. walking in the sand

[tate mccarthy]

Tate spins the keyring of his set of car keys around his finger as he takes the steps up to a typical Manhattan brownstone two at a time. He was late, intentionally so, but trying hard to pretend that it was not intentional. The idea of awkwardly sitting in a waiting room with his recent ex was enough to make him shudder. What would he say to her? What would the other people in the waiting room think? Worst of all, what if he saw someone he knew? That last part felt especially inevitable, since in his circles, having a therapist was as mundane and expected as having cereal for breakfast. In light of this fact he knew he shouldn't be feeling any type of way about it, but in reality, anxiety was crashing over him in wave after horrible wave.  Dressed haphazardly in a denim jacket over a sweatshirt, his hair dishevelled, Tate was also wrestling with a hangover and that much was obvious from looking at him. Running on a handful of sleep and what can only be described as a bucket of coffee, he opens the door the secretary directed him to, interrupting a middle aged woman mid sentence. "Sorry I'm late. Traffic." There's a moment of hesitation before she gestures to an empty chair. Taking a deep breath he hopes isn't perceptible to the two women in the room, he closes the door behind himself and slumps into the chair, trying to suppress his increasing sense of dread. It's only when he's sat that he finally glances at Rosie. She's as composed as ever, her hair perfectly neat, her posture so sharp you'd think she went to a finishing school. His heart swells and his stomach flips. He wants to be sick. Incapable of speech, he nods barely imperceptibly at her, as if greeting a distant acquaintance across the school cafeteria. He looks back to the therapist, unable to help the words that come out of his mouth next. "I've gotta be out of here at 12. Just so you both know."

[rosie de la cruz]

"I'm worried he-" "You're what?" Rosie half startles at the interruption, swallowing down the immediate desire to roll her eyes once she orients herself again. Muted walls, degrees displayed carefully between windows, leather trapped under the nervous grip of her palms; it was a cozier office than she'd expected when she first walked in. Now, however many sessions later, she lets her back relax against the curve of the couch and reworks her last sentence. "I hope he gets here soon." The hint of a smile and a gentle nod from her therapist encourages her to keep going, and Rosie takes a deep breath before reverting back to their previous conversation. It was still a wild concept for her to be here, sometimes. Never something Rosie thought she'd need, too headstrong to admit a weak willpower or an absent grip on her emotions. She'd grown up thinking it all meant defeat, or that something was too broken to repair on her own. Instead, after casual mentions by friends in college, and one too many nights suffering in a lonely apartment, Rosie'd shakily given in. Allowed someone to help for once in her life, taken Tate up on his offer and never looked back. Over time, the tightness in her chest had loosened. Over time, she'd realized she'd gone about a lot all wrong. Not wrong, she has to remind herself. Just terribly, caustically alone. The door clicks suddenly, and Rosie meets a haphazard glance with a grin. It's different, and a little awkward, but there's still a comfort deep down that soothes at her soul, returning his nod with a murmured "I'm glad you could make it," when he finally looks her way. Clasping her hands on her lap so she doesn't reach out to him, remembering that he's here because he asked to be, trying to route what it all means before she rolls her shoulders back and recognizes where they are again. "Sara, this is Tate. Tate, Sara. I, um...feel free to just listen, or you can ask questions if you'd like. I don't want you to feel like this is couple's therapy, or pressured to say anything. But we've been talking through conflicts, lately, or how I...don't really deal with them healthily. So I thought if anything, this may just be something for you to hear. You can leave whenever you'd like...but really," Rosie sucks in a sharp breath, angling her knees his way, gratitude settled on her features, "i'm happy you're here. Thank you for making the effort."

[tate mccarthy]

Tate thought of himself as an open book. Essentially his deepest insecurity was not the fear that he was dysfunctional or fucked up in some way, but just that he was boring. It was that fear that made him keep quiet in certain social situations, only being the loud version of himself around people he knew to already be impressed by his money or name or good looks. Rosie had always caught him off guard on that front, as she was unimpressed by most things that went into his being Tate McCarthy, and so much more interested in all the other things that went into him being him, an actual person who just so happened to have privilege by the bucketload. So, if he was so comfortable being himself in the presence of the only woman other than his mother that he believed truly appreciated him unconditionally, why did he feel so defensive? He fidgets in the seat. As Rosie starts to speak he tries to translate it out of therapy-speak in real time, something he assumed he'd be doing throughout the session. "Talking through conflicts", she had been talking about him. "I don't deal with them healthily", but she wasn't blaming him, at least not entirely. "You can leave", she could tell he was uncomfortable and didn't want him to be. It's only when she thanks him that he looks up at her, her fine features glowing with gratitude. His heart crumples at the sight. "Wouldn't miss it for the world," he says, reaching over and putting his hand over her clasped ones, giving them a gentle squeeze. He makes a conscious effort to park his awkwardness at the door, straightening up in his seat and leaning forward slightly as he lets her hands go and focuses instead on Sara. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Sara. Thanks so much for taking such good care of Rosie so far, she's been raving about you."

