The Real Thing (6 page)

Eric rolls his neck around before facing me, eyes wide, a forced smile on his face. “Thanks. I … uh … I think you got the kink out.”

I’m not breathing, so all I can say is a very small, “Good.”

He nods once, then with the speed of a 727, he’s off his butt and heading out the door, mumbling something about getting dressed, and he’ll be right back.

Holy freaking shit. I shake my hands out before smacking them over my eyes. Just because he was letting me touch him does not give me permission to try to massage his ass. What came over me? He was just groaning … I mean, I moan when I get massaged.

Damn it, we’re
friends
.

I kept yelling that to myself in high school when he was dating Ali. I know that’s over, but I can’t just jump his bones the second he comes back to town. Who knows if he even wants that—wants
me
. He had plenty of opportunities when he lived here before, and he never took them.

Ugh, I’m freaking out and I don’t know why. It’s normal to be attracted to someone. I’ve been attracted to him for
five years
. I take a deep breath and try to relax.

Maybe I’ll stick to the book boys until I can figure all this crap out.

Eric Matua commented on Emilia Johnson’s status

2 hours ago

What is a book boyfriend? o.O

3 people like this

“Come on,” I say into the phone. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be on it, but after twenty minutes of waiting, my heart rate has gone up so high I can feel it behind my eyes. My knees won’t stop bouncing, so I hoist myself off the couch and pace the room. Dr. Shuman got a new bookshelf since I was last here. It’s full of big, fat, boring-as-hell text books. I wonder if it’s to make him look more legit, because he always seemed to be the kind of guy who read zombie and horror stuff.

“Hello?” my brother, Tolani, finally answers. I try to breathe out in relief, but it gets stuck somewhere in my chest.

“Hey, man,” I stutter, and pinch my eyes shut. “D-did I wake you up?”

“I’m up,” he answers quickly. Sweat drips from my eyebrow, and I swipe it away. “You having another one?”

“I think so.” I know so, actually. And I’m pacing my therapist’s office panicking over the fact that I’m panicking and he’ll see it and send me straight to the nuthouse.

“All right, bro. Take a breath.”

My lungs seize up, and I shoot my gaze to the door, hoping Dr. Shuman doesn’t walk in right now.

“I—I can’t …”

“What’s your anchor?” he says, and I can hear his breath pick up, too.
Damn it
. My panic is triggering his. I cover the receiver so he doesn’t hear.

My anchor … shit. Why can’t I think?

Tolani’s voice comes out a little forced. “The ocean, Eric. Remember it. Come on.”

That’s right. It’s always the ocean. The sensation of weightlessness under the water. No pressure on my lungs or shoulders.

I manage a deep breath and hold it. My hand slides off the receiver as I exhale, and I hear Tolani exhale with me.

“Good?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, vision returning and heart rate settling. “You?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you panic, too.”

Something shuts on his side of the phone. A door or cupboard or something. “It’s cool.” I hear a pill bottle, and my stomach knots. Shit. He’s probably taking something for it now. “What’s going on?” he asks. “Do I need to visit your twitchy ass?”

I let out a breathy laugh. “No. I think I’m good. I just … do you still talk with Dr. Shuman?”

“I haven’t for a while. Why?”

“’Cause I’m sitting in his office.”

“Yeah?” he says before drinking something. “Your attacks getting worse?”

“No,” I say. “Just … I hadn’t had one in a while, and then this morning … something triggered one.”

“Something …”

I run a hand down my face. “A girl.”

“Damn.” He laughs, and if he was here I’d beat the hell out of him. “You gotta work on that.”

“No shit.”

“Well,” he says, voice lowering a bit. “Talk it out with Doc. Get some meds. Remember the damn ocean when you feel one coming on, and call me if you need.”

“Yes,
Mother
.” I flinch as if he’s there, because I know he’d beat me up for that.

“All right. Let me know how it goes.”

“Thanks, man.”

I tap the phone off and put it in my pocket. The office doesn’t seem as daunting as it did when I first walked in here. I scratch my arm and twirl a loose thread on the sleeve of my scrubs and yank it off. The trash can is full of paper and tissues, and I toss the black string on top of all the white. I don’t even know what the hell I’m doing here. I feel fine now. Maybe I should’ve just called Tolani after last night … or this morning, whatever it was.

