February 19th
BLAINE

2:15 AM
I'm lying in bed, looking at the ceiling.
My old bedroom is decorated exactly how it was in high school. Dark red walls, dark wood trim. Posters of Broadway shows on the walls. My calendar from the year I graduated, 2001, is still pinned to the board above my desk (which contains my computer, some framed pictures of my high school choir buddies and I, and two snow globes, one from the Bahamas and one that plays Masquerade from Phantom with little Christine and Phantom figurines inside it) and open to June. I had circled June 19th and written "YOU DID IT! CLASS OF 2001!" over it.
All my books are arranged alphabetically on the shelves, the way I left them. All the Harry Potters, up to Goblet of Fire. A bunch of the classics. I had an entire shelf devoted to Shakespeare.
Yesterday, I went to open up Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban and an old hall pass I had used to mark the page I was on (it was right when you find out Scabbers is actually Peter Pettigrew) fell out. It said "Blaine A. From: French. To: Bathroom. Time: 1:15."
It freaks me out a little. All of it.
So much has changed in my life. I graduated college. I fell in love. I got married. I almost had a daughter. I lost my husband.
And yet, this room, my room, hasn't changed at all. The same soda stains are on the carpet, the same books are on the shelves, the same covers are on the bed. It feels like no time has passed in the twelve years since I've been here. It's scary.
I sit up, swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, stretch my arms over my head. I walk over to the closet and throw on a t-shirt, since I'm not wearing one. I pad downstairs, careful not to wake up my mom or my sister, and head to the kitchen.
When I get down there, I take a glass out of the dishwasher and grab a bottle of vodka from the liquor cabinet, pour myself some. I take a sip and relish the burn as it goes down my throat. Wince.
I take another sip. And another. Then I gulp down the whole thing.
Something about my last session with Kurt is bothering me.
After I told my story-which felt surprisingly great, by the way-he sounded so...cold. Distant. So...I don't know. Maybe he was embarrassed because he cried in front of me? That seems logical.
But no. It doesn't fit. Something about that thought just...doesn't quite sit right in my brain.
I turn around to the liquor cabinet and take out a bottle of red wine, start taking swigs straight from the bottle.
His eyes looked so blue the other day. So clear and...and beautifu-
"Blaine?"
I choke on the wine halfway down my throat, sputter for a moment, then look up to see Lizzie standing in the hall, partially illuminated by the stove light. I quickly throw my hands behind my back, hiding the bottle.
"Hey, Liz. What are you doing up?" I ask, trying to sound casual. She walks over to me, puts her hands on her hips.
"I know you have a bottle of something behind your back, Blaine. I saw you."
I sigh and place the bottle back on the counter, put the cork back in it.
"Mom says you're not supposed to be drinking anymore."
"I haven't had anything in five months. Mom can deal with it."
"Blaine." Lizzie says, giving me that look she gives people when she knows they're full of shit.
I roll my eyes. "Just don't say anything to her, okay?"
She nods. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why did you get up at two in the morning and start drinking?"
I sigh. "Because...I couldn't sleep."
"Why not?"
"Because...because I have a lot on my mind."
Lizzie nods and pulls out a stool, sits down at the counter top. "Andrew?"
I shake my head. "Actually, no."
Lizzie cocks her head to one side and knits her thick eyebrows (an Anderson trait) together. "Really? Then what?"
I think for a minute, not sure if I should tell her the truth. But then I remember that she's my sister, possibly the only person on this entire planet I can truly be honest with. "Kurt."
"Your therapist?"
"How did you know?"
"Mom left your referral to him on the counter a few weeks ago. I saw Dr. K. Hummel. I put together the pieces just now."
Bewildered at my sister, I shake my head. "Yeah. I was...I was thinking about him."
"Why?"
"Uhm...I don't really know. I just...was."
"Is he cute?"
I give Lizzie a look. "Does that matter?"