[rosie de la cruz]

Even in the comfort of a space she'd slowly grown into, Rosie can't help but feel she's treading a very thin line. Tightened with the appearance of Tate in the room, her emotions sway from unsettled to anxious to resigned, filtering through her mind before she can get a true grasp on where she's actually settling. Sand through a sieve, features remaining carefully neutral even if her eyes always seemed to betray her. Warm under his touch, her thumb filters over his grasp momentarily before he pulls away. There, and gone again. What do I say now? It hovers in the silence, ankles crossing underneath her until it shatters in only the way Tate can break. Grateful for that facet of his upbringing, Rosie's shoulders loosen to casual slopes, settling back with an exasperated grin and gaze heaven bound. "I give him updates now and again, he's very aware of my textbook daddy issues." She'd been candid with Sara from the beginning about her reason for appearing here, watching the thick ink of her pen loop notes on a page under the huff of a laugh. They got on more than she was expecting. It's what allowed her to give up more, eventually, crossing her arms back over her chest before reaching for the thread of their last conversation. "And my stubborn need to be independent," Rosie tosses out, remembering where they left off. A recurring pattern that wove through her family, school and now present day, she'd been forced to face the misconception she tries to shape on her tongue. "I think, over time, I developed an intense sense of self preservation. I pushed myself to go to a good school, to do well, and thought I didn't need anyone else around to do so when I accomplished those things. Now it's- I... if someone wants to help or support me, I immediately think or thought it was a pity thing. So I push them away, or get frustrated and don't explain why. Then it builds, and I let it take over other things until I don't think that person, or situation, makes me happy. So I get out of it, because if I had the option to do so, it was the easy way out." Rosie's eyes flicker imperceptibly to Tate, playing through her rash decision to end their relationship until her wrists flex to stifle a flinch. He had to know, anyway. "So that's where I struggle. Trying to remember that it comes from a good place, that it's out of love instead of someone...feeling bad for me. That I don't need to go through life on my own."

[tate mccarthy]

Tate isn't sure what he should be doing with his face. He sits back in the chair, clasping his hands together across his chest. He nods slowly, arranging his features in a way that he hopes will convey that he's listening, though he's struggling with that. So many thoughts swim around his head, brought about by her initial statement: "And my stubborn need to be independent." What did that mean? Did she want to be independent from him, had she always wanted that? Had he been suffocating her? He didn't think he had, but maybe that was wrong. Did she not want to be in a relationship? If not, was it just him, or did she not want to be in a relationship at all? He has so many questions but asks none of them, and he realizes as he tunes back in that if he had kept listening, he might have been able to hear some answers. Too late. "Then it builds, and I let it take over other things until I don't think that person, or situation, makes me happy." He bristles. As much as this was typical therapy speak, as he well knew, it irritates him that she's speaking generally and not just mentioning him by name. So she didn't think he made her happy. That makes his gut twist. He tries not to let his face change but he distinctly looks away from Rosie, over to Sara, who's listening intently and it shows. He wants her to defend him, wants to defend himself, but instead keeps his mouth firmly shut. She continues, finally explaining her rationale, why she was that way.  "It's not really fair of you to assume that it was ever out of charity. Would you feel that way if I wasn't rich?" Tate asks and it comes out harshly, his defensiveness in full swing. He's not even sure that he's supposed to speak, much less ask her questions, but it's left his lips before he can stop it.

