Page 9 of Stealing His Cupcake (Stockholm Syndrome for the Win #2)

Miranda settles back in her chair. Her eyes feel like they’re scanning my soul, seeing through my lies. “Losing a loved one is always difficult,” she says. “Especially someone so close to you. Grief is complicated. It’s never just one feeling, is it?”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “I guess?”

“You lost someone who was a big part of your life.”

“I did.” But did I? Was Craig really such a big part of my life?

I saw him once a week at the maximum. He’d come over, eat what I cooked, drink whatever I had in my fridge, we’d have sex, and then he’d leave.

I could count on the fingers of one hand the times he stayed till morning.

I knew it wasn’t a typical relationship, yet I still clung to it.

“He made me feel like I wasn’t alone.” I didn’t mean to say those words out loud.

What’s worse, I feel myself tearing up, like I haven’t already cried myself dry in the past three days.

Instead of laughing at how pathetic I am, Miranda pushes a box of tissues my way.

I sniffle. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay to cry, Amy. In fact, it’s quite normal to cry during therapy, even for people who haven’t been through something as heartbreaking as you. I keep an entire stack of tissue boxes in the closet. The manufacturer gives me a discount because I’m their prime customer,” she jokes.

Despite the pain tearing me up from inside, I laugh. It’s a hoarse laugh, a little hysterical, but it lifts some of the tension from my shoulders. Miranda’s next words bring it back, though. “You feel alone?”

Such a seemingly innocuous question. “I’m fine,” I find myself answering automatically.

“Are you? ”

“Yes. I mean, I’m not the one who got hurt. Craig did. He is the one who suffered. I can’t make it about myself.”

Miranda doesn’t look away. “Craig got hurt, yet that doesn’t mean you weren’t hurt too, Amy.”

I touch my bruises again. “This was an accident. He didn’t mean to.”

“Actually, I meant the emotional toll of losing a loved one, but yes. You were hurt in more ways than one, Amy. We talked about grief, and how it’s never just one feeling.

It’s always more complex than just sadness.

Other emotions come into play as well, and while we would rather ignore them, it’s important to recognize them and see where they’re coming from. ”

“I’m scared,” I admit. “I don’t want to be alone. Kayla has moved away and I can’t ask her to put her life on hold because I’m weak.”

“Humans are gregarious in nature,” Miranda says.

Before I can admit I have no idea what the word means, she continues, “There are exceptions, of course, but most people seek companionship in various forms because the primal parts of our minds know very well that it takes more than one person to hunt down a mammoth. Wanting a connection isn’t a weakness, Amy.

It’s human. And losing someone, even someone who wasn’t always good for us, can make that need feel stronger.

You have no reason to feel bad about it. ”

I don’t? I always thought the way I craved company and was unable to be alone was weird. It never occurred to me that other people might feel the same.

“What about other people in your life?” Miranda asks. “Family, friends?”

I lower my head in shame. I hate sharing this part of my life.

“My mother is an addict. She says she’s clean now, but when I was a kid, she was always high.

Sometimes she would go out and not return for days.

” And I’d sit by the door in that deafening silence of the empty apartment and wait for her to return.

Back then, we didn’t even have the TV to provide white noise.

I craved that moment the lock would click and the door would open, even if all Mom did was call me a little bitch or slap me.

Shaking my head, I pull myself out of the memory.

“She never told me who my father was. Probably didn’t know herself.

Kayla’s parents are great,” I change the topic before Miranda can inquire further and start dissecting my shitty childhood.

“But they’re still her parents and not mine.

” It would be weird to call or visit them without Kayla being there, like I’m intruding.

“You said that your mother is clean now. Have you been able to reconnect with her?”

I should have known Miranda wouldn’t let it go.

I almost lash out. Craig is dead. That’s the issue here.

Why are we discussing my mother? Yet somehow, despite there being no one to raise me, I grew up polite to the bone, so I just shook my head.

“No. I mean, not anymore. She contacted me three years ago, saying she got clean and would like to apologize for everything. I didn’t believe her at first, but she stuck with it.

She visited NA meetings religiously, got a job, got her life in order.

Two years ago, I finally agreed to go out for a coffee with her.

It was awkward, but…” I shrug. “She tries. She’s my mother.

” And I never stopped being that little girl desperately waiting for her mother to come home to her.

“It sounds like she’s been trying to rebuild her relationship with you. Has she been there for you through everything that’s happened with Craig?”