Running a hand over my face, I focus on the ocean so I don’t start thinking about Em’s hands and the way they moved. How incredible they felt and how … Shit.
Breathe, damn it
. I’m here. I’m trying to fix it. No one’s touching me at the moment … we’re good.

But it’s not good. It was
Emmy
. It should be okay. I wanted it.

Why the hell did I hear Ali in my head the second her hands drifted farther south?

“Eric, relax. I’m the only person who’ll ever want to touch you like this. You should like it and be grateful for it.”

The door clicks and it jolts me from my damn head. Dr. Shuman’s eyebrows rise as he looks at me, and his mouth drops open.

“Eric Matua?”

“Hey, Doc.”

He steps through the door, then closes it behind him, still gawking at me. I jam my fists in my pockets so I don’t fidget.

“Well, you’re looking good,” he says, reaching to shake my hand. I flex my fingers before I reach out to grasp his. He’s still shaking his head at me. “I hardly recognize you.”

“Uh, thanks.”

He smiles and drops my hand. “Still having a tough time taking compliments?”

“I’m working on it.”

He laughs, turning from me to his desk. His hair is thinning in the back, and damn that sucks. He’s only, like, thirty-five. If I start losing my hair that early I’m shaving it.

“So, been a while,” he says when he sits in his chair.

“Yeah, I uh … was living in Samoa with my uncle for a bit.”

“Welcome back to the States.”

“Thanks.”

He opens his jacket and pulls a pen out. I didn’t even see him grab his clipboard, but there it is in its usual position on his lap.

“You want to sit?” He gestures to the couch. Instantly my limbs tighten and my muscles crawl. I shake my head and pace the floor again. Dr. Shuman clears his throat. “All right, Eric. You know I won’t play the guessing game with you. So, I’ll wait till you’re ready to talk.”

I try to laugh, but it comes out garbled. This was always his method—sit there in silence till I break. And since I only have an hour, and it’s been a good three years since I last saw him, things start spewing out as I wring my hands together, run them over my head, and pace, pace, pace.

“I thought I was done with this shit. But this morning I couldn’t breathe—couldn’t think, really. She felt good and things were fine, then that damn voice popped into my head and I bolted. It was an instant panic attack, and I’m pretty sure I scared the hell out of her or something. That’s never happened with Em. She was always the person who kept things calm. Well, not calm, but it was real enough to keep my head clear. I don’t know, but I don’t want this thing with Ali to keep coming back to bite me every time I’m with a woman. I feel ruined or something, and if I can’t keep her away when I’m with my best friend, how the hell am I supposed to keep her away at all, you know?”

Dr. Shuman presses his lips together, then scratches his goatee with the back of his pen. “Sorry, Eric. I wish I could say I do know what you mean, but it’s been a few years. I may need a quick recap of which ‘she’ is which.”

This was a bad idea. I don’t want to talk anymore, but he must have a sensor that tells him when a patient is about to fly the coop, because he leans forward, holding his palm out to stop me.

“Eric, I remember Ali. You don’t have to go into that if you don’t want to.”

I nod and press the heel of my hand against my forehead. Having to retell the whole experience with my ex isn’t why I came here. I want him to help me
forget
it.

“I’m talking about Em … not that Em is in my head … Ali’s in my head. I just, uh, I think I want … ah, hell, I don’t know, but it’s not going to happen if I can’t … these panic attacks, what do I do about them? Should I tell Em about it? Or maybe not even bring it up. The whole thing might not even happen again with the way I reacted—”

“Eric,” he says, setting the clipboard down on the table next to him. “Sit down before you destroy the furniture.”

My brow furrows as I follow his line of sight to my fists curled around the back of the couch, fingers digging into the leather. I take a deep breath and ease off the cushion. As much as my fidgety body hates it, I force myself to lie down and stare at the ceiling.

“Take a deep breath,” he says, and I do it even though it feels like fire scorching my lungs. “Now, one thought at a time.”

“Emmy …” That’s the only thought in my head now.

“Is this the same Emilia from your childhood?”