"Yes. Do you like him?"
Again, I give my little sister a look and playfully flick her nose. "No, Elizabeth. I do not like my therapist. Not like that, at least."
"But is he cute?" Lizzie asks again, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the counter, her chin in her hands.
I roll my eyes, think for a minute. "I...I mean...he has...really nice eyes."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Really blue."
"Is he tall?"
"Pretty tall, I guess."
"Taller than you?" she asks with a smirk. I snort. "Everyone's taller than me."
She chuckles. "Nice smile?"
I think about it for a minute. I've never really thought about Kurt's smile. But...
"Yeah. Yeah I guess he does have a nice smile."
"Then you should ask him out."
I stare at Lizzie, confused. "What?"
"You. Should ask. Him out."
I shake my head and chuckle. "He's my therapist. It doesn't work that way."
"Why not?"
"Because...becuase he's my therapist. He can't go out with me, no matter how much I like him. It's unprofessional."
"Ha!" Lizzie says, stabbing her finger in my face. "So you do like him!"
"As a therapist, as a person, maybe as a friend, yes. But...not...as anything more than that."
"But what if you did? What would be the harm in asking him out for coffee or something?"
"He's my therapist, Liz."
"But what if you just-"
"Lizzie. Come off it. It's not happening."
Lizzie and I glare at each other for a few seconds. "Go back to bed," I say.
"You first."
I soften, walk to the other side of the island, and wrap an arm around my sister. "Come on, let's both go at the same time."
Her lips twitch and she finally gives into a grin. "You have to race me. Like you used to do when I was little."
I roll my eyes, smirk. "Okay, but I just want you to know I was letting you win all those years."
"You were not. You're saying that 'cause you're embarrassed that a four year old beat you."
I laugh, a real laugh.
"On your mark...get set..."
"GO!" Lizzie shouts.
I race my sister up the stairs.
We tie, then head to our own rooms.
"Blaine?" Lizzie says. I turn around in the doorway of my room and look at her. "Yeah?"
"I just want you to be happy. That's all."
I smile, walk over to my sister, kiss her on the forehead. "I know you do, Lizard. I'm gonna be okay. I promise."
She stands up on her tip-toes, wraps her arms around my neck. "I love you."
"I love you too. Now go to bed. You have school in the morning."
She grins at me and then heads into her room, makes a funny face at me as she closes the door.
I head into my room, flop down on the bed, and still can't get back to sleep.
I think about Kurt until I see the sky outside my window start to get light.
--
KURT
February 24th

I pace around the office, waiting for Blaine to arrive.
I'm so nervous for today. I didn't sleep last night. I cleaned my house, I made cupcakes, I did yoga.
I thought about Blaine.
I want my plan to work. I want to be able to push my feelings for Blaine-which have only gotten stronger over the past seven days-to one side until I can help him enough to be able to say "you don't need me anymore, Blaine," and then never, ever, see him or think about him again.
That's a lie, though. I'll think about him long after our time together is over.
Of course, said plan will not be working because I can’t get anything right ever and I’m so incompetent and useless and-
Stop, I tell myself. You are none of those things. You are not incompetent. You are not useless. You get things right occasionally. You are good at your job.
I only half-believe my words as I say them to myself. Because Ben was right.
I squeeze my fists closed, open them.
Then, the door opens. "Blaine. How are you?"
He smiles at me. It's a small smile, but still bigger than anything I've ever gotten from him.
He looks so handsome. Again, I imagine what it must look like, that blinding, beautiful grin.
"I'm not bad today. How are you?"
I sit there for a moment, still paralyzed by this man standing in front of me. "I...I'm well. It's...it's good to see that our last session helped you somewhat."
Blaine nods, shrugs off his coat, his scarf, his hat. He's wearing a dark blue sweater that clings to his chest. It's not tight, not exactly, just fitted. It looks great on him.
"So...so uhm...I'm going to uhm...today we're..."
