stepping out and walking to the first floor. It would only have taken me a minute. But I was hanging onto the phone line, and I couldn't put it down.
I can't stop thinking about it.
"I've told you the whole thing," I say. "From beginning to end. Are we really going to do this again?"
"As many times as it takes for you to process it. That's what Coach Hayes wants."
I have to hold back from rolling my eyes. "I haven't touched Sam since that one time. He deserves to be punched again, but I won't do it. I should get a fucking—sorry—medal for that."
"What has he done that would deserve another outburst?" Mr. Brennan replies. He's taken out a notebook and a glitter gel pen, and the shine of it catches the light. His writing is faint, and I can't read what it says, but I try regardless.
I say, "Nothing, nothing. I just don't think he regrets it. What happened in September, I mean."
"I see. It was the insults towards your ex-girlfriend that caused you to hit him, as I understand it."
"It was my sister, but yeah. He called her mediocre." I take in a breath. "Like that kid... like that kid isn't the best goddamn thing ever. Like Elaine isn't the only hope I've got left."
"I can imagine how difficult it would be to learn that nobody sees how smart your sister is. It's like your math class, right? Sometimes, people underestimate kids who stop trying."
This time, I can't help it. My eyes flicker to the ceiling as I roll my eyes. I count the tiles hanging above me, one by one. Stray pieces of neon yellow tape cover the corners. A few of the tiles have been painted by students long graduated, and their echoes fill the room. It's part of the reason I never joined the art club, even though we have one that meets every Tuesday. I tried, once, to commit to painting a tile. I never finished it—the thought of my brushstrokes lasting longer than my memory—it sounded like a nightmare.
There is too much eternity in history. It isn't about sun lines or feeling immortal.
"Can we stop trying to relate everything to that class? Seriously. As if that's the root cause of all my issues." I pause, scratching the back of my neck. "I guess you want me to tell you how I'm feeling now."
Mr. Brennan's writing continues. I wonder what he thinks, but I realize it doesn't entirely matter. When I leave this room, he's seeing another student, then another. The notes on me will get lost in the shuffle. "That's fine."
"On a scale from one to ten? I'm probably about a five," I say.
He peers at me. "So, neutral."
Why does he have to repeat everything I say? "Is there something wrong with neutral? That's a pretty fine place to be, isn't it?"
He shakes his head. "I have a theory that neutral is different for everyone. Feeling the same thing, day in and day out, over and over... it becomes the new form of accepted normalcy. It's not that you actually feel neutral, but that living with constant anger or sadness is the only way to feel okay."
I know he remembers our first session. Is it a session if he isn't a therapist? It probably doesn't matter. We haven't returned to that conversation. "I guess I am angry," I admit. I thought it would feel like a breakthrough to admit this out loud. But I already did—I already told Peter, when we held hands.
I can't believe I did that, like an idiot. Maybe I should tell him to forget.
I can't carry the weight of your guilt anymore.
"And you have every right to be," Mr. Brennan tells me.
"Do I? I can't even get an actual therapist," I argue, though my voice is small. "Everything I say is wrong. It's a mistake, to tell the truth. I'm not allowed to feel. I mean, shit, I wasn't allowed to do anything. You know, it's like... it's like... I don't know if I actually like the colour blue, or if my room was painted that colour for so long that I got used to it. I don't know if I actually like hockey, or if I've just been playing it for so long that I have nothing else."
He points out, "You've been telling the truth a lot more, lately. What if I asked you what you like?"
"I don't really know."
"Come on." Mr. Brennan lets the pause extend as he waits for me to interject. And I try—I search for an interest that belongs to me, and nobody else. But I can't find it. I'm not entirely convinced that I have a hobby for myself.
"Don't think about it too much. Just tell me one thing that you look forward to. It can be anything—it doesn't have to be huge. It can be tiny—the colour of the sunset, for example. Collecting postcards. A TV show you look forward to watching," he continues.
"I..." I am as cold as ice.
"You look forward to seeing your sister?"
A pang hits my chest. It twists inside of me like an icicle, digging deeper, until my veins crystallize. "Yeah. I never told her why the fight happened. She'd probably think it was stupid."
Mr. Brennan looks up from his notes. "She'd think it was stupid that you stood up for her?"
"She'd... she'd just think I was an idiot," I say, shifting in my seat.
"Are we still talking about your sister?"
I swallow. There's that shadowy feeling again—the one that I can't quite place. The one that I've been carrying with me for a while. "Yeah... I've done a lot to protect her. I've... shit. I don't know if it is about her anymore." I pause, trying to make sense of it. "Sam said too much. I was mad about it, but maybe I—it's nothing. It's fine. It doesn't matter. Not really."
