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    irivera
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 

A Life Worth Living - 6. Chapter 6

I’VE had preconceived beliefs about therapists. I feel like everyone does, right? I imagine sitting in a waiting room with a gross-patterned rug. There’s a stack of magazines like National Geographic or Us Weekly. The overhead lights are fluorescent and pale. And it’s quiet—to-the-bone quiet.

So far, this is different. Vienna woke me up early for a Saturday. I knew what was happening after overhearing hers and Nolan’s conversation on Thursday and her telling me before I went to bed that night. I threw on sweatpants and a hoodie and let her take me across town. There was some confusion at first. We parked on the street across from a two-story brick building. The ground level was a cafe. Turns out there was a back entrance that led us up to the second level. We were buzzed in and put into a small waiting area. There was no ugly carpet. Instead, the hardwood floor creaked a little with each step. We sat in vintage armchairs in the dimly lit room. It smelled of lavender. A grandfather clock on the opposite wall clicked and clicked.

My therapist was named Laura according to Vienna. She was highly recommended by my social worker. She deals with teen boys a lot and Lord, that must be exhausting. Most days I can barely deal with myself. I can’t imagine having to deal with multiple of me on a daily basis. Damaged boys are endless misery.

“Your first session is an hour. I’ll be down at the cafe and come up when you’re done,” Vienna says. “How do you feel?”

I sink my hands into the sleeves of my hoodie. “Nervous.”

“Like I said, Jay is positive this one will be good for you,” she says.

“And what if he’s not?” I mumble. Back to the whole thing about preconceived notions. What if this therapist sees me walk in and she immediately turns me away? I wonder if she has some sort of superpower where she looks me in the eyes and knows I’m unfixable. How many orphaned kids has she worked with? What if I can’t speak? I open my mouth and nothing comes out? I hate crying in front of strangers and that has happened too much in my lifetime.

My legs are bouncing and I’m getting hot. My heart is a snare drum going a thousand beats per minute. I stand and pace back and forth, around the coffee table. The floor creaks.

How does therapy even start? Do we talk about the weather or my favorite color before asking me to spill my darkest secrets? I don’t know how to talk about this!

My parents never expected me to talk about my feelings. Mom kept things on the surface and Dad, well, he didn’t even try to break the surface. He never asked me questions and now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t really remember me asking him anything. All his words at me were short and it was like he would say things to me that answered his questions. He’d see me late at night or early morning when he was leaving or going from work and say, “Hope you’re doing good, Son” like he was reciting the words off a greeting card.

Where do I begin with that here?

I pace and pace, bite my fingernails until I chew a piece off and spit it onto the ground.

The door swings open.

“Jonah?”

Preconceived notion number three. In my head, therapists dress like corporate people. Grey pencil skirts and grey shirts. Glasses. Living off of stale coffee and have yellow notepads that they write on at an angle that you can’t quite see but there’s a high chance that they’re not writing anything but doodling to get their mind off the bullshit they’re hearing and contemplating why they chose this career. I mean, come on, who wants to do this?

But this therapist is not that. No bland, grey outfit. But jeans and a blue, flowery blouse that is rolled up. She has swirling tattoos in all different colors. Hair half up, half down. Nose ring. Dangling earrings. And she’s smiling.

“Oh, hi,” I say, my voice just above a whisper.

“Laura, hi.” Vienna comes to my side, and they shake hands. “I’m Mrs. Kildare. We spoke on the phone last Wednesday.”

Laura nods. “Yes, yes, I got Jonah’s referral from Mr. Porter with Family Services.”

“Well, Dear,” Vienna says, turning to me, “like I said I’ll be downstairs at the cafe and I’ll be up when you’re done.”

“You’re leaving now?” My throat goes dry.

She puts a hand on my upper arm. “It’s going to be okay.”

“Shall we?” Laura nods into her office.

I take a step, and my stomach hurts. There’s this sudden gut-wrenching thought. Am I being tricked? Not sure by what or how, but what if it’s that? What if Victor pops out with a phone in my face and he’s laughing, saying, “Look! He thought he could act so tough but he’s got to get therapy to talk about Mommy and Daddy!”. And the world laughs at me. Blair, Cal, Monty. Vienna and Nolan. William.

James.

No. James would never. He’d help me beat Victor with a frying pan. Or a baseball bat. Or both. Probably both.

A breath gets stuck in my throat and my feet turn to bricks. And I step into the room, the breath not leaving my body. There’s a ringing in my ear. I want to squeeze my eyes shut.