I nod, closing my eyes. “She’s living with me for the summer. I was just giving her a place to stay while she was out of school. And it seemed easy at first—falling into our old friendship. I’m still dealing with how attracted I am to her, but that’s something I always had to handle. That’s not what caused the panic attack this morning.”

“When was your last episode?”

I hate when he calls it that. Like my life is some damn soap opera. “Uh, maybe a few months ago. But it wasn’t really that bad.”

“What happened then?”

I shift a little, already trying to push back the feeling I had when the girl from the island party moved my hand to her breasts. I should’ve been all over it, but I couldn’t shut down the voice in my head that told me whatever I was about to do with her, I’d do it wrong. Then my heart rate picked up and my vision blurred. Why are women one of my damn triggers?

“It wasn’t really anything.” I lie. “Messing around with a girl, got heavy, and I stopped it.”

“Is that what happened this morning?”

“No.” And that’s what scares me. That’s why I’m here. Em was
never
the cause of my panic attacks. The fact that she made me feel so much, and then it flipped so suddenly, confuses the hell out of me. “Em was just giving me a massage. She’s a professional … there wasn’t anything sexual about it on her end, I don’t think. But when I realized how it was making
me
feel, I …”

A frustrated growl wants to rip out of my throat, but I push it back. I do the breathe-in-breathe-out thing Doc has always told me to do, even though it didn’t always work.

“Hmm …,” he mutters to himself. I hear the scratching of a pen, and I keep my eyes closed, counting the breaths I’m taking. “Is this something you want to push back?”

“Huh?”

The chair squeaks a little as he shifts. “This episode with Emilia … is it like your other panic attacks when you want to push them back?”

My forehead crinkles as I run my hand over my short hair. There’s no way in hell I’d forget how her hands worked my muscles, and how soft her skin felt on mine. There’s no way I’d
want
to forget it.

A small laugh tumbles from my lips. “Hell, no.”

He chuckles. “Well, then, I think the panic attack you had this morning had more to do with what is possible with Emilia than Emilia herself.”

“What do you mean?” I open my eyes and tilt my head back to look at him. He’s got that pinched look like he’s struggling with what’s going on in his brain before he says it.

“How many relationships have you had since Ali?”

Easy
. “Zero.”

“I think you sense there could be a potential relationship with Em, correct?”

Not really. “I don’t know.”

“Well, if that is the case, your mind is putting up barriers to keep you from it. Doesn’t mean you can’t break the barriers. In fact, I’d encourage you to try, but you’ll have to do it gently.”

“You mean, don’t dive into something I’m not ready for?”

“What your
mind
isn’t ready for.” He half-smiles. “I’m sure your body has been ready for a while.”

“Ugh … thanks for making me uncomfortable, Doc.”

“My job is to force you out of what’s comfortable.”

My arm swings over my eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Did you want me to prescribe you something? I can write you up for some Xanax. That’s what you took before, right?”

I nod.

“Did that work for you?”

“Yeah, but …” I hoist myself up to a sitting position, fixing my scrubs. “Do you think I need it?”

“I don’t think you
need
medication, but it does help to have it on standby in case this happens again.”

“Um, yeah, okay.”

His pen scratches for another few seconds, and then he tears the paper from the clipboard and hands it to me. I fold it and stick it in my shirt pocket.

“In the meantime, though, I think you should keep talking. Psychotherapy is the best medicine.”

I snort. “You have to say that.”

He gestures for me to lie back down and I do, the tension already easing out of me.

“Your hour starts now,” he says, and I grin because he always did that for me. Guess I’m a needy patient.

I smell Lysol before I even open the door to the condo. I quickly wipe the sweat from my face with my gym towel before stepping inside. Em’s in the kitchen, stretching on her tiptoes to try to get a stack of tumblers on the top shelf. Her iPod’s in her back pocket, the white earbuds snaking up her orange tank top. She’s singing Florida Georgia Line at the top of her lungs, but it’s coming out strained as she tries to get those cups in place.

I drop my duffel and shut the door, taking a whiff of my shirt to make sure my deodorant is still effective. I’m good, even though I’m a little damp from my workout. Moving her open laptop out of the way so I don’t send it to the floor, I reach over her and grab the cups from her hand.