To that, her eyes immediately went glassy, making her look straight ahead to try to hide it.
“You could say that,” she agreed, voice thick. “There were times that the whole experience was just… dehumanizing,” she added.
There was nothing private when you were locked up against your will. Strip searches and forced medication and people asking invasive questions and expecting answers.
Mental healthcare had come a long way from icepick lobotomies and freezing cold baths, but it still had a long way to go to get to a more humanizing standard of care.
“I really struggle with feeling like I have no control,” she admitted. “And I didn’t have any there. I couldn’t pick what time I went somewhere or if I could leave at all. It was just… horrible. And the crazy part is, I didn’t need it before, but I’m pretty sure I am going to need therapy now.”
“There’s no shame in that. It’s important to work through that shit, not tamp it down. And I get that it’s hard,” I added. “Especially for someone like you who feels like they have it all together, to ask for help. But once we’re sure it’s safe to, you should talk to someone about it. And, by then, we will hopefully know who it was, and have their asses locked up, so all that shit on your record will look a lot different.”
“That would be nice,” she admitted. “Cam got me creams for my arm. I’m dubious that they will work.”
“So, get a laser treatment. Or a tattoo.”
“Cam suggested a tattoo. Visible ones aren’t really my style.”
“Visible ones, huh?” I asked, smirking, and she heard the amusement in my voice, making her glance at me. “I feel like that means there are ones that aren’t visible.”
“There’s one,” she admitted. “We can call that teenage idiocy.”
“Nothing wrong with teenage idiocy. Mine once made me take mushrooms with my friends and trip fucking balls in the woods. The trees came alive and told me stories.”
To that, a laugh bubbled up and burst out of her.
“Sorry,” she said, still chuckling. “I’m sure that was terrifying, but it’s kind of funny. What kind of stories did they tell you?”
“They shit-talked the other tree species. Apparently, the Weeping Willows were the whiny, emos. And the Oaks thought they were better than everyone else. They also complained about the woodpeckers. Sawyer said he sobered up first and found me hugging a tree and assuring it that I would be a human scarecrow for it, so the birds wouldn’t peck at his bark anymore.”
“Does Sawyer have this on video, perchance?” she asked.
“Thankfully, my teenaged shenanigans took place before the rampant use of recording shit. No one knows that story but me, Sawyer, and now you.”
“We really were lucky that way,” she agreed, nodding. “There’s not a lot of evidence of my overly plucked eyebrow phase. Or when I used to wear beige lipstick with bold brown liner. It was… a look. One I am glad no one remembers.”
“I had a extremely long and wide-legged pants phase,” I admitted.
“Six inches deep in the water on rainy days?” she asked, remembering that phase of male fashion well, clearly. “And chains from your belt to your empty wallet?”
“Hey, it wasn’t empty. There was an old condom in there that I snagged from a friend’s older brother. And, yes, in case you were wondering, by the time I found someone who wanted to go to bed with me, the damn thing had expired.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“They expire,” I said, nodding, deliberately pretending to misunderstand her.
“I meant that it would take you that long to find a willing girl.”
“I was a gangly kid with a pizza face,” I admitted. “It took me years to develop into the disarmingly good-looking man I am today,” I told her, watching as she gave me a big smile. “And by then, I managed to develop some personality. So now I’m the best of both worlds.”
“I’ve met many a men who clearly grew up attractive and their personalities are as deep as a puddle,” she said, shrugging. “I think awkward phases make us well-rounded people. So… what passes for food in this town?” she asked, smirking at me, a silent dare for me to knock her socks off.
And, well, Navesink Bank might not have been NYC with hundreds of restaurants offering up crazy fare, but what we did, we did well.
“Are you in the mood for Italian?” I asked.
“Always,” she answered immediately.
“Then I have a place with great food, nice wine, fantastic atmosphere, and one hell of a story…”