Held A New Adult Romance(13)

"Complicated?" He arches his eyebrows at me for a moment and then his eyes widen. "Holy fucking shitballs - is she a porn star?"

"No! No - God no. At least, I don't think so."

"It's a sex tape," says Jo. "It's gotta be a sex tape. It's always a sex tape. Do you think she got peed on like Kim Kardashian?"

"Don't be gross. I'll tell Pops what you said and he'll wash your goddamn mouth out."

"And yours besides, bro. You do like her. And it is like-like. Don't deny it. Else you wouldn't be clutching your pearls at the thought of her being used as a public latrine."

What is with these kids today? "Jo, if you're not clutching your pearls at the thought of anyone being used as a public latrine then you need to get the hell off the internet for a while. When did you get so disgusting?"

"Sometime around puberty. Same as everyone else." He pops open the top of another Red Bull and sighs. "Look, you obviously want to look this chick up or you wouldn't be asking me."

"I don't. It's hypothetical, remember?"

He snorts. "Yeah, that ship sailed a long time ago. If you're gonna do it, do it. All I'm asking is that if Emily from the CYO has a porno sideline, I'm gonna need a URL. And a password."

I smack him lightly around the back of the head. "If Beca had her way, that girl would be your sister-in-law."

"I know, bro. That's what makes it so nasty."

He's no help. I go back up to my room and open my laptop. Amber. Amber Rose, Amber Room. I know that if I type G after the space it will probably autocomplete to Amber Gillespie and then I'll know everything, won't I? Everything she said I should know. But do I really want to find out this way? She's not a goldfish in a bowl. She's not public property. She's a human being.

I turn off the computer. My decision is made. Maybe I'll tell her, maybe I won't. Part of me is kind of mad at her, but it's hard to stay mad at someone who seems so broken, even if her eyes do say differently.





Chapter Five




Amber



Dr. Stahl is wearing higher heels today. I wonder if she's trying to impress my Dad. She wouldn't be the first; probably won't be the last either.

I wish I had the nerve to see her in the living area, then she wouldn't have to fold herself up in a pink-striped boudoir chair, but that's the nature of mental illness. It robs you of everything, even your manners. She asks me how I'm doing and I answer honestly - better. I'm doing better.

"I talked to someone," I say. I have to tell, to make it real somehow, but even as I'm saying it I realize it's a mistake. She can't know everything.

"Online," I explain. Yes, that works.

"And how was that?" asks Dr. Stahl, her voice soft and neutral as only a psychiatrist's can be. Maybe there's a special class they all have to graduate, where they learn to make their voice so low you sometimes wonder if it's real or just the voice in your head.

"Um...it was...good. It was the first conversation I'd had about something other than...you know. Everything."

"And how did that feel?"

I shrug. “I don’t know. Freeing, I guess. Like one day things could be normal again."

She crosses her legs. I'm sure that chair hurts her back but she doesn't let on. Doesn't complain. What must she think of me, whining up a storm every time I see her? "Can you talk to your father in that way?" she asks.

I snort like a teenager. "Excuse me? Have you met him?"

Dr. Stahl smiles and I don't know whether to laugh or cry. "Fair point," she says. The old me would have run her mouth off, complained about him giving yet another lecture on the extinction of the Tasmanian Tiger or the lifecycle of the Giant Sequoia or whatever it is that's grabbed his brief attention today. But I don't want to see her reaction. I don't think I could handle it if I thought she was using me to get to him. I realize that I've come to trust her and I want to peddle back on my white lie, tell her the truth about talking to Jimmy.

"You've opened the drapes," she says, nodding out towards the pool patio. "That's progress."

I've never quite managed to shake the feeling that she's gifted with some extraordinary insight - like she's more than just a psychiatrist. Like she's some kind of human polygraph - I don't know. She can't know that I keep the drapes open in the hope of catching a glimpse of him. I don't know how far patient confidentiality goes in a case like mine.

So I shrug. "My pot plants were all dying," I say, pointing out the yellowing spider plant on a bracket near the window.

"Plants aren't the only thing that need light, Amber. It's good to get some vitamin D."

"I guess. One step at a time, you know?"

"Absolutely. This is big - just opening the drapes like that. You see? Last week was just a plateau. We're moving again."