The Brightest Star in a Constellation

50: A Permission Slip

☽ Peter ☽

"A lot has happened since our last session," Suzanna remarks politely as I tuck my legs against my chin. "Do you want to talk about bringing Evan along? That's a huge deal—allowing someone to know you."

I twist my index finger around a loose thread peeking out from the couch cushion. "I guess." I've let people in before. Look how that turned out. "I know a lot about him, but I've been—I've been holding certain things about myself back. It's... maybe it's a little white lie."

"You're not ready to talk to him?" Suzanna guesses, and she's close to the truth, but it's not quite there.

What I've been doing is somewhat unintentional, and I almost didn't notice it until Evan had gotten into Europa's passenger side. It was too late, though, to come clean and admit that I've been shielding him from me. I've been omitting the parts that I don't want to touch; pretending that I have nothing to confess. It's easier, after all, to pretend to be normal.

I should really stop trying to define normalcy. "It's not that I don't want to tell him," I explain. "He should know. He's..." My friend. I don't know why I struggle to get the word out, so I sidestep it and continue, "He's important to me. Nicole loves me because we've grown up together. This is not like that."

"It's different," Suzanna agrees with a nod. "I don't know exactly what you're not talking about with him, but I know you allowed someone into your life too soon. In response, you've become very withdrawn, and even though you want to be honest with Evan, you're scared of the aftermath."

"Yeah," I say feebly, "but he opened up to me first. I don't even know how I got that to happen. It's not like he hasn't given me the chance to share something in return."

I had endless opportunities to confess to this crime. For all the times I pushed him and ran away when he got too close, I wonder if he's judging me for it.

"I didn't say much about you. He doesn't even know why I'm here. He can guess... which might be worse," I say. "I don't think he treats me any differently because of the anxiety, or anything. I don't know. I'm not used to feeling like I'm guilty."

"I don't think he would take it badly." Suzanna sets her notes down on the table.  "And it's okay to feel this way. Those anxious feelings can be unpredictable. It's not a shameful thing to seek help where you need it, okay? I want you to know that."

I sit for a while before we walk across the hallway to the connecting offices. During our weekly meetings, we've been building my skills. It started with small tasks she set for me; approaching receptionists to ask them meaningless questions or conversing with the nurses on break. This week, she wants me to knock on a door.

I hesitate before I lift my hand. Suzanna takes care of the talking for this week—next time, she'll get me to do it myself. It's a strategy of gradual exposure, and like homework, sometimes she gives me tasks to do once I'm back home.

When we reach her office, she smiles and says, "Actually, how is the club going? It looks to me like we're making progress on socializing... making friends..." She stops herself, opening the door, and says, "Are you okay? You're spacing out."

A thousand thoughts fling across my mind like comets raining down from above. I avert my gaze to the floor, taking a seat and digging my hands between the gaps in the cushions.