Boys of West Denton ✓

chapter thirty-three

harris

It's been a day since my first therapy appointment. Mom got me in really quick with one of the providers in the local clinic, one of the ones I know she goes out for brunches with sometimes. There was a cancellation, and she fit me in. It did feel nice, admittedly. Just the simple act of talking to someone about all the Liam stuff was ... cathartic. Which I guess is the point of therapy. I just didn't realize I was going to feel so much lighter after just one appointment.

The doctor, who said to just call her Nicole, was really upfront about it. She said that recovery is never a linear line, that it's more like the sea.

"Imagine an ocean at low tide," she said, pushing her RayBans up her thin nose. She was a thin lady in general, all skin and bones and cream-to-beige clothing. But with her relaxed posture and genuine smile, I didn't have much trouble opening up to her. Her presence was comforting. "The waves push and pull as the high tide comes in, but just because we see a wave recede doesn't mean that we aren't building to something more. Recovery is a process. Sometimes one step forward, two steps back. But you're going to get where you need to be eventually, Harrison. And it's okay to take your time. You don't have to feel perfect right away, but I'm happy to get you started."

When I left the appointment, I called Mom and told her I felt so much better that I didn't even know if I needed to go again. I seriously meant it, but Mom just laughed dryly and said, "Nice try. Same time next week. Now go let the dog out before he takes a piss everywhere."

Now I'm on the couch with said dog, snuggled against my stomach, which is adorable, yes, but also has me terrified to move—which sucks, because my mouth is weirdly sore, and I really need some water right now.

Grandma is here too, sitting on the opposite end of the couch. She wedged a pillow between her thigh and my feet because she said my "mangy tarsals" were grossing her out. I would like to point out that she's simply overdramatic, because I have socks on. We're watching The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, because Grandma is old, and I'm a secret sucker for a good romantic movie. I'm multitasking—texting Evan Miller, of all people.

          Me: No, seriously. I appreciate it.

          Evan (track): Don't worry about it. I'm sorry for punching you

          Me: lol I kind of deserved it

          Me: I'm so sorry for outing you

          Evan (track): Dude, you're good. Me and Rachel are chillin. It all worked out
          Evan (track): I'm most sorry for leaving you alone with Liam, honestly

          Me: Dude, we've been over this. You were a big help. So thank you

          Evan (track): Anytime. We cool?

          Me: We're def cool, dude

Grandma sighs at the TV. "I need me a man like that."

I look up at the screen, squinting. My phone goes face-down in my lap. "Huh?"

"A stud. I need a stud." She sighs again.

"Well what was Grandpa like?" I never knew him. He died a few months before I was born. No one ever really talks about him. (Which I assume is for a reason, but still, curiosity.)

"Your grandpa was an absolute dick. It wasn't early onset Alzheimer's. I intentionally forgot where we buried him."

"We only have one cemetery in town," I point out.