“I just didn’t have the energy for all the guys tonight, you know? It can be so exhausting going to Nick’s Bar every night.” He really does look like he has it all together.
“Yeah, I hear you.” I lie. On the inside I really want to be at Nick’s because everyone there knows me only just enough to think that I am fabulous and attractive, and they have no idea that I am actually a mess. That’s the kind of crowd I need to be around. When someone else believes this show, when a whole group thinks this act is real, when scores of intelligent human beings look at Lucas and me together and they see us as stable, rational, healthy adults in a stable, rational, healthy adult relationship, then I can believe it. I need to believe it. This fancy show we put on, this ruse, this bullshit we sling, I need it. I need to make people believe that I am alright, because if they think I am, then maybe I can think I am, too. And that’s why I tolerate it.
Right now, as I’m looking at all these leggy Europeans, I am starting to feel smaller and uglier and more and more in need of alcoholic sustenance, but I am drinking something made with frothy egg white and it isn’t going to cut it.
“Also, I have to admit, that’s not the only reason I wanted to go somewhere quiet tonight.” He is looking at me with what I would describe on someone else as sexy eyes, but on him I just find it comical. He is very handsome, but I’m nervous and I think he looks like a cartoon.
“Oh, yeah? Whassat?” I can feel the sweat starting to bead between my boobs.
“I wanted to talk to you again about the idea of you and I moving in together.” He leans even closer to me, and his elbow takes up the entire cocktail table between us, and I am suddenly aware of how small this bar is, and the lights start to look like they’re pulsing, and I am getting that dizzy feeling where I want to put one foot on the floor, but both my feet are already on the floor, and the music is too loud, and someone is asking me if I want another drink and I think I’m going to pass out. Lucas reaches his hand over to stabilize me, knowing the look I have on my face.
“I’m not pressuring you,” he lies. “I just want to open up these lines of communication again. I know you’re not a fan of cohabitation, and I know you want your independence. But my place is too big for just me, and you would have plenty of space there.” He has leaned back and let go of me.
I’m gesturing to the bartender, so he looks at our waitress and sends her my way. All seven feet of her approach the table and bend down to hear me croak out an order for four shots of Patrón Silver. Lucas gives me a condescending eye that he likes to use on me in places like this because he wants the other guests to believe that he doesn’t binge on booze every single day, and at this club he can keep up that appearance. And Lucas thrives on appearances.
“I like the way things are going with us, Sam. I think we could really make something here.”
“I like us just fine the way we are, Lucas. I don’t think we need to change anything.”
“Why do you have such a fear of commitment?” Crossing his arms, getting defensive. People don’t usually say no to him. I usually say no to him.
“I don’t have a fear of commitment; I’m as committed to everyone in my life as I possibly can be. I’m committed to you, aren’t I? So why can’t I keep my independence?” I may be talking louder than I should.
“You can have your independence and live at my apartment, you know. It doesn’t have to be mutually exclusive.” He can tell that he is getting nowhere. He usually gets nowhere.
The shots arrive, and I throw back two of them before we even have a chance to cheers. Lucas gently picks up the third shot glass, and as I’m reaching for the fourth, he says the same stupid toast he always says: “To being the best at everything, all the time.”
I don’t bother clinking glasses when he leans in, because I think his toast is ridiculous and pompous, and I throw back my third shot. The waitress promptly appears with more napkins and some pretentious artisanal beer, and I wonder if Lucas is living in an alternate universe.
Richard is in my office. He was standing outside my office door when I came in this morning. Something is bothering him. I am just putting my game face on, still stinking of my morning cigarettes, and I’m not sure I am ready to manage this particular crisis.
“Well, I’m not going to be in groups with her anymore,” he says.
“Richard—” exasperated, tired, extremely hungover “—why can’t you be in groups with Julie?”
“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She’s telling me that if I eat beets my shit will turn red. What do I care about beets? I’m not eating beets. You don’t give us beets here, so where am I gonna eat them? I don’t need to learn about the color of shit from this woman. I’m not going to her groups. I’m not. Give me something else.”
“It’s a nutrition group. These are topics that come up.”
Eyebrows.
“Okay, fine. What other groups do you want? Who can you tolerate?”
“What do you teach? I mean during that time, what group do you teach?”
“The group I run at that time is not appropriate for you. We have a lot of different kinds of patients here, and many of them require more specialized groups. I run a group like that.”
“Can I have free time? Or computer-room time?”
“Well, I think we should look into what your goals for treatment are and how your time would best be spent.”
“My goals? I certainly don’t need to learn about beets and shit.”
“Excrement, Richard. Feces. Don’t say shit.” Which defeats the purpose, but who’s keeping score anyway? He’s seated in my patient chair now, and he leans back and glares out the window with his arms crookedly crossed over his chest.
“You don’t want me causing a scene and yelling at Julie in group.”
“This is true, but it seems to me that you’re a rational adult, capable of controlling yourself and being respectful. If that group is unhelpful, I will take it off your schedule.” I sit down at my desk and reach into my drawer for his file. “What we need to do is work together to figure out what you need from treatment. That includes you completing the clinical evaluations—” I shake the unfinished sheets at him “—and then I will be better able to recommend a group schedule for you that could help you to reach your goals.”
“Again with the goals.”
“Yes, most people are here to strive toward therapeutic goals.”
“Fine.”
“Fine?” I ask. The hangover headache is gripping my eyeballs, and I want nothing more than to close my eyes and lie down. “Shall we take this time to discuss your goals?”
“I’ll think about what I want to get out of my time here.” He walks out as he says this. I realize that I have achieved nothing but giving Richard the upper hand. Now he doesn’t have to go to one of his assigned groups, and I am not closer to completing his file, or having any clue what he’s doing here. I swallow two Advil with a long pull of coffee and prepare to face the day.
My phone rings before the Advil has the chance to take effect. It’s David.
“Good morning, sunshine,” he says in his happy, sober voice.