The Forever of Ella and Micha (The Secret 2)

“I am happy. Very, very happy,” he promises me enthusiastically. “But that’s not the reason I didn’t tell you.”

“Okay… what’s the reason?” I hear Ethan’s voice again. “And why is Ethan there. Isn’t he supposed be on his big, adventurous trip, mountain-man style or whatever the hell he calls it?”

“My Mountain Man Journey!” Ethan shouts. “Get the wording right, woman.”

“Am I on speakerphone?” I ask. “Micha, if I am, take me off of it. Please.”

“I can’t. You’ll take this better if you’re on speakerphone.” He blows out a breath. “This way you’ll contain your anger a little bit better, because you know Ethan will be listening and use everything you say against you.”

I glance from left to right, noting no one’s around in the office. “What’s the news?”

He clears his throat, like he’s preparing to make a big speech. “After the whole band breakup went down, I decided I needed a change. And so did Ethan, since he realized he wasn’t as much of a mountain man as he thought.”

“That’s not the real reason,” Ethan objects. “I just felt sorry for your dumb ass because your band broke up.”

“Anyway,” Micha talks over him. “We both decided that it was time for a change and so I started looking around for a permanent thing that wouldn’t require a lot of traveling.”

“I thought you didn’t want to do that kind of stuff.” I drop my bag on the floor and hunch back in the chair. “I thought you wanted to be part of a band and be on the road.”

“Nah, I’m better by myself,” he tells me. “Maybe I’ll keep my eyes open for a new band, but the one I was with was turning into a lost cause. And for now, I’ve found a place to play. Plus I got a side job. The pay is shit, but it works for now and it’s better than going back home.”

“What’s your side job?”

“It’s for this male escort service. I figured it be great. I get to dazzle women all day—which we both know I’m awesome at—and I’ll get paid to do it.”

I roll my eyes, but play along. “Wow, that sounds like a job you’ll be really good at and I’m sure it’ll be a lot of fun. The more I think about it, it’s like your dream job.”

“Yeah, I know, right?” he says cleverly. “Although, I have heard stories about some fetishes guys run into and it sounds like things can get a little awkward, but I’ll do what I gotta do to survive.”

“You’re such a dork.” I shift in my seat, tucking my legs under the chair as the secretary walks by with a stack of papers in her hands. “What are you really doing? Better yet, where are you?”

“Ethan and I got a part-time job in construction, but it’s just an in-between thing.” He pauses and there’s a loud bang. “At night I’ll be playing at The Hook Up.”

“Hey. There’s one of those in Vegas,” I say over the sound of the paper shredder. “I didn’t know it was a national thing, though.”

He hesitates. “It’s not a national thing.”

“You’re in Vegas?” My voice comes out high-pitched and the secretary glares at me through her thick glasses as she feeds papers through the shredder. Turning in the seat, I lower my voice and put my finger to my ear to hear better. “You and Ethan moved to Vegas?”

“Yeah, we’re in Vegas right now as we speak, setting up our stuff in this teeny tiny apartment,” he clarifies. “But it works and I’m happy with it.”

Unsure how to respond I stay quiet, drumming my fingers anxiously on my knee. The front desks phone rings and the secretary answers it.

“Tell me what you’re thinking, pretty girl,” he urges and there’s a beep as he switches it off speakerphone. “Ethan can’t hear you anymore.”

“I’m thinking… I don’t know what I’m thinking…” I drift off as the therapist’s door swings open and she sticks her head out.

“Ella, I’m ready for you.” Widening the doorway, she motions me in.

“I have to call you back,” I tell him. “I’m headed into the therapist’s office right now.” I hang up before he can say anything, collect my bag from off the floor, and take a seat in front of the desk.

Anna sits down in her chair, selects a pen from the cup, and takes her notebook out of the desk drawer. Today, her pantsuit is this bland shade of brown and her hair is pinned back. She puts on her glasses and reads over last visit’s notes.

“That was Micha on the phone,” I explain before she can ask, because she’s going to. “And I just found out he moved here.”

“Oh, I see.” She drops the pen and notebook down on the desk, and scoots her chair forward. “By the way you sound, you’re not happy about this.”

“I’m not sure what I am.” I mull over my feelings. “On the one hand, it’s nice to have him close in case I need him, but I’m trying not to need him, so it could be bad that he’s close. Does that make sense?”

“It makes a lot of sense.” She fans the pages of the notebook. “How long did you say you’ve known Micha?”