But nothing happens. No Victor. No cameras. Nothing. It’s just a room.

To my right, there’s a dark, red couch with checkered pillows. The windows have silky-looking curtains that dim the room just a little. She’s got her own, brown chair that I can tell she’s been using for a while. A knitted blanket is draped over the back. A shelf on the far wall is full of books and trinkets. A sand table. A water sculpture is in the corner near the window and the trickles echo softly. I let my breath out.

“You can sit wherever is comfortable. Some people like the floor, some like the couch, some like the chair,” she says. She slides her hands in her pockets and spins herself around slowly, as if she’s also taking in the space.

“Is the chair not yours?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I use it the most, but I also don’t limit where my clients want to sit if it makes them feel more at ease.”

I sit on the edge of the couch. She takes the chair and crosses her legs. The sunlight from the window beams on her arms, lighting up the tattoos, which look like waves or blue fire.

“How are you today?” she asks.

My right thumbnail is between my teeth. “Oh, uh.” I put my hands in my front hoodie pocket, and let my fingers intertwine. “I’m okay.”

“Well, my name is Laura White. You can call me Laura or Laurie, whatever you want. Your aunt and social worker got in contact with me a few days ago and gave me a brief rundown on everything.”

“...oh.”

She reaches over and picks up a thin, white folder from the small table on the side of the couch. “I got this from Family Services, too. Just a paper copy of the same information shared with me. I tell you this because I want to be transparent with you on what I have,” she holds up the folder a little higher, “and what I’ve been told, but it doesn’t define you.” She sets the folder down. “I don’t want you to think that I’ve already judged you, made up my mind in any way, or believe that you’re broken because I haven’t and I won’t.

“I’m not here to tell you that you’re right or wrong, but to help you work through the thoughts and feelings that keep you up at night or play in your mind. Your story is wholly unique to you. I’ve been working with teenage boys for over a decade. I know how harsh the world is to your age. It’s all about covering up feelings, and being tough. But you need to know that doing this does not make you weak. And just being here today, you’ve already become stronger.”

I blink a few times, swallow some built-up saliva, and push myself back into the couch until my back hits the cushions. My hands come out of my pocket. My shoulders drop.

“Where do I start?”

“We can start wherever you want to. Beginning, middle, or present. Wherever your mind is,” she replies.

I look out the window. Some birds flutter around each other. The clouds move slowly across the sky. “There’s so much,” I say. I close my eyes and in my head, I’ve boarded the roller coaster of my brain. It’s the fastest in the world and it flies by the slideshow of my life. Everything is blurry as it whips by a million miles per hour. The wind keeps my eyes open. It stings and burns and it hurts all over. But when it finally slows down, I see myself in the supercut.

It's me sitting alone at lunch throughout my whole life. Or me playing with toy dinosaurs in my room when I was seven. I’m painting with headphones on at twelve because my parents are yelling loudly in the other room. My parted and wet lips that night when James slid his hand under my shirt for the first time and it was electric and the word love fell onto my lap for the first time. My dad smacking the back of my head when I cut myself on a knife trying to help him in the kitchen.

But where do I start here? I’m afraid I’ll open my mouth and my guts will spill out on the floor.

“Jonah?”

I look at Laura again. “I think my Dad hated me.”

“Hated you?”

Hated me.”

“Okay.” She uncrosses her legs and sits up a little straighter. “Tell me why.”

I breathe in, my lungs expanding to full capacity, and let it out slowly.

“When I was six, I found a pack of cigarettes in the glovebox of my dad’s car. After picking me up from school, he drove to this bar on the outside of town, a place I now know my mom hated, and he left me in the car to have a drink. Or drinks. But I was in the backseat. It was raining. And a long time had passed by. I was bored. The sky was getting darker. I started rummaging around. Can you blame me? I was six. But I climbed into the front seat and I remember grabbing the steering wheel and pretending to drive.

“I could barely reach the gas pedal, but I tried. And I’d peak up here and there, watching the bar door to see if he was coming. Boredom continued and eventually, I opened the glove box and a pack of cigarettes came tumbling out. Green pack. Marlboro’s. I picked it up and honestly, I wasn’t really sure what they were being so young and all. But days after that, and then weeks after that, I noticed something. Well, not then, but in the four months I’ve had after his death, I've started thinking a lot about it. But I noticed that every time he would be mad at me, he’d smoke a cigarette. It was like I was stressing him out so much he had to start doing that.

