Free Going in Circles by Pamela Ribon Page A

not crying, but my nose has started to run from the dry air in the room. Dr. Hemphill keeps the heater on too high.
    â€œSo, what is it that’s really worrying you?” he asks, his foot making a lazy bounce as if we’re in the middle of a leisurely Sunday morning brunch and we’re waiting for our second round of mimosas.
    â€œNot to sound too dramatic,” I say, “but I think I broke my life and I don’t know if I can do the thing that will make it right again.”
    â€œYou’re saying there’s only one right way?”
    His question makes me snort. Of course there’s one right way. One way is wrong, and then there’s one way that’s right. People live their lives the right way or the wrong way. He should know this; his job is supposed to be to make sure people live the right way.
    Instead of saying any of this, I shrug.
    Dr. Hemphill shapes his hands into a little tent and rests them under his chin. He actually does that, like he’s impersonating a therapist. I bet in sign language that’s the symbol for psychiatrist, that little hand tent. Is that something they’re forced to do, or something they pick up in shrink school? Maybe he does this all the time, whenever he’s pretending to know everything. Probably even at poker games it’s his tell.Once he busts out the Shrink Tent, then everyone knows this man is completely winging it.
    His ottoman-turned-chair creaks under him as he adjusts it to sit higher. He asks, “What would happen if you were to fail at something?”
    The question confuses me. “What do you mean, fail?”
    â€œFail. Not do it right. Get it superbly incorrect.”
    â€œWell, I suppose I’d do it right the next time.”
    â€œWhat if there was no next time?”
    â€œThere’s always a next time. I would get it right eventually.”
    The Shrink Tent unfolds, and this guy named Gary crosses his arms. “What if you were not just bad at something, but horrible? And what if your failure caused others to experience pain or suffering? What if you really fucked up?”
    The question takes my breath away, not because he has cursed, but because instantly I know with complete conviction that for the rest of my life, whenever I have a moment to myself, when I’m at a red light, when I’m waiting for conditioner to finish working through my hair, when I’m reaching for a cardboard sleeve for my to-go coffee cup, I’m going to hear that question in my head.
    What if you really fucked up?
    â€œAre you saying I fucked up with Matthew?”
    â€œI’m not talking about your life right now,” he says. “I’m just wondering what would happen if you . . .” He points a finger at me, pausing for effect. “. . . just you, made a huge mistake. If you fucked up. Would the world end?”
    â€œYes.”
    He writes me a prescription for Lexapro.

10.
    I ’m staring at my old house. Our old house. But now it’s not our house, or my house.
    It’s
his
house. And I can’t get out of the car.
    I know exactly how many steps it will take to reach the door, and which step will creak as I get there. The key to the front door will appear between my thumb and finger without a single glance at the ring in my hand. It will feel like I’ve come home again. I’m afraid I won’t be able to handle it.
    I once cried so hard in that house I blew a blood vessel in my eye. It happened in the middle of the night, a few days after Matthew had come back home. This is probably more information than needs to be shared, but I had woken up from the middle of a . . . sexy dream. I guess I wiggled myself awake. I was still turned on, but the only person next to me was this man who had just put me through emotional hell. I didn’t want to wake him up, because having sex would make him think everything was okay, and it wasn’t. I couldn’t take matters into my own