I can feel my face turning bright red, feel the heat creeping up my arms, my chest, my neck, all the way to my cheeks. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, open them again. "We're going to talk about...how to keep you moving forward. You took a huge step last week, telling me what happened. I'm...I'm proud of the progress you've made in these past few weeks. So. Let's get started."
Blaine nods.
"Alright. One thing I want you to do is to get a journal. Every night before you go to bed, I want you to write down every time you felt...sad, angry, depressed. I also want you to write down one good memory you had with Andrew. It could be pages long. It could be a few words. Whatever you feel."
Blaine nods at me. "Okay. Okay, I can do that."
I smile tightly at him, looking just past him. If I look into his eyes again, I'll be completely gone. "Good. I'm glad."
It's quiet for a few minutes. The clock ticks. People outside walk by, talk loudly. The phone at the front deks rings, Jeanette picks it up.
"Is that all?"
I look up and, without intending to, I'm fucking looking right at Blaine and my breath hitches. "I...uhm...I'm sorry?"
Blaine chuckles quietly. The sound is lovely, musical. I wonder how it sounds when he full-on laughs. Throws his head back, shuts his eyes, holds his ribs. "Is that all for today?"
I shake my head vigorously, too vigorously maybe. "No, no, certainly not. We...we will do more today."
"Are you okay, Kurt?"
My name on his lips...it sounds so perfect, like this name was picked for me by some higher power just so Blaine Anderson could say it.
"Fine, fine, I'm fine. I'm...I'm fine."
Blaine laughs quietly again. "Are you sure? You seem...flustered."
"Yeah, a little. I didn't get much sleep last night. Exhausted. You know."
"Yeah, I do."
It's quiet again. Painfully, awkwardly silent.
"Why didn't you sleep?"
Again, I make the mistake of looking right at Blaine. "I..."
I was thinking about you all night.
"I'm sorry," Blaine says, sheepishly. "That was probably...weird."
"No, no. It's fine. I was uhm...I was thinking about my husband."
A perfectly plausible lie. Ben is in my head a fair amount of time.
Blaine blinks twice. "You're...you're married?"
Do I hear jealousy?
No. I don't. I'm being ridiculous. I just want to hear it.
I smile, tight-lipped at Blaine. "Uhm...divorced, actually. Three years ago. I should have clarified that."
"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."
Do I hear triumph? Relief?
No, Kurt. You are being absolutely fucking ridiculous.
"So...what else are we doing today?" Blaine asks, his tone expectant.
"Uhm...let's just...let's just...have a conversation. I think...that would be good for you. To just...just talk like we are right now."
I have no clue what I'm saying. None at all. I'm bullshitting this entire thing.
"Okay," Blaine says, giving me a small smile. "That sounds good."
More awkward silence.
"What was your husband's name? If...if you don't mind my asking."
"No, I-I don't. Ben was his name. Ben O'Reilly."
"Irish?"
I nod. "Yes. His grandmother is from Ireland."
"That's nice. Did you ever go over there?"
Again, I nod. "Yes. We honeymooned on the Aran Islands."
"That sounds nice," Blaine says. "Andrew and I went to Italy. His parents are Italian, so we went to the town where his mother’s family is from in Sicily and then to Venice and Rome."
"That's something you could write down in your journal."
Blaine smiles. Oh, god, my heart. "Yeah...I guess it is."
Quiet again. Silent. More clock ticking, more people walking by.
"Hey uhm...it's...it's time for me to go."
I look at my watch and then back up at Blaine. "Oh. I guess it is."
Another smile from Blaine. "I'll see you next week, then."
"Yep. Next week. See you, Blaine."
"Have a good week, Kurt," (I almost melt as he says my name) "get some sleep."
I nod, purse my lips, escort him to the door, and close it behind him.
My heart is pounding.
"This is bad," I say to the empty room.
And it is. It's absolutely terrible.