“He never came to any of my school events. He never told me that he liked my paintings. He never told me ‘good job’ or ‘I’m proud of you’ but oh,” I scoff, “I would be told, ‘do better’ or ‘be stronger’. I’d find myself thinking of ways for him to say he loved me. I’d sneak my mom's weights into my room and use them trying to build muscle to impress him. I’d paint him for his birthday. A portrait. But I’d never see him look at them.” My fists clench. “And what sucks is just the other day I told my uncle that I hated him for how he disrupted our family. And he got the easy way out, didn’t he? He died. He’s completely dead and gone. And now I’ll never know. I’ll never be able to confront him. But I feel it in my bones that he didn’t love me. That I was not the son he wanted.”

I wipe my eyes and hot tears drip onto my legs.

“I can see how much this weighs on you.”

I sniff, and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “You’re gonna tell me I’m wrong aren’t you.”

She shakes her head. “No, of course not. I told you that I am not here to tell you that you're right or wrong.”

“But do you think he hated me?”

“I don’t know your father, Jonah.”

“But—but, but what do you think?

“I’m not here to tell you what I think about your father.”

I throw my hands up. “Then what the hell are you here for?” My face is hot. I’m back on the edge of the couch expecting her to stand up and yell. To tell me I'm stupid.

But she doesn’t. “Do you think it’s fair that you have to carry this around with you every day? Because as harsh or hard as this sounds, Jonah, you’re never going to know the truth behind how your dad felt about you. But dead doesn’t mean that he’s gone. The memories that you have of him are going to fall around you like rain on your best days or your worst days. But you want to know what the best part about that is? The silver lining? You get to control the rain. Because it can fall onto you and soak your clothes in a second or it can be the light kind of rain that comes during the summer that ends with warm sun. The rain that leaves you clean.

“And of course, Jonah, I hope that your dad didn’t hate you. But I’m not going to say he did or didn’t to either make you feel right or feel better because you tell yourself that I’m right. But what I want is that you and I work together on ways that, when the rain comes, you know what to do.”

“How do I do that? Control it?”

She leans back some. “You’ve told me a lot about the memories that led you to have a conclusion that he hated you. But, tell me a good memory.”

“There isn’t one.”

“You answered that quickly.”

“Because there isn’t.”

Think, Jonah.”

I close my eyes again and get back on the roller coaster but it doesn’t go fast. I’m going thirty miles an hour at best. The ugliness is still there. I squeeze my eyes willing for something, anything.

“Okay.” I let the light in. “I got something.”

“Tell me.”

“I was eleven and at church with Mom and Dad. We sat in our usual seats. In the middle row. For some reason, they liked the middle. I don’t remember much of the service, but I do remember how hungry I was. And Mom never let me have the after-service snacks as it was usually cookies or donuts and Mom didn't like me having a ton of sugar. But when the service was over, we were in the lobby, and Mom and Dad talked to their church friends. And I stood by them awkwardly, watching the other kids taking the cookies. At one point, Mom went to the bathroom and Dad nudged me. When I looked at him, he handed me a cookie from behind his back and winked and said, ‘Don’t tell your mother’.”

Laura smiles. Not a big smile, or a small one, but one that lets me know that she’s listening. She’s …proud. “That’s how you control the rain. And look, again, I’m not saying to ignore the bad thoughts. But we shift them, we steer them to a place where we can process them without feeling the weight of them. They will be there. But the good stuff can also be there.”

There’s a shift in the light. It seeps in through the window closest to me. My heart isn’t pounding anymore. It’s just beating.

✦✦✦

 

Vienna drives. The music is low, and she taps her fingers on the steering wheel. She asked me how it went, and I told her it went well. She doesn’t pry, but I hope she can see I’ve relaxed some. The racing of my thoughts has slowed—for now. And I’m excited to actually enjoy the rest of my Saturday. We turn into our neighborhood, and immediately, I see him down the road a bit. I know it’s him. He’s skateboarding.

“Wait, stop the car,” I say.

“Why?” She slows but doesn’t stop.

“I know him from school. That’s Will. He’s going to run with me in the student council thing.”

“Oh! That’s nice of him.” We’re approaching him.

“Can you let me out? I can walk the rest of the way to the house,” I say.

“Absolutely, Dear.” She comes to a stop and I rush out the door.

“Will! Hey!” I call out. Vienna drives by us but he doesn’t look back. As I get closer, I notice headphones. “Will!”

