Authors: Brandi Kennedy
"I actually really wanted to talk to you," he says, looking at me soulfully. I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to be charmed, but I'm actually kind of grossed out. I'm aware of his break-up with Claire, and it's all over the company that she broke up with him for being "too shallow." Now, I'm not one to live in the rumor mill, but anyone supposedly too shallow for Claire is
way
too shallow for me.
Floating in my mind is an image of Drew, resting happily next to the lake after our horseback ride. Full of sandwiches, fruit and potato chips, he'd fallen back in the grass with his hands behind his head, looking up at me.
"You're sure pretty," he'd said.
The image is broken by the sound of Jackson, and I realize he's been talking while I've been daydreaming. "Mmhmm," I murmur, hoping I'll catch on to what he's been saying before it's too late and he figures out I'm not paying attention.
"'Mmhmm?' That's all you have to say? I ask you out to dinner after you've been drooling my way for months, and all you've got to say is 'mmhmm?'"
"Actually, Jackson, I'm sorry, I guess I wasn't really paying attention. But no, I'm sorry, I can't go out with you," I tell him. Outwardly, I'm calm and gentle with him, but the little rejected girl inside of me is dancing around with glee. Turning Jackson down for a date after he spent so much time looking through me has been a fantasy of mine for a while, and here I am, turning him down!
It's a little strange though, my lack of pleasure in this. The shock of his face is charming, and then offensive. He obviously thought that stooping low enough to ask out the company chubby would guarantee his success; he obviously did not expect me to say no.
Now he's angry, and I know how ugly angry people can be. Especially angry, rejected men. Nothing has taught me about the anger of a rejected man like Rick. Fortunately for me, Rick had time to get to know me before I set him straight on his brother-only position in my life. It means that he had lots of ammunition to use against me as we grew, lots of effective ways to dig into my self-esteem.
Jackson doesn't have that advantage, so I'm ready when he starts spewing vile insults.
"I can't believe you thought I was serious," he laughs. "You really thought I would ask you out?"
"Well, you know, if it looks like a duck, and it acts like a duck, it must be a duck. So when you stand in front of me and ask me to dinner, am I supposed to assume that you meant to ask if today is Tuesday?" I prop a hand on my hip and wait for him to formulate an answer.
"Today is Thursday," he retorts, sneering at me as if he's the most clever man alive.
"You idiot, that's not the point. How dare you come to me and ask me to dinner? First of all, genius, I have a boyfriend. Second of all, I wouldn't date you if you were my last shot to repopulate the planet. If you can be dumped by a nasty, contagious bitch like Claire for being too shallow for her, I'd say you're about as shallow as a mountain top. So, uh, no."
I brush next to him and grasp my time card, punching it in the old fashioned time clock, and leave Jackson sputtering in the breakroom. I feel good, because I stood up for myself, but at the same time, encounters like that are hard for me. It's like going into a real battle, having to defend your personal psyche is maybe just as difficult as having to defend your physical self.
Back in that breakroom, I knew I was safe, physically. But every verbal hit he could get in during the battle was going to leave me with a fresh wound. I'm glad I stopped it early, and I know it was only his pride talking, but I can still hear the echo in my mind.
"I can't believe you thought I was serious."
And because he is connected to Claire so thoroughly in my memories, I hear her next.
"I'd rather be dead than be fat."
Suddenly, I'm back there; I've lost my progress and I'm back to that day at work, when I was in the bathroom debating the benefits of anorexia or bulimia. When I was debating suicide. I feel like one of those teenagers you see on the news, the ones who give in to the constant pain of bullying.
I'm not crying, not yet, but I can feel the panic rising up in me as I'm approaching my car and suddenly my balance is gone.
How can my elbow be caught on something? I'm outside!
And then, I realize what I'm caught on. Dainty little Claire has her hands wrapped around my arm, and Kayla is standing behind her, smiling a vicious smile that is anything but friendly.
Round two.
"How dare you try to mess with my boyfriend?" she shrieks.
Pulling to my full height, I step closer to her, and because of my size, I have an advantage. She knows it; fear flickers in her eyes, and then she opens her mouth again to spew ugliness in my face.
"You think you could get my man between your big fat thighs?"
"Please sweetheart, I don't want him. Especially after he's been with you, and no one knows who all has been wedged between your little chicken legs."
"How dare you, sauntering around here for weeks like you've just won the lottery, or a free liposuction appointment, all to take him from me and then reject him? I heard you, all high and mighty, with your pretend boyfriend story. Please, you big whale, we all know you couldn't get a man if you paid him." She's still gripping my arm, and at this point, her grip benefits her, because I'm just itching to punch her and watch all the evil bleed out of her nose.
"Oh, I see. Well, I guess now I know where the rumors came from then, Claire. Was the break-up the other way around? Did poor Jackson kick your cocky little butt to the curb? Was he so sick of your high and mighty attitude that he just couldn't take anymore? Aww, honey, did he get sick of hearing about your hair appointments?"
At this, I take my free hand and put it to my open mouth as if I'm in shock. Rage fills Claire's expression, and as her face reddens, she takes a step back; Kayla steps forward to support her. Looking her up and down, I judge myself still at an advantage. My life is at stake here, my pride, my belief in myself. I can't afford to be scared, and I can't afford to be weak.
