No Hard Feelings by Genevieve Novak

Author:Genevieve Novak [Novak, Genevieve]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2022-03-07T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

For the love of drama, I announce a social media leave of absence.

Mostly I want an excuse to leave the group chat. I don’t want to stay in it and watch Bec’s name pop up on my phone a hundred times a day, or worse: have her go silent and feel the full effect of her absence as Annie and I continue to spam each other with inane updates about our days.

I told Annie privately that Bec and I had a tiff, but I didn’t get any more specific than that. After all, many of Bec’s low blows were aimed at her too, and I don’t want to hurt one friend in the process of bitching about another. If I had to choose between hearing my friends’ ugliest thoughts about me and living blissfully unaware, I’d choose the latter.

Meanwhile, discontent has bled back into my life. Back in rotation are my stretchy jeans and rumpled shirts; my hair is held together by dry shampoo and bobby pins. Makeup seems pointless when I’m reduced to waves of tears every few minutes.

When Helena settles in at her desk and asks how my weekend was, my lip wobbles over a weak ‘Fine, yours?’, and I know this isn’t something that can be fixed by a face mask and a good night’s sleep.

By some miracle, when I call, Dr Minnick’s receptionist tells me that there’s an available appointment at 10:30 am. It’s 10:10 now. I’ve barely finished my first coffee before I’m swinging my handbag over my shoulder and heading for the door without more than bleating ‘Meeting!’ over my shoulder at Margot’s enquiring frown. I’m counting on the good will earned from the Evergreen meeting to keep her from questioning it. I don’t really care. I just need to talk to someone.

After our last session, I had no intention of coming back to Dr Minnick’s office. I chalked it up to a bad fit. But I can’t talk to Annie, and Leo has disappeared again, presumably tangled in the limbs of someone new. I tried to talk to my dad, but his quiet, repressed brand of support comes in the form of numbing platitudes to trust that everything will sort itself out soon. So this is my last resort.

‘Penny-not-Penelope,’ says Dr Minnick with a warm smile from her doorway. As I approach her, I notice that today’s unflattering Gorman smock dress has a foundation stain around the collar. ‘I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.’

‘Here I am,’ I say, unenthused. The room is the same as ever. Same cheap couch. Same intrusive second hand on the clock. Dr Minnick has had a heavy fringe cut, as though she’s just binged New Girl and thought Zooey Deschanel bangs were the answer to her problems. Perhaps I should have found a psychologist with more experience, someone older and wiser. I’m sure I could find a quirky thirty-something willing to dole out advice at literally any Fitzroy bar, and it wouldn’t cost me $125 an hour.

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