He pushes himself forward, his body leaning side to side, swerving the board. He’s wearing a black tank top and green running shorts. His socks come up his ankle with some sort of yellow pattern on them. When he stops, he picks up his board.

I come up behind him and cover his eyes with my hand.

“Agh!” He lunges forward and then spins around, lifting his board above his head.

“WAIT!” I hold up my arms, ready to shield myself from his attack.

“Jonah?” He lowers his arms, I do too, and he pulls out his headphones. “I almost killed you!” He flashes his white teeth and laughs. “Don’t do that!”

“Sorry, sorry,” I say. “What are you doing over here?”

“Oh, I was just heading home. I went to the skate park.”

“You live in this neighborhood?”

He taps his skateboard on the pavement. “Yeah, just over—,” he points down the street, “—there”.

“I live in this neighborhood, too. That’s so cool.”

“Yeah, I know you do.” He smirks.

“Huh?”

“You live with your cousins and I know your cousins,” he says, chuckling.

“OH. Right. Duh.”

“Whatcha been up to? Wait. Were you just out here walking?” He looks down and up the street with a furrow in his eyebrows.

“Oh, no. That car that just passed was my aunt Vienna. We were coming back home, and I told her to drop me off when I saw you, and I’d walk home.”

“Sweet. Let’s walk then.” He puts his board up in his armpit and keeps it there with his arm. “How’s your day been?”

I meet his pace and can smell cologne and sweat off him. It buries in my nose. “I was coming back to the house from my first therapy session.”

“I didn’t know that therapists worked on Saturday.” He kicks a pebble.

“I guess they do.”

“I have one. He’s super cool. He keeps me in line, I think.” He laughs. “Sometimes I like to mess with him and see his reaction. He’s like, ‘Will, you can’t do that’.”

I laugh with him. “I just started with mine. Not in the joking phase yet.”

“You’ll get there.” He bumps me with his shoulder. “How’d it go, though?”

Now it’s my turn to kick the pebble he just kicked. “It was actually nice. I was really nervous at first. All these thoughts of doom and despair about swallowed me whole, but she gave me some good clarity.”

“It’s what they’re there for.” He glances up at the trees. “I’m happy for you.”

“It’s an order from my home state to do it.” I shrug.

He’s looking at me again. “An order?”

“You do know why I’m here, right? In New York?”

He sets his board back down, tilting it with his foot. “I’ve heard rumors. But I figured you’d tell me when you wanted to.”

“My parents died in December. A week before Christmas. It was a car accident and I was in the car too. But Social Services took custody of me and so I’m technically in foster care. But there was this huge, long process to get me up here. And this mean judge told me that she would allow me to come here for six months on a trial run and if all went smooth, I would stay permanently.”

He peers down at his feet and then steps over the board, pulling me into a hug. My nose is in the crook of his neck and his scent lingers all around me again. “I’m so sorry,” he says. He pulls back but leaves his hands on my upper arms like he did the other day at the track meet. “It has to go smoothly, doesn’t it?”

I nod. “Yeah, it does.”

He steps back onto the board. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says. “I know it’s only been a week, but you’re a really cool guy.”

Fireworks erupt in me. “Thanks. You too.”

We start walking again. “You know who needs therapy?” he asks. “Victor.”

“Good Lord. Yeah. He’s got some things to work through.”

“He needs electric shock therapy. Better yet, a lobotomy.”

I laugh so hard, that I cough. “Jesus, Will!”

“It’s true! He’s a nightmare.”

“Why do you hang out with him, though?”

“Believe me—” he runs a hand through his wavy hair “—I’ve tried to escape it. But we grew up together and our parents are friends. And they have always had us around each other. But as we got older and his parents got richer, he became more entitled and so elitist. I’ve tried to break free but he always finds his way to sink his claws back into me.”

“Well, this is the season to get rid of Victor!” I say.

“I’m truly hoping doing this student council thing with you will do it.”

I stop and cross my arms. “Oh, so you’re only doing it because it will aid in you getting rid of Victor?”

He spins around, eyes wide. “NO. Oh my God. No. Not just that. I’m doing it because I want to. With you. Because I like you. I think you’re cool.” He’s rocking back and forth a little.

I grin. “I’m just fuckin’ with you.” But his words are tumbling inside me. I like you. I think you're cool. Suddenly, it's a thousand degrees outside.

“Oh.” He blushes.

“But I don’t blame you either. He sucks. He’s made me his new number-one enemy.”