“Since forever. I mean, I can remember being four years old and being fascinated with how he sat out in the garage with his dad and worked on cars. Although, I was always too afraid to go over there and talk to him—he actually talked to me first.” A laugh tickles in my throat. “Actually, he bribed me to climb over the fence first, with a juice box and a toy car.”

“Why were you too afraid to talk to him?” she probes.

“I don’t know. I guess maybe I always felt like I was living in some alternate world that no one understood, not even him.” I shrug, picking at my fingernails. “I still feel that way sometimes, like maybe I see things differently than most people.”

She thrums her French-manicured nails on the desk. “I think you worry too much about how you think.”

“But that’s kind of a given,” I say. “I’ve know this for a while, but what I still don’t understand is how to stop worrying.”

“That’s because I don’t think you understand the original cause,” she states. “From what you’ve told me, Ella, your childhood was full of worry.”

“I didn’t worry all the time,” I protest. “There were relaxing… moments and I lived my life the way I needed to in order to survive. If I didn’t worry, then no one would have paid the bills, made sure everyone ate, or had clean clothes.”

“That’s not quite what I mean, but that is part of it.” She removes a photo from the folder and lays it flat on the desk in front of me. “What do you see when you look at this?”

It’s a stock photo of a man, a woman, and little girl, all with the same blue eyes and platinum blond hair. “Umm… that you like to take the inserts from picture frames and keep them in your office.”

“Ella, it’s not good to make jokes to hide your feelings,” she insists. “Just tell me what you see.”

“I see a family, I guess.”

“Do they look happy?”

I study the smiles on their faces. “They seem as happy as anyone else.”

She edges it toward me and taps it with her finger. “Describe the picture to me.”

It’s a strange request, but I do it anyway. “Well, the man’s got his arm wrapped around the woman’s shoulder and he looks like he loves her, although his smile’s a little bit too shiny, if you ask me. The woman’s carrying the little girl and they both look happy too. Although, I don’t get why they’re so damn happy. They’re just getting their damn picture taken.”

She accidentally creases the corners of the photo when she puts it into her folder. “Did your mother or father ever hug you like that? Or do you remember being that happy when you were a kid?”

It’s like she’s asked me a pre-calculus question and my mind muddles at the complexity. “No, but that stuff’s not real. It’s fake, for show purposes to make people feel good when they look at the picture frame.”

“No, Ella, it’s real. Happiness does exist,” she answers sadly. “Now, things aren’t always that way, but families should have their happy moments and children should get hugged and feel loved.”

“I did—do—feel loved.” I massage the sides of my temples, feeling as though a concrete block has been dropped onto my chest. “I’ve been hugged… a few times.”

“A few times in the last twenty years?” she asks, stressing her point. “Because that doesn’t seem like a lot.”

“I’ve been hugged plenty of times,” I say, offended. “Micha hugs me all the time.”

“Again, we go back to Micha. Let’s exclude him from this conversation for a minute and focus on your family.” She scribbles a few notes down in the notebook. “Did your parents ever hug you? Laugh with you? Take family trips?”

“We went to the zoo once when I was six, but my mom was bipolar and couldn’t do a lot with us. And my dad… well, he loved his Jack Daniels.” I pause as anger simmers at the tip of my tongue. “What are you getting at?”

“I’m not trying to get at anything,” she responds kindly, clicking the cap back onto the pen. “I’m just trying to let you see your life.”

“That it’s crazy—that I’m crazy? Because I already knew that, without the recap of my shitty life.” My hands tremble and my palms sweat at harsh memories that make up my life. I begin to hyperventilate and my vision spots.

“Take a deep breath,” she instructs, waving her hand in front of her chest in a cleansing gesture and I obey. “Now, you’re not crazy, Ella. You’ve just had a rough life.”

My brain pounds inside my skull. “Then what does this have to do with anxiety or depression or whatever it is you think’s wrong with me?”

“I think that sometimes you don’t think you deserve to have a good life—that you’re not a good person. That you don’t deserve to be loved.” She shuts a folder, stacks it with a small pile, and overlaps her hands on top of the desk. “And I think that’s why you push people away and what’s causing a lot of the depression and anxiety.”

I flop my head back against the wall. “I’m this way because my mom died and it was my fault. I’m this way because I know my head’s screwed up and I don’t want to drag anyone down with me.”

“All those things you said aren’t true,” she says and I lift my head back up. “And our goal here is to get you to believe that.”

We talk a little bit more about lighter stuff, like how my classes are going and what my plans are for Christmas. When my time’s up I go back to the apartment.