Mr. Brennan says, "It matters to you, though. Otherwise, it wouldn't have caused a reaction like this."
"I..." My hands curl into fists. Red flashes across my vision. "This is ridiculous. Sam insulted Elaine. So what, he mentioned Peter? So fucking what... I wanted to punch him for all of it. So fucking what... I've been thinking about—I've been thinking..."
(Thinking about kissing him. It makes my stomach flutter, and I have to shake myself out of it every time. I can't linger on it for long before my face turns crimson. But I've been going there, in my mind. Briefly. Only briefly. Only for a second. It steals the breath from my lungs, thinking about it. I need to stop doing that.)
I bury my face in my hands. My fingers weave through my hair. Fucking hell. Why do I have to do this right now? As cold as ice.
"Are we done?" I whisper. "Can I go?"
"Are you okay, Evan? Just because this is our last meeting, it doesn't mean you have to stop altogether. It seems like you still have things you need to work out. You can't fix that in six meetings. I can refer you to a therapist. I know of one in Northwood, actually. She works at the clinic and depending on your work's health insurance, it might—"
I cut in with, "I'm fine."
It does nothing to convince him. "There are community mental health centres that will take you in for free," he says.
"I said I'm fine." I check the time on my phone, and with my lunch hour half over, I stand up. "I'll figure it out."
I excuse myself from the room. The door slams shut behind me.
I shake myself out of my stupor. I double back to the cafeteria to grab lunch.
When I get there, Claire is standing in the lineup. She notices me and waves, beckoning me to occupy the space next to her. "Evan! I feel like it's been forever since I've seen you. Practice is dead boring now."
"Yeah, it has. I've been busy," I say, and I find myself stepping forward.
Claire orders her food, and she waits for me afterward. It's the longest stretch of silence that has passed between us.
"Where are you sitting?" she asks. "I've got a spot near the window."
I nod weakly. We walk through the cafeteria, and Claire places her tray down across from mine. She's just returned from running her laps, by the looks of her bright practice outfit. Her ponytail hangs below her shoulders.
"Thanks," I say, softly. "For letting me sit."
Claire shrugs like it doesn't matter. She spears her fork into her salad.
"I was a jerk to you," I continue. "You didn't deserve that."
Her eyes widen. She looks at me like she's actually seeing me for the first time. Not at the person she wanted me to be. Not anymore. "I was mad when I said that. It wasn't all your fault. Part of it was mine, too. You were clear, when we first met, that things between us wouldn't last forever. I was the person who kept ignoring that. I was the person who kept holding on."
"It wasn't just you. We both did that. Three years is a long time to hold on. I liked that you wanted to make it work, even when we should have given up. I wasn't ready to admit that I was lying. I wasn't ready for a lot of things," I murmur. I haven't just been angry, or neutral, or stuck in my fear of commitment. "I should have told you about me, but I didn't."
"You weren't ready," she agrees. "Maybe you still aren't."
I nod. Explaining wouldn't undo the damage I caused. I don't expect her to trust me. I can't believe she ever did. "What's happening with you and Jenny?" I ask.
"Oh." She smiles, eyes flickering to the other end of the room. "We've been fighting. I'm not sure that I want to patch things up. I care about her, but... I think she might be homophobic? So, um, I don't know that I want to be around that. What she said—what she assumed—about you, after we broke up... honestly—"
"Claire, seriously, it's not a big deal. I—I know you wanted to be forgiving," I say. "You were friends. Of course, you want to hold on."
Claire munches on her salad, peering at me. "Yeah, I know. I figured you moved on. We both have. I'm not used to this."
"Me neither." I have yet to touch my tray of food. I don't think I could manage to eat, anyway. It dredges up the bile in my throat when I think about it. "I've moved on?"
"We don't have to go there," Claire says and smiles.
I shake my head and tell her I'm fine, even though she has a point. She's always been able to reassure me like that—and, like always, it makes me feel guilty.
"I should probably go," I say, and speed-walk out of the cafeteria.
Near the gymnasium, Willow is selling her candy grams for student council, like she's been doing all month long. A few students are buzzing around her. Among them is Lucas, leaned against the table and casually chattering away as he holds his unsigned candy gram.
I approach her, falling into step with the other students.
"Good to see you," Willow says when I reach the front of the line. "Do you want to write your own message, or should I do it?"
I've never been very subtle at flirting. With Claire, I was always too obvious about it. I chew on my lip as I consider this. "Yeah, give me the pen."
She hands it to me. I pause before I write: Some things are not made to be put into words.
I shake my head; it's too intense. I rip the paper in half. Willow hands me another, and I try again. I like you. Like a friend, but I really like you.
It still isn't subtle, so I give up and leave the message blank.