Will rolls his eyes. “God, he does that every year. He finds someone new to torment. I’m like dude, find a hobby. Touch some grass.”

We continue walking until we’re in front of my aunt and uncle’s house. “Well, here I am.”

“I was going to ask,” he says, “there is a party tonight over at Carter Lopez’s house.”

“Okay, I have no idea who that is.”

He giggles. And I’m being dead serious. He giggles. “Smart ass. He’s in our grade. He’s cool. But I was going to text you later after I got done helping my mom with something. But yeah, that’s happening later if you wanted to come.”

“I wonder if my cousins know.”

He shrugs. “Not sure, but I can pick you up later. Like, nine..thirty?”

“Okay, yeah. I’ll come.”

He squeezes my arm. “Awesome. See you then.” He turns and puts his skateboard on the ground. “And hey, Victor is going to hate to see us comin’”. He then pushes off and zooms down the sidewalk.

When I walk inside, my cousins scurry away from the window. “What were y’all doin’?”

Cal is biting his lip. Blair is red in the face.

“Nothing,” Monty says.

“Were you guys watching me?”

“Yes,” Blair blurts. “We saw you with Will and had to watch.” Cal hits her arm.

“What were you guys talking about?” Cal asks, facing me.

“News and current events,” I reply.

“Ughhh.” He grunts. “Being so evasive. No fun.”

“Well, in other news,” Blair says, pulling out her phone. “Ida texted me because there’s a party happening over at ca—”

“Carter Lopez’s,” I say, cutting in.

“Yes. Wait, what? How did you find out?” She eyes me.

I gesture to the door. “Will invited me.”

“Oh, shit!” Cal says, bouncing. “Guys, this is going to be so lit. We better start drinking water like, now. Ooh! I gotta text Kyle to see if he’s going!” Cal runs off down the hall.

“Okay, I haven’t met this Kyle guy and I’m starting to think he doesn’t exist,” I say.

Monty sighs. “He does, unfortunately. But hey! This should be fun! There hasn’t been a party in quite some time.”

Blair is bouncing now and clutching her phone. “I know, right? I need this. I need a night where I can just unwind and relax.”

“Yeah, because your life is so hard,” Monty shoots back at her.

“You’re such a hater,” she says back. “Okay, well, I’m going to go take a nap so I can be ready for later. Bye, losers!” She waves at us, wiggling her fingers, and walks off.

“How was everything?” Monty asks once it’s just us.

“It was nice,” I say.

“Things seem to be falling into place for you, huh?”

“I think so,” I say. “Slowly.”

“Slow and steady wins the race. And soon enough, six months will be over and you’ll be here with us.”

“I hope so.”

He pokes me in the center of my chest. “I know so. Wanna play Mario-Kart?”

I nod. “You’re going down.”

“In your dreams!” He runs off down the hall, I follow him and tackle him to the floor of the game room. He scrambles from underneath me. He’s scream-laughing as am I. And the best part? There’s no rain right now—just sunlight.

I have been excited about this one. Fun fact: this was the first chapter I wrote when I started planning. I do this thing where I write what I call a "sample chapter". It helps me find my voice, and tone, and flesh out some plot details in a narrative structure. But this is one of my favorites as I think it's so wholesome. As always, thanks for reading. More drama coming soon...
Copyright © 2025 irivera; All Rights Reserved.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 
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@Cane23 and @drsawzall I love your speculation that Daddy "doth protest too much". Marcus the dick-deprived Daddy,  jealous of his son's refusal to compromise and hide in the closet. It certainly has merit, the dissatisfaction with his marriage, the drinking, the troubled relationship with Jonah.

@Lee Wilson love your comment he deserved more suffering as I had the very same thought when he kicked the bucket.

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On 1/21/2025 at 1:23 PM, Flip-Flop said:

 After reading your end of chapter notes, I can understand your excitement about this chapter, as the author. You accomplished your stated goals! You described it as so "wholesome". As a reader I would use the word insightful or intriguing. I could make comments on each of the different chapter encounters. You toyed with your character's thoughts and actions, to "flesh out some plot details" I am intrigued as to what part each of the characters will play, as this story moves forward? I also have made some possible guesses as to how Victor will aim his actions, to accomplish his stated goals. What possible drama lies ahead for us, as you, the "planner" of Jonah's outcome, moves us forward to complete your tale? I am hooked on the story, but have little idea how this will all play out in the end.  :no:  Well written, well done!

I just hope you’re ready for the roller coaster that this will be. 😉

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