When I was a kid, I had a problem learning words. I don’t know why. I have a high IQ, and I can figure out my way around things, but memorizing words was a bit difficult.
The professionals my dad took me to thought I had some form of dyslexia, but it’s not like I couldn’t read or recognize words. It’s not that they all appeared the same. They just appeared alive.
You know that feeling when you’re reading something and it nearly jumps off the page at you? For me, it was literal, and that’s exactly how it felt. As if the words were coming after me.
Turns out, I didn’t have a problem with all the words. Just the negative ones. The words that make my skin itchy and my vision turn hazy. The words that I felt instead of only reading them.
Anxiety made my skin crawl and my nose tingle.
Cruel turned my cheeks hot and my body tight with the need to defend the one who was subjugated to it.
Fear made my teeth clench and my heart shrink in anticipation for what was to come.
Sad erased my smile and had me on the verge of crying.
It’s one of the reasons why I don’t watch tragic movies—or any movies that display emotions that can trigger me. I relate to that stuff so much.
Someone might be wondering why this crazy person would choose to pursue law when she’s dangerously empathetic. Good question. I mean, I shouldn’t have, logically. I probably should’ve been a social worker, someone who takes care of children and young adults.
But here’s the thing, I don’t think all lawyers need to be detached to do their job. I don’t think they need to kill their humanity to climb up the corporate ladder. Those who do that aren’t real lawyers according to yours truly.
Lawyers can be empathetic, because that enables us to understand our clients and help them in the best way possible. Empathetic lawyers are people’s favorites according to a study performed by yours truly again. They like it when we understand them, listen to them, and aren’t impersonal.
Anyway, back to my empath problem. It’s especially hard with words. I guess that’s because that’s what started it for me. Simple negative words.
They trigger me. As in, they really put me in a funk and I have to step away and hide and wish for whatever those words did to end.
So I had to come up with a coping mechanism. You know, something that doesn’t make me want to lose my mind the moment I read murder or insane.
I had this genius idea that practice makes perfect. I mean, if I’m exposed to those words a lot, surely I’ll be desensitized. There will be a day when I’ll see them and be like, “Meh,” then ride my white unicorn toward the rainbows.
So I made a list of them, in alphabetical order. The notebook is called “The No Words.”
Each letter has negative words underneath it, sorted by color. The yellow ones are easier, the orange words are a bit harder, and the red ones? Jeez, the red ones took me on a trip to hell when even writing them.
It didn’t work at first. I would look at the closed notebook with all the negative words in it, shudder, then jam it back into my drawer.
Which defied the whole purpose of making myself desensitized.
So, during my teenage years, I’d get that list out and read it aloud, throw up a little, feel more nauseous, hide in my closet for an hour, and then take a cold shower and eat vanilla ice cream.
It was a process. A long one that nearly drove me to want to kill myself and ask Dad for help.
But I didn’t. I needed to do that shit myself because it was around that time I decided to be a lawyer like my dad, and there’s no way in hell it’s normal for a lawyer to flinch at the words crime scene, stab, or killer. That would be embarrassing to my study of empathetic lawyers.
So, anyway, after a battle against words, I came out as a winner.
Well, almost. I started reading my notebook without feeling the immediate need to hide, throw up, or drive my car into a tree.
Almost, because even to this day, I still have problems with one letter of the alphabet. D. Fun fact: that damn letter has most of the negative words underneath it, and many of them are in red.
Damage.
Decay.
Dirt.
Distress.
Disgust.
Depression.
Disease.
And my most dreaded of all. Deadly. Dead. Death.
I couldn’t really cope with it, no matter how much I tried. It gets stuck every time I say it, pushing against my vocal cords and slashing my voice down. So I made that letter D my bitch. I wrote each word a thousand times. I wrote death, a few thousand.
My wrists screamed, my heart jackhammered in my throat, and I nearly stabbed myself and bled out on the floor.
When Grandpa died five years ago, I didn’t collapse or cry. I just got all my shit together and was there for Dad as he and Susan slashed each other down.
So I was over it, right?
Wrong.
My eyes open as the true reality of death slowly forms in my awareness.
The possibility that my father could die.
As in, my only family member. The only person that kept me together and flipped the world the middle finger while he raised me on his own.
A salty taste explodes in my mouth and I realize it’s because I’m drinking my own tears.
Ever since I desensitized the letter C and its words—cry included—I don’t do that anymore. Well, I don’t do it much.
