Good Boy Gone Bad

52 ➵ Ash

"Then yes, it will make up part of your evaluation and my assessment of you. And could very well be determinative of your future prospects at the –"

"Okay, I get it. We have a fine relationship."

"Fine?"

"Normal. Fine. Good."

"Is she someone you look up to?"

"God no."

"Why's that?"

"I am a firm believer of punishing people for their sins, not trying to weasel their way out of paying for them."

"So her career choice doesn't appeal to you?"

"It's –" I struggle to find the words. I've got to be careful that she doesn't loop me in with looney people. Sounding too aggressive makes me trigger happy, and sounding too empathetic will put me under 'too fragile'. "I don't morally agree with her choices. But she's a smart woman who works hard. That's admirable."

"Does she show love towards you?"

I wince at the word choice. "She cares about my wellbeing."

"Do you think she loves you?"

What the hell does loving me have to do with anything? "No."

"No?"

Don't fall for the bait. "Does anyone truly love someone else?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"I've told you before. Love isn't real – people think they love, that they're in love. But they just see others as a means to an end. Some motive. Parental 'love' is worst of all. People want a carbon copy of themselves and then are upset when they become exactly that. People simultaneously only love themselves and hate themselves."

She takes it all in unmovingly. Fucking hell. I shouldn't have said all that. Now I sound narcissistic or some shit.

"Do you feel love towards others?"

For a split second, I think of Danielle. She serves no purpose for me, yet she gets on my every nerve. And for some reason, the idea of anything bad happening to her makes me murderous.

"I love my sister."

"You said that last time, too. You believe you love your sister, but don't believe that your mother loves you?"

"She's incapable of loving anything that isn't a miniature version of herself – or something she can mould – a picture of her wasted potential."

"Perhaps she sees her value as a woman has declined with age?"

"What do you mean?"

"Have you noticed that women are primarily valued on their physical appearance, rather than any emotional or other capabilities? Your mother is a lawyer, isn't she? She's smart. She's successful. But yet, something is missing from her life. Perhaps that is the immeasurable and irreplicable essence of youth."

"So you're saying my mother has no value because she's old?"

"Or is that how she views herself, perhaps?"

Perhaps I'll reach over and rip your psychiatry degree off that wall.

"Your mother has no partner at the moment, correct? Perhaps she is missing a source of validation that only an intimate partner can provide. Perhaps she lives through the lives of younger girls and hates herself and her life. She tries everything to feel accomplished but yet feels nothing other than failure. And in doing so, she has pushed something onto you."

"Pushed what?"

"She pushes herself onto her daughter. The one she could mould into a prettier and better and younger version of herself. And onto you, your father – the man she associates with aging and all her missed opportunities."

"Remember that boundary thing? You're stepping on them."

"I think you prefer when I don't beat around the bush."

"You think you know me perfectly, don't you? You think I'll play right into this trap you're setting up." I can't help grinding my teeth, rolling my hand into a fist and feeling the veins protrude from my arm.

She raises a brow at me, like she dares me to continue.

"Stop provoking me."

"Your father is a sensitive topic, I gather."

I abruptly stand. "I'm not falling for this."

"The truth will set you free," she throws over her shoulder as I storm out of her office.

.

.

.

The more I think about it, the more I realise Rosalind was fucking right. About my family. We didn't even start talking about my dad – I knew that was the direction she was heading in and I couldn't bear to hear it. Everything she said about my mother was spot on.

The whole conversation puts me on edge, even as Sofia runs her nails absently over my forearm. She props her elbow up on the school cafeteria table, resting her delicate head into her palm.

"Can you believe it? I was really hoping it'd be over by now," she sighs.

"I zoned out. What are we talking about?"

She rolls her eyes with another exaggerated sigh. "Danielle finally agreeing to give Robin a chance."

"She what?"

"I know. It's ridiculous. He's in way over his head with her. She's going to chew him up and spit him out –"

"Stop talking."

"Ash –"

My legs push me up, of their own accord, before I can allow my mental processing to program my next move.

It's all on instinct.