Letters to Robin

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: REAGAN

7th February

(Today's prompt: If you could forgive yourself for something what would it be?)

Dear Robin,

Erica is packing on the torture, isn't she? you know I have a working theory that all therapists are really just closeted sadists who get off on inflicting pain in their patients, but I digress. I'm guilty of a lot of things. So very, very guilty, and It gawns at my conscience and saps my energy. I feel it in my belly, like a bad stomach bug I can't seem to shake. Relentless and stubborn. You know the kind that takes you out for a few days straight and you have to wrap both your hands around your stomach and squeeze real tight for the pain to go away?  I feel guilty for the way Dad found me in my room, I feel guilty for not calling Mom more. I'm guilty for the way I kinda hate Dad for secretly resenting me so much, he's probably unaware of it but I can tell. I feel it there in all our conversations.

I'm chronic with my guiltiness, and my symptoms like to present themselves at night when I lie awake and think of all the things I'm so very guilty of. But If I could forgive myself for just one thing, it'd be keeping your secret, Robin. In the beginning, I think I justified my silence by convincing myself I was protecting you even as I watched as it slowly ate you away. I would forgive myself for not telling when I should have. We were supposed to protect each other and I failed you and I guess I'm guilty of that too.

I think I want to know what that feels like, forgiving myself.

Love, Reagan.

          I'M SITTING ON THE steps in front of campus, frowning down at the notebook in my hands while waiting for Paris, when I get a tingling sensation at the back of my neck, like I'm being watched. I turn around and sitting a few steps up from me is Miso and Patrick. My eyes drop to their intertwined hands and I frown. I'd heard in passing that they'd been together for a while now. I think about that session with Erica when I said that I wouldn't pee on them if they caught on fire and I wait for something to happen, a steering in my chest, pain, anger, betrayal, hatred? But all I feel is indifference and I don't even care to wonder what changed.

I raise my hand to give them a little wave and Miso's brown eyes widen. She returns the gesture with a wave of her own and Patrick follows along, identical looks of shock on their faces. I turn back around just as Paris drives up, grabbing my bag to go. It feels like I'm closing a chapter of my life. Or letting go of one, more like. Some friends are just for a season and that's okay because the only friends I need in my life are the ones who need me in there's.

          I jump onto the edge of the sidewalk as Paris walks along the street and despite the extra step, he's still taller than me. Water from last night's rain is puddled in dips in the narrow streets, and the city is grey today, a lot like my mood actually. It's cold too. We parked higher up and now we're walking into Chinatown because I wanted street food, well sweet cakes specifically. I tap my left thumb against my pointer and try not to think about the man walking next to me. Try not to get upset about all the lingering looks he's getting because Paris Rothschild blends in like a clown at a funeral. He orders for the both of us when we reach a food truck called Dragan Bites which always has the tastiest desserts before pulling  me down to eat with him right there on the sidewalk. "You're quiet, " he says, biting into an egg roll.