But it’s like these tears have a mind of their own. They’re not due to the word itself. This isn’t my irrational reaction to a random word. This is pulled from a place so deep within me, I have no clue where it’s located.
It doesn’t matter that my neck hurts and my body is all stiff from the uncomfortable position I slept in. All my psyche is able to process is that Dad could be gone.
I’ll be all alone without my father.
The man who painted the world in bright colors and then laid it at my feet.
The man who scowled at the world but only smiled at me.
Now, I won’t have anyone to sing me Happy Birthday off tune. No one will hug me goodbye every morning or have dinners with me every night.
There won’t be anyone who’ll slowly open my door late at night to make sure I didn’t fall asleep at my desk again because I got so consumed with whatever project I was working on. No one will bring me my favorite green tea infused with vanilla when I can’t sleep.
He won’t be there to pull me inside when I dance in the rain because I could catch a cold.
He’ll just disappear like he never existed. And unlike when Grandpa died, I don’t think I can survive this.
I can’t go back to the house we called ours and pick up nonexistent pieces of myself.
How can I when everything in there bears witness to how well and hard he raised me and how much he sacrificed himself for me?
I didn’t even consider moving out after high school. People my age want to get away from their parents, but I didn’t. It’s where home is.
A sudden shiver jolts me upright when the jacket that’s been covering me falls down my arms and to my lap.
My fingers trace the material and I’m surprised they don’t catch fire. It doesn’t matter that I don’t remember him putting it on me, or how I even ended up lying in the chair. The smell gives it away. A little bit spicy and woodsy with an undertone of musk, but it’s still strong and manly and so much like him.
The man I hugged and whose chest I cried into.
The man whose shirt I probably messed up.
He didn’t touch me back, didn’t console me, but having him there, even immobile, was enough for me.
He still had his body tight and rigid like the day of the kiss. He still refused any contact with me, just like back then, but that’s okay.
He covered me with his jacket. And maybe I can keep it like I’ve kept a lot of him with me.
Like his notebook, his shirt when he once forgot it, his hoodies from when he runs with Dad. Most of them were my father’s, but if Nate wore them even once, then they became his. Don’t ask me why. It’s the law. Then there’s a scarf that he gave me because it got cold. A book about law. Make that plural. A pen. Okay, pens, plural again.
And no, I’m not a stalker. I just like collecting. And by collecting, I mean the things that belong to him.
But he’s not here now.
And there’s a hole the size of a continent in the pit of my stomach because now I’m thinking he’s abandoned me and I need to deal with these jumbled feelings on my own.
I came on too strong again, didn’t I? Now, he really thinks I’m an unstoppable pervert who’ll keep touching him whenever I can.
I wasn’t supposed to. I wouldn’t have if he hadn’t touched me first and told me those words that just triggered everything. The fact that I needed to deal with it to get over it.
But he was supposed to be there for when I did deal with it. He shouldn’t have left me another memento of himself and then disappeared.
I stagger to my unsteady feet, rubbing at my face with the back of my hands and wiping them on my denim shorts before I neatly lay the jacket on my forearm. It needs to be all prim and proper like him. Though I probably smudged it with my snot and tears earlier.
Yikes.
My fingers graze the bracelet he gave me as I tiptoe around the corner, searching for a very familiar tall man with eyes that could send someone to hell.
Specifically me.
Still, I forge on because I can’t do this on my own. I can’t stare at Dad’s bruised, lifeless body and remain standing. No amount of lists or desensitizing or empty brain syndrome could have prepared me for this.
My sneakers make an inaudible sound on the floor as I look for him. It doesn’t take me long to find him, but before I can rejoice, my heart clenches.
He’s not alone. He’s with the witch. Aspen.
Dad calls her that. The witch. I haven’t used that name for her in the past, but now I do because maybe she’s enchanting Nate with black magic. After all, she’s the only woman he pays any attention to. The only woman he relaxes around and shows that slight twitch in his lips to.
Some would call it a smile. But I’ve always considered it half a smile. Almost there, but not really.
Anyway, he only shows it to her and I hate it and her. I hate how put-together she is. How she wears high heels and walks comfortably in them, as if they’re nonexistent, and has the best collection of pant and skirt suits ever, not like my dull jean shorts and favorite white sneakers. I hate how her hair is bright red like her lipstick, not coppery and rusty like mine.
But what I hate the most is how compatible she is with Nate. How effortlessly they flow, how good they look together without even trying. She’s successful, cunning, and a boss bitch in their firm. The exact type of woman I imagine Nate being attracted to.