“We haven’t talked in months,” I admit. “Craig always said—” “Why would you speak to that fucking junkie? Do you want to end up like her? Should I be worried that you’ll start doing drugs too?

Am I not enough for you, baby?” “He said she was a bad influence,” I finish, offering the least offensive thing Craig said about Mom.

Nodding, Miranda reaches for a notebook and scribbles something down. Instantly, I tense up. Is that a bad thing? Is she writing down how crazy I am? Or is she bored listening to my whining?

As if noticing my anxiety, Miranda smiles at me. “I hope you don’t mind me taking notes. I have ten or more patients each day. It’s impossible to keep track without writing down at least something. ”

Ah, so she’s not bored with me. Or perhaps she’s just a good liar.

“I don’t mind. There’s not much more to say, though.

The only other people I’m regularly around are my coworkers.

” Ex-coworkers by this point, because my stupid boss didn’t care that my boyfriend just died, and when I asked for a few days off, he booted me.

“And I’m not close with any of them. Craig—”

I stop myself there, but Miranda gives me a knowing look.

“Said they were a bad influence?” she finishes my sentence.

“Craig told you your mother was a bad influence. Your coworkers, too. And I’m guessing he had a strong opinion about Kayla as well.

It sounds like he didn’t want you to have anyone else to turn to. ”

“He loved me! He was just protective. That’s a good thing. He was a good person, and I loved him, and I miss him and that’s all there is to it.” Why did I ever agree to come here?

“I would never suggest you didn’t love Craig, Amy.

It’s obvious that you’re devastated by his death.

However, it is normal to feel other emotions as well.

Some people are angry at their loved ones for leaving them.

Furious, even. Others feel guilty for a variety of reasons.

They keep asking themselves if they could have prevented it or regretting that the last words they said to their loved one weren’t a profound declaration of love, but something mundane, like a shopping list, or even something negative, said in anger. Some people might even feel relief.”

My stomach twists, and I immediately shake my head. “No. It’s wrong. I shouldn’t—” I stop myself but the damage is already done.

“Relief doesn’t mean you didn’t love him, Amy,” Miranda says softly. “It just means that part of you recognizes that something has changed. And that change, no matter how painful, has lifted a weight.”

My fingers curl around the hem of my sleeve. I shouldn’t be relieved. Craig loved me. He did. You don’t put someone you don’t love as your emergency contact, do you? Craig loved me. He could be difficult sometimes, but…but what? My mind stumbles over itself, grasping for the right words .

Miranda leans forward slightly, her voice still calm. “When someone has been in a painful or difficult situation for a long time, their body and mind sometimes react before their heart catches up. It doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. It just means you’re human.”

I exhale shakily, feeling the burn of tears behind my eyes. “I don’t…I don’t want to feel that way.”

“I understand,” she says, not contradicting me. “But maybe, just for now, we don’t judge the feelings. We just notice them.”

It sounds simple, yet I’m not sure how to do that. Not judge the feelings? Not judge myself? How can I not judge myself when a part of me is relieved about someone’s death? Doesn’t that automatically make me a terrible person?

“No, it doesn’t,” Miranda says, and I realize I’ve said the question out loud.

“It makes you a human being, Amy. Let yourself feel whatever you need to feel. Don’t call it right or wrong, simply recognize the feelings for what they are.

Better yet, write them down. I know this might sound like homework, but writing things down can help.

It turns emotions into something real, something you can actually work through.

Even if it’s just a few words, take note of what you feel and what might have triggered it. We can talk about it next time.”

I groan internally. “Next time?”

“Yes, next time,” Miranda laughs. “You didn’t think you’d be rid of me that easily, did you?”

“No, not really.” My sigh is only halfhearted. As much as I hate the idea of going into therapy, talking to Miranda actually did help a tiny bit. It didn’t magically make things better and, honestly, I’m left with more questions and doubts than before, but what she said settled me.

Craig wasn’t always great. I knew it, but saying just some things he said out loud makes it painfully obvious that what we had wasn’t a healthy relationship. I loved him and he loved me, and I miss him terribly, but maybe it’s normal to feel relief that he won’t be mean to me ever again .

Or hit you again, the voice in the back of my mind whispers. He’ll never touch you again.

At that, I start crying again, because that’s the problem, isn’t it? No one will ever touch me again. Because Craig was the only one who ever wanted me and now, I’ll be alone.