Our Broken Pieces

one

IT DOESN’T MATTER. I blow out a breath slowly, feeling it get caught on a hiccup before it escapes and rushes from my salty lips. The tears refuse to stop falling, even though I’ve had my eyes squeezed shut for at least five minutes. Seeing them together does this to me every time, but I’d rather hide in here than let them know. The cold of the tile in this disgusting old bathroom starts to seep through my sweatshirt and I lean forward, hugging my legs in front of me and trying once more to suck in a big breath.

I can’t believe that as hard as I try to avoid the happy new couple, they seem to come walking down the hallway or popping out of a classroom when I least expect it. Leaning my head against the tile wall I attempt to block out the memory of my latest run-in with Brady and Elle. I thought I’d avoid their public display of affection by sneaking through the hall by the cafeteria to bio, and I was almost to safety when they came strolling out of the caf hand in hand.

It’s been a long time since Brady looked at me the way he looks at Elle. His lips are curled up slightly and his eyes seem almost glossed over, as if he’s staring down upon something amazing. I used to tell myself that he didn’t look at me that way anymore because our relationship had moved on to something more serious. I could fool myself into believing that he wasn’t enamored by me anymore because we both knew so much about each other. I realize now that there were lots of signs that he wasn’t in love with me anymore, but I just wouldn’t open my eyes up to see them. It didn’t help that the one time I had voiced my concerns about Brady’s behavior my best friend had told me it was all in my head.

Elle and I met on our first day of kindergarten. Her ponytail got caught in the zipper of her backpack and I had to walk her to the office. I spent the entire time telling jokes to distract her from the possibility that the principal was going to have to cut her ponytail off, and by the time we made it down the hall we were already planning our first playdate. We’d been best friends ever since. When we were little we had a standing Friday night sleepover, just the two of us, and when we were older we always got ready for a party at one of our houses. I was the first person she told when her parents were getting a divorce and she was the person I went to when my grandmother was diagnosed with cancer. I called her the second I got home from the date where Brady said he loved me. I really could have used her friendship when I needed to tell someone about how he’d broken my heart.

The betrayal came out of nowhere. If I didn’t see it for myself, I would have never believed that either of them was capable of hurting me so deeply. I still wonder what it might be like if I hadn’t left my sweatshirt in my car that morning two weeks ago. I only had ten minutes before the first bell rang, but I wouldn’t get another chance to grab it until lunch. Brady’s truck was parked a few spots down from mine and I could hear his music blaring through the open windows, so after grabbing my sweatshirt, I headed to his truck and peeked into the open window assuming I’d find him gathering his football gear. Instead, I found him making out with my best friend.

Remembering that moment in the parking lot still turns my stomach. It’s not even like they were trying to be stealth about it. Anyone running a little late would have seen them out there together. I stood there, speechless, as I watched the two of them throw away years of friendship in the back seat of his truck. I don’t even remember what I said that got their attention, but I remember running back to my car on legs that felt boneless. It felt like I was watching it play out in a movie—my body completely disconnected from my mind. By the time I pulled into my driveway at home after school, my brain was swimming with a million questions about how long it had been going on and who might have known.

If someone had tried to tell me a few weeks ago that I’d be running from a problem, I wouldn’t have believed them. As a matter of fact, no one would have believed it. I’m the girl who people always say has everything together. Before the breakup, I’d never cried at school or behaved in any way that would make people think I had any problem bigger than trying to get my parents to extend my curfew. That obviously wasn’t true—but no one but Elle knew that. Now, though, I don’t think any of my classmates would see me crying on the bathroom floor and think that I had my life together.

I hear the next bell, letting me know I’m late for fifth period, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to any more classes today. I just want to wait in here until I know that everyone has cleared the halls, and then I’m going to the nurse’s office to complain of a stomachache. I know that it’s actually supposed to be good if I see Elle and Brady. If I see them together often enough I will eventually get used to the sight and I won’t feel like curling up in a ball. I want to believe that, but my heart still burns and my stomach tosses every time it happens. I’ve seen them together a dozen times and I haven’t noticed any reduction in the intensity of the pain it causes me.

The nurse buys my story and puts me on the phone with my mom. She sighs heavily into the phone. Are you seeing Laura today?

Yes, at four.

Okay, put the nurse back on, but promise me you’ll talk to Laura about this. I’m worried about you. You made a commitment to volunteer at the retirement home and I know you haven’t been going. You haven’t been out for a run in a while, you’re not calling any friends, and now you’re missing school. I hear my mom’s receptionist in the background, letting her know her next patient has arrived.

