“No, no, I am not fucking all right,” I spit, the pacing making me more agitated, which just makes me want to pace even more.

“Does this have to do with Adam? I got your message that you were planning on telling him this weekend.”

My mind rewinds to Friday, when I left that message, and it feels like a hundred years ago. God, I was so optimistic then, so hopeful that Adam would believe me when I told him the truth and then we’d finally fucking stop dancing around this thing that I know both of us feel, but instead I got halfway there and then it completely blew up in my face.

I don’t even try to hide this from Dr. Bright.

“Yeah, yeah, I did that. Last night.” I’m nodding furiously as I walk back and forth in her small office and I know I must look like a complete maniac. “And it did not go well.”

“Caleb, why don’t you sit down and tell me what happened.” She gestures again at the couch and her outstretched arm sweeps a cool breeze of calm over me.

I sit. And I tell her the whole damn thing.

Out of all the bone-headed things I’ve done in my life, texting the guy I like while in the middle of a therapy session is probably one of the more idiotic.

Telling Dr. Bright everything actually really did make me feel better. It was good to get everything off my chest, but also, as we’ve just established, I’m a fucking idiot.

Adam was embarrassed. He believed me, but he was embarrassed. How could I have not seen that? He does like me and he was freaked out that I was telling him I could feel his feelings. Like Dr. Bright just said, he probably thought I was telling him I knew he liked me and was letting him down easy.

“Caleb, what are you doing?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dr. Bright lean forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her curiosity bubbling out and curling into my nerve endings. I focus in on my phone, trying to come up with the perfect words that will rewrite the last twenty-four hours.

“Communicating,” I reply, my thumbs moving quickly over the touchscreen. A drop of black-sludge disappointment drops into the whirlpool of curiosity-concern, rippling outward and making my fingers stutter on the keyboard.

“I meant in person, or a phone call,” Dr. Bright sighs. “Not texting.”

I want to snap at her that she should have specified when saying I needed to communicate more, but I’m too filled up with my own anxiety about all the ways I could screw this up. All the ways that I could not only lose my shot with Adam, but lose him as a friend.