I overheard him say it to Dad once, that he likes women who go after their careers as aggressively as men do. He likes intelligent women with fire, like Aspen.
It’s not a surprise that the king likes a queen.
Because that’s the thing, right? The king doesn’t look in the direction of damsels in distress, doesn’t like doing any saving.
Suddenly, I’m hyperaware of what I am to him. A hurdle that’s pulling him down. An obligation left behind by his best friend.
My nails dig into the jacket and I can feel the spicy scent in it rising to my throat and suffocating me. I can feel the woodsy smell turning into high trees that I’m unable to see through or climb over.
I step back and sprint to the chair he left me in. I’ll just return his jacket and stop being a pain in his ass. The last thing I want is to become the annoying kid he has to take care of on his friend’s behalf.
I’m not a kid anymore. I’m twenty and I can take care of myself. I can handle everything, from Dad’s coma to the house to whatever he left behind.
My chest squeezes when I recall Dad’s state. I don’t even have anyone I can turn to anymore.
My feet come to a halt when I find a familiar face standing in front of the window of Dad’s room.
She’s wearing a flamboyant pink dress that has a cocktail of colors in it. A feathered hat with the shades of the rainbow sits snuggly on her head, allowing her bleached strands to peek through.
I approach her slowly, struck by how old she actually appears, despite all the Botox and things she’s done to her face. It’s like it has turned into a mask. Not to mention how swollen and big her lips are, as if they’ve been stung by dozens of bees.
“Susan?”
She doesn’t break eye contact with Dad, and I’m not strong enough to look at him again in his state, but I can see the way she observes him.
How her eyes take in the entirety of him, flicking back and forth as she runs her gloved hand over her leather bag. Also pink.
“Susan,” I try again, not sure if she heard me the first time.
“He’s in such bad shape,” she says quietly, without any expression.
I fight the tears trying to escape and clink my thumb against my forefinger beneath Nate’s jacket. So it’s my nails against his jacket. In a way, he’s here with me.
Also, there’s a bandage around my finger that I didn’t notice before. Was he the one who put it there?
My thoughts are scattered when Susan faces me, her snobbish expression strapped firmly in place. “The bastard finally got what he deserves.”
I reel back from the force of her words, my chin trembling. “How…how could you say that? Even if you guys fought, he’s facing death right now.”
“As he should have a long time ago. His type of evil needed to be punished sooner rather than later.”
“Susan!”
“I’m going to give you a piece of advice, even though you’re that devil’s spawn.” She steps closer until all I can smell is the strong notes of her dizzying perfume. “It’d be better if you drop all the cases and move out of the house. My lawyer said I can win the house back and also the shares in Weaver & Shaw that my husband owned before they were reverted back to your conniving father.”
I’m shaking my head despite my attempts to appear unfazed. Dad spent a lot of time, effort, and money to secure the house and the firm. There’s no way in hell she can take everything, right? Surely, there’s something I can do.
Susan reaches her gloved hand out and clutches my chin between her thumb and forefinger and gives it a little shake. “I’d hate to squash a little girl like you, so why don’t you save us both the trouble and drop everything? You’ll have your trust fund when you’re twenty-one and that’s enough to keep you wealthy for a lifetime. I’m having my lawyer draw up a contract so all you have to do is sign.”
“No,” I murmur, my nails digging into the jacket.
Her swollen lips twist. “What did you just say?”
“No!” I push away from her, my body trembling. “I won’t allow you to take Dad’s hard-earned things. Never! And he isn’t dead, Susan! He’ll come back and make you regret ever suggesting that to me.”
“You’re talking big, but you’ve got nothing, little girl. Be ready to be crushed in court.”
My heart hammers hard and fast in my ribcage as I search for the right words to throw back in her face. I’ll never allow this woman to take away what Dad worked for, even if it’s the last thing I do.
“That should go to you, Mrs. Shaw.”
I startle, my chest doing that squeezing thing coupled with a zap at the sound of his voice.
Nate.
He strides to where we are, and before I can allow myself to bask in relief, his arm wraps around my shoulder.
Nate’s arm is on my shoulder.
Is this some sort of a dream? Or maybe it’s a dream coupled with a nightmare.
Susan raises her chin, still twisting her lips. “You can’t do anything, even if you represent her. The law is on my side this time.”
“That might be so if you were talking to her lawyer, but you’re now addressing a member of her family. Her future husband, to be more specific.”