"If either of you ever approach me again, or have the guts to come close and speak to me, I swear, I will spread the truth about the both of you through this company, faster than you can scarf a Snicker's bar."
Turning my hot gaze back to Claire, I leave her with one final statement. "And if you'd like your little face to stay pretty, I suggest you take your hands off of me. Now." I stare her down as rage gives way to grudging respect, and she removes her hand.
"Let's go Kayla," she sneers, pretending that her voice doesn't shake when she speaks. "Let's just leave this trash out here and get going."
I take a deep breath, and then another, watching Kayla slip her arm around Claire's waist. They walk together to a little black car, and Kayla opens the passenger door to let Claire in, squatting to talk to her briefly before getting into the car. I watch them drive out of the parking lot, and they are gone before I realize I'm crying.
Dropping into my own car, I dig my cell phone out of my purse and flip it open. I dial the number for Dr. Caswell, and wait for his mother to answer the phone.
"Marie? I need an appointment."
I can't help it; I'm losing it on the way to Dr. Caswell's office. I can't stop crying.
I finally have found a way to see beyond my reflection; I've worked so hard to find something worthwhile in myself. I've spent so much effort building myself up in my head, purposely believing in myself. And I'm attacked for being confident, for being sure of myself for the first time in my life. How does anyone survive in this world?
Pulling up in front of the office, I check my face in the mirror and hope fervently that no one on the road was looking through my windows. I look scary, like the villain from a horror flick. I yank tissues out of my purse, struggling to get my breath to even out, trying to repair some of the damage to my face.
Finally, somewhat satisfied that I won't scare anyone in Dr. Caswell's office, I take one last deep breath and leave my car, walking through the hallway as fast as I can and bursting into the office like someone is after me.
"Cassaundra!" Marie says, standing from behind her desk. "Oh, honey, what happened?"
I break down again, and she disappears from the window, coming out from the little door next to the entrance. She takes me in her arms, and I'm trying so hard to keep it together, but her understanding gets the best of me. The next thing I know, Dr. Caswell's hands are on my shoulders, and he's steering me away from his mother, through the door to the office room that I've grown so comfortable in.
"What happened?" he asks me, pressing my shoulders so that I lower onto the couch. I'm just sitting there, forlorn, and it's like I'm back to the first time I was in this room. It doesn't escape my notice that he doesn't sit across from me, nor does he bring the recorder to the table. He sits beside me, holding a box of tissues, waiting.
"I don't even know," I answer, tears still rolling down my face. "I was doing good, I thought. I've been dating someone, and I've been confronting Rick, and I've been feeling so much better about myself. And then today --"
I break down again, and finally get a real glimpse of who Mac Caswell really is. If he hadn't been so overshadowed by my relationship with Drew, this would have been the moment that I fell in love with him; he sits beside me, watching helplessly as I fall apart, waiting until I reach a point where I can talk again. And in the corner of his eye is a faint shimmer, a hint that he cares for his patients, a clue to how much he hurts alongside the people he sees in this room.
"I got totally attacked at my job today," I whisper.
His face registers surprise, and he sits back, turning to better see my expressions. "What?" he asks.
"Jackson, this guy that I liked for a while, but then I didn't like him, he asked me out today because he and his girlfriend broke up. So I told him no, and that I'm seeing someone, and he got all proud and said he was just kidding and like, he'd never go out with me, and he was just really hateful. But I thought he was just being prideful, because the word at work is that he got dumped."
Dr. Caswell nods, listening intently. I can see him thinking, I can tell he's formulating something to say, but I plunge on.
"Then when I was outside on the way to my car, his ex-girlfriend and her little nasty mean friend -- remember I told you about them before? Anyway, I guess they followed me out, and she said I was trying to take her man and that he dumped her, and she was just so nasty and mean, and she has a way of saying things that is like being physically injured, and I just, I don't even know what happened."
Now, hearing myself go on like this, I am suddenly embarrassed. I sound like a high school kid, breaking down because the in-crowd doesn't want me. "This is stupid, I can't believe I called over that," I mutter, miserable.
"It's not stupid. This is something you're dealing with, something that is emotionally painful for you, and that's what I'm here for, Cass. You needed to call, and you needed someone to talk to, somewhere you could go and feel safe to let go of what happened."
I love the soothing tone of his voice, and I can see without any question, why he is so popular as a therapist. "Thank you," I say. "You forgot your recorder." Still embarrassed, I wipe my eyes again and dab at the end of my nose.
"I didn't forget," he says. "Your, um, your insurance, it only covers one emergency visit. So this one is, kind of, off the books." Now he's embarrassed, caught reaching out to a patient. Remembering the attraction that was between us before, I can't help wondering if he does this often; the question is out, slipping between my trembling lips before I can stop myself.
"I actually do," he answers, leaning back on the couch beside me. "I go to a lot of trouble, sometimes, to earn the trust of the people who come to me. I have people walk through that door, and they are so injured emotionally that it's a miracle their faces aren't scarred. Some are so broken that even though they come here willingly, they can't even open up to me."