Antilove Drug

Chapter 4

#antilovedrug #maryamvalis #psychological

The quiet of my apartment surrounded me, a stark contrast to the lively energy of Max's dance studio. Alone, I replayed the moments that stayed with me like an unfinished song—his encouraging words, his warm smile, the way his gaze seemed to see not just the doctor I had become but the woman I had buried beneath years of duty. My heart raced, each beat a rhythm unfamiliar to any dance tune, stirring feelings I wasn't ready to face. His laughter echoed in my mind, a sweet note that warmed my cheeks and sent a flutter through my chest.

I tried to dismiss it as just the thrill of dance, the rush of music, the spark of newfound confidence. But in the silence of my living room, the truth revealed itself clearly: I was falling for Max. The realization hit me with a strength both surprising and beautiful, like a chord resolving after a long, