Peroxide (Peterick)

mikey's like three in this wtf

My bike creaks agonizingly as it catches its breath by the store located directly beside the Belleville Development Center, but I don't care for its petty games, for it's time to rush inside to greet the beautiful Pete Wentz.

For the first time, a genuine smile clings to my face without threatening to detach itself and move to some other person — who most likely has an abundance of happy days — but it doesn't feel like it belongs to me. It's itchy, uncomfortable, tight, not tailored to fit me.

Frustrating, how I reject anything optimistic. Dr. Saporta says we need to improve this impaired function.

It helps, though, when Pete's face mirrors my own and seems authentically thrilled to see me here. His hair is messier than I had witnessed it the last two encounters, perhaps because of the ordeal that is herding children and ushering them away from any dangerous activities — which may have grown even more risky since I came here on Tuesday — though his Hudson River eyes gleam brighter than ever before.

Immediately after the door swings open, bells clanking together in delight, Pete saunters over, a certain pep residing in the soles of his shoes. "So excited about my text that you came all the way over here to answer it?" Following my frightful stare, he laughs and adds, "I was joking, okay? You're fine."

It's obvious he doesn't comprehend how much terror that text caused me.

A steady flow of oxygen departs from my lungs, returning for an item that it forgot and leaving once more. "My friend — you know, the one I told you about earlier — has another art show, but his brother is still here, so he asked me to pick him up again."

Pete's brows draw together like curtains. "I'm starting to wonder whether or not you two have any friends beyond this mutual network that requires you to do him favors every other day."

Is that a fucking threat?

A corner of my lips raises slightly, molding later into a full-fledged glow. "I have you, don't I?"

Eyes crinkling as a result of an enormous grin, Pete acknowledges, "That you do, and as a celebration, would you like to go to the cinema with me after this?"

Shit. Movie theaters are of the worst places to be when you're as tense as I am, with the mobs of people, the compromising content on the screen, the general atmosphere. They haven't been safe for me since I was injured both emotionally and physically, but that disposition isn't so different from anything else.

They're a trigger for questions, such as, what if someone touches my arm? What if I take too long purchasing tickets? What if I have a panic attack in the middle of the film?

By the looks of it, you're having a panic attack right now.

I wave off the voice that just now returned after an hour of dormancy, studying Pete's hopeful expression. How can I let him down? He's done so much for me in the short time I've known him, but that'll all be ruined if I don't approve.

How I yearn for the days where a public setting was nothing terrifying, only one bit in a world of monotony. I used to venture outside often, talk to the neighbors, invite the urge to pet strangers' dogs. Surely that person isn't too far down?

Ditching your psychologist won't help you find it, though, you cowardly bitch.

Maybe I don't want to, then. I'd rather not return to Dr. Saporta.