[rosie de la cruz]

Briefly, Rosie wonders what Sara really thinks of this whole thing, Tate now sitting barely a few feet away from her. She'd probably phrase it specifically, if Rosie asked, all languid syllables that got a point across. Or opinion, or observation, half wishing she'd just spit it out instead of letting her babble mindlessly when silence consumed. That was probably a technique too, now that she thought about it. She's surprised when it's Tate to respond first, and even more so when his voice is clipped, trying to discern whether it's really anger that flickers behind his eyes or the immediate need to pivot the conversation. "I never said it was fair, or the right way for me to think about it," Rosie responds slowly, trying to think before she could formulate the rest of the words. Sometimes she felt like she was scrambling with him, trying to convey what she wanted without it becoming something bigger to drag up from the depths. "But I also didn't say it was about charity, either. Yes, I think I'd still think the same if you weren't rich. I do it just the same with my family, or friends." Would it have been easier if he wasn't? She'd never really explored the scenario before, knowing it wasn't an option. Tate was himself; sometimes a vague persona that unsettled her when it felt performative, but deep down he'd never shied away about what he had to offer, or the amount of love he had to share. She'd been the one to draw away, trying to articulate it now as he'd opened up a floodgate of sorts. This was about them, now. Out in the open. "I never thought the love you had, or have, for me was charity. I'm just trying to say that I have a hard time asking for help when I need it, or even realizing that sometimes, I am having a hard time and do need it, and accepting that. This -" she waves absently, conveying the therapist's office they resided in, "was a start. Me telling you, 'hey, I'm really stressed and tired and don't feel like hanging out with other people right now,' instead of just glowering at you when you hang out with your friends and growing resentful, probably would have been a better choice." Rosie's words fall further and further under her breath, shaking as she sucks air back into her lungs. "I take responsibility for a lot of this, Tate. And I'm upset that I brought it to this point where we sometimes look like...," her eyes flick up to his, "we weren't ever happy together."

[tate mccarthy]

He's surprised by the harshness of his delivery. After all, he had been the one who had wanted her to go to therapy, to put words to her feelings. Why was it so triggering for him? Rosie doesn't react, or at least she doesn't react with immediate anger, or dismissiveness, or defensiveness. That's unnerving too. Looking at her, he can see her processing his throwaway comment, can see her carefully picking the words that finally fall from her full lips. As she speaks, he feels embarrassed by his own brashness.  She talks more about how she feels and he calms down, his own defensiveness slipping away. He wasn't used to seeing her so vulnerable, and it makes his heart feel heavy with a desire to fix it. But he doesn't know what to say. Instead he eases back into the chair, starting to fiddle with a loose thread on its arm. He feels small in this room. She continues to speak, insisting that she didn't view this as charity, and as she says it he knows she doesn't see it that way, not really. He can feel Sara's eyes on him for a brief moment and he shifts uncomfortably, tugging more aggressively on the thread as he manages to look on without seeing, avoiding direct eye contact.  Finally she says something that makes him snap out of it, his blue eyes finding hers as he feels something deep inside him start to crack. There's a hairline fracture running right through him, too small to see but one that, should he try to stand, he's convinced would have him falling to pieces here on the floor of this office. He's quiet for a very long time, and Sara allows this. Eventually he speaks, and his voice is quieter than he'd intended. "Look like we weren't ever happy? Do you mean... to outsiders, or that we looked that way because you weren't?"

[rosie de la cruz]

It feels like their conversation is shrinking the room, focus spiraling until it's just the pair of them. Rosie wants to blink the darkness from her eyes, calm the rattling breaths in her chest, have this conversation in open air or fresher light or somewhere familiar. But she also knows that if that were the case, they may not be having this conversation at all. Sara was an incentive as much as she was a catalyst, and the quick ire that flickers in Rosie's eyes when she stares her way and takes in her silence is quietly replaced with gratitude. Difficult, but needing to be done. Difficult, because Tate's voice is softer than she's heard in a long time, even tucked under the covers in their college days, hushing phrases over lips splintered from laughing. It was all so different, now. "I was happy with you, Tate. But I'm not happy with myself, and I took it out on you and our relationship instead of trying to work through my own issues...so I'm just...trying to do that now." Rosie's gaze holds steadfast, hoping that somewhere amongst the wreckage he'd find a way to trust her again. Maybe she'd have to be resigned in the fact that there wouldn't be the same future they'd once talked about, but she'd truly loved him, and it hurt that she'd taken away his faith in that somewhere down the line. The silence pervades, clock ticking in their peripheral. Sara's pen scrawls haphazardly across a page. "I don't know whether to ask you to say something or not," Rosie says slowly, watching Sara tilt her head to indicate later. Fighting the urge to roll her eyes again, Rosie slips her fingers gently through the strands of her hair, twirling it imperceptibly on her fingertips. The room darkens in the silence, guilt settled so deeply in her chest she doesn't feel much like talking through it anymore, shifting her attention back to Tate. "I'm sure I'm about to get grilled on all of this shortly, and I know you have to get going so...I don't want to keep you. Thanks you, again."