I promise. She didn’t even have to ask, I would be telling Laura all about it on my own. Maybe she would have some great secret she could teach me that would help me hold it together when I see Brady and Elle. Inside I still want to be that girl who laughs in the hallway with her friends; I’d even settle for being the girl who got panic attacks because of stress over things like my AP classes and filling out applications, like I was earlier this year.

The nurse signs my off-campus pass and I head straight for my car. My appointment with Laura isn’t for another two hours, but I decide to go early and read. Her office is in an old building and the waiting room is shared with a few of the other therapists. It’s one of my favorite places to be now because no one there expects me to be okay. For two weeks now it’s felt like my family is collectively holding their breath. Everyone is waiting for me to put this whole experience behind me and I hate the idea that I am disappointing them by not getting over it faster.

The first time I found myself on Laura’s couch, I didn’t want to talk to her. I was a little embarrassed that I couldn’t handle the panic attacks on my own. My mom thought it would be helpful if I had someone I could talk to every week. I didn’t expect to like her so much, but somewhere between the moment my mom stood up to leave us alone and the scratching of Laura’s pen in her outdated planner as we made another appointment, I decided she was all right.

As I drive to Laura’s office I can’t help thinking about how Los Angeles can feel so big, stretching along the coast for miles and miles, and yet somehow it is impossible to go anywhere without being reminded of Brady and Elle and the fun we had together. Proving my point, I notice that I’m passing the burger stand where Brady took me on our first date. I’d been so excited when he asked me out. We were seat partners in science class our sophomore year and while we’d flirted during every lab, I had no idea that he ever wanted our relationship to go beyond that. By the end of the first semester though we were a perfect high-school-sweetheart couple. We’d been back to the burger stand only a couple weeks ago to celebrate that we’d both gotten into UCLA.

I do my best to tuck away that memory as I pull into Laura’s parking lot. I leave my backpack in the car but take my book and head for the comforting quiet of the large reception area. My favorite spot on the couch is open, and I throw my book down to save the seat before grabbing the key to the bathroom that hangs on the wall by the front desk. If I wait any longer the two-stall bathroom might get crowded with people as they finish their appointments. As I walk down the hall I hear my phone chime with a text.

HEATHER: Elle told me what you really think of me. I can’t believe I trusted you.

I feel a knot form in my stomach as I read Heather’s message. This sort of thing has been happening to me all week. Elle and I had so many years of friendship between us that we told each other everything. I thought I could trust her even if we got into an argument, but I’m learning quickly that she won’t keep my secrets to herself if it means getting our friends to pick her side.

Heather has always been that friend who acts like her sole purpose in life is to have a good time. When she wasn’t throwing parties at her parents’ house she was persuading all the girls in our group to make a midnight run to the In-N-Out drive-through. And while we weren’t super close, we’d always gotten along. I don’t know what Elle could have possibly told her, but there are two things I’m certain of: 1) it was probably an offhand comment that in no way represented how I felt about her and 2) it’s not good.

ME: Heather I don’t know what you’re talking about.

HEATHER: If you thought I was nosy you should have just told me yourself.

ME: I don’t remember calling you nosy. And I would never want to hurt your feelings. But it’s not like you’ve never messed up before. I mean, you knew about Elle and Brady and you didn’t tell me.

HEATHER: It wasn’t any of my business! Besides I’m better friends with Elle than you.

I stare at my cell screen for a moment, torn between rage and sadness. The fact that so many of my friends knew about Brady and Elle before me still really hurts. Not only did none of them tell me that it was going on, but now that Brady and Elle have officially started dating, all of our mutual friends expect me to act like what they did is totally okay. It doesn’t exactly give me warm and fuzzy feelings about my friends when I realize they care more about making sure things stay pleasant than how I’m actually feeling. I tuck my phone back into my pocket and unlock the bathroom door.

The mirror above the sink is cracked, but it doesn’t hide the fact that I look worn down and miserable. I wet a paper towel and wipe my face, letting the cold towel sit on my eyes for a minute before I toss it in the trash. My long brown hair is a tangled mess from driving with my windows down and even though I know Laura won’t care, I try to brush it out with my fingers the best I can.

The waiting room is empty when I take a seat on the low couch and flip to my place in my book. I’m trying hard to focus on the story, but my thoughts keep drifting and I have to start the page all over. The music in the room is a soft jazz, the kind you only hear in waiting rooms, elevators, and doctors’ offices. My eyes feel heavy and I give in to closing them, resting my head on the armrest and curling my feet up underneath me.

two

THE SOUND OF someone pushing open the heavy glass door startles me and I open my tired eyes and try to remember where I am. I must have fallen asleep because now the waiting room is crowded and the only spot left is the space next to me on the couch. I figure this out right about the same time the new arrival does, and I sit up straight, putting my feet back on the ground so he can sit comfortably. The boy looks familiar but I can’t quite place him. His dark hair is cut very short, like Brady wears his for football, and his face is clean shaven. What really stands out, though, are his unusual multicolored irises.

I quickly turn my head so I’m not staring, and he sits down beside me, the scent of men’s soap drifting past me as he gets comfortable. He’s wearing jeans that hang a little from his hips and a black hoodie. I also notice he has on flip-flops and for some reason that makes me smile. He’s holding a spiral notebook on his lap and I chance a quick look at his face again, curious about all the colors in those unusual eyes—the ones I find looking back at me a second before he looks away.

I’ve never actually seen anyone my age in the waiting room before. I know that plenty of other teenagers see therapists, but sometimes it feels like I am the only one my age who actually goes to one. I wonder what the boy’s story is and whether it is anything like mine. I try not to look at him as he pulls a cell phone from his pocket and checks the time: 3:50. I must have been sleeping really soundly. The door to Laura’s office opens and a mom with a baby on her hip makes arrangements to meet with her again. One minute, Laura mouths to me and I nod my head. The woman and baby leave and Laura’s door shuts.

I wonder if she saw me out here sleeping. How embarrassing. I take a deep breath again, catching a hint of the boy’s fresh scent. The faint smell of chlorine has me intrigued—maybe he’s a swimmer or a pool cleaner. One of the reasons why I got into volunteering and peer mediation is that I love talking to new people and finding out about their lives. It’s probably why I’m almost tempted to ask him about it, but I don’t know what the rules are here—not the actual rules, I’m sure I’m fine there, but the unwritten ones. Is it okay to talk to another person while you wait for your therapist? While they wait for theirs? What’s he here for?

I know that looks can be deceiving, but he seems fine. He smiled, even. There are probably a million reasons why someone would go to therapy. I don’t get much of a chance to really think about it though before Laura steps out of her office again and motions for me to come in. I stand up and take a few steps in her direction, but stop short when I hear a low voice call to me from the couch.

Everly, you forgot your book. I turn and watch the boy close the distance between us and hand me the tattered paperback I’d left next to the couch. He looks down to the cover and smiles. I open my mouth to say something, but the door next to us opens and an older man steps out.

Gabe, are you ready? He looks right at my cute boy—not my cute boy, the cute boy. With a slight smile Gabe lets go of my book and slips inside the office of the gray-haired man, closing the door behind him.

I’m sorry, Everly, Laura says as I move around a few of the pillows on her couch. I grab one and hold it in front of me to give my hands something to do. That boy knew your name. We can switch your appointment time if you want more privacy. I try to make sure I don’t book kids the same age back-to-back to avoid awkward waiting room run-ins, but I can’t control the other therapists’ calendars.

That’s okay, I assure her. I don’t know him. Maybe he knows me because of my sister or something. If he went to my school I would have noticed him before, wouldn’t I?

If you’re sure. She looks at me carefully like she might have the power to see if I’m lying.

I’m sure. He might not be here for therapy every week like I am. Probably won’t see him again. I wonder if she will give me a little more information, like maybe that she’s seen him here before or that he always comes here on Mondays so him being here today was a surprise. My therapy appointments are always on Tuesday. Instead she just shrugs and then sits down in her high-backed chair.

How has the week been? She looks at me empathetically and I answer her with a slight lift of my shoulders.

As horrible as I expected.

Anything new happen since we talked last?

I sort of lost it again today. I pick at a feather that’s escaping the pillow on my lap through the fabric. I saw him holding her hand and I just froze. A poor freshman behind me bumped right into my back and dropped all of his books. I couldn’t even help him pick them up. As soon as my brain figured out I was standing in the middle of the walkway staring at their stupid hands I burst into tears and hid in the bathroom. I feel the embarrassment of the whole experience again, but surprisingly the tears don’t flow. Maybe I’m finally all out of them.

Remember the chart I talked to you about last time? I told you we would work on it this week and I’d want you to take it home for homework? She reaches for a fresh sheet of paper from the notebook on the desk. She hands it to me on a plastic clipboard and then digs around for a pen in her desk.

I remember, I answer as I watch her move around the contents of her drawer. She seems so put together, but small moments like this make her seem more human.

She finally tosses a pen at me. "I want us to start with what happened