This was not the first time she’d asked, neither was it the first time I’d refused to answer. I knew exactly when I’d cried for the last time. I’d almost let my eyes betray me a few nights before, with Ethan. I wasn’t ashamed of either time, but they were completely different—and absolutely none of her business.

“Why do you feel you can’t?”

“I don’t feel that.”

“Would you cry in front of him?”

“Is that relevant?”

“Oh, I think it is.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to understand the seriousness of this relationship.”

“Why?” I repeated.

“I think you need to, also,” she said. “That’s why.”

Again, I didn’t say anything.

“Why can’t you be vulnerable around him?” she pressed.

“I am vulnerable around him,” I said, starting to let her get to me, which only pissed me the fuck off.

“That’s only when you can’t help it. My question is, when you can avoid it, why do you?”

I just stared at her without uttering a word.

“All right. Let’s make a deal,” she said. “I’ll ask you three yes or no questions. If they all share the same answer, you’ll tell me what it is, and you can leave.”

“And if they don’t?” I raised a single brow.

“We get to have another cigarette.” She smiled.

Sadist.

“Fine.”

“Do I have your word?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful!” She made herself comfortable in her chair and crossed her legs. “First question. Did seeing Marcy make you sad because it reminded you how disappointed you are that the people in your life, the ones you trusted most, left you alone to grieve your brother?”

She put out her cigarette and charged on.

“Number two. Does the reason you don’t cry have anything to do with the fact that you still blame yourself for his death?” She leaned forward and held her hands together, interlocking her fingers and taking a deep breath before continuing.

“Lastly, are you worried you may not be good enough for this boy but can’t bring yourself to put an end to it because you are falling in love with him and, therefore, starting to fear losing him?”

I stared at her for a few moments, fully aware my face had turned bright red, and my entire body had begun to visibly shake. I removed a single cigarette from the pack still in my grip, lit it up, and took a long, deep drag. Then, I reached for my bag and stood up. Dr. Foster didn’t move; she simply followed my every move.

“Yes,” I eventually said, just before turning around and walking out.

It was either that or telling her to fuck off.

*

“Beer, cups, chips—” Ethan said as we walked along the street.

I was barely paying attention. I had my Super 8 going uninterrupted in my head, showing me memories I desperately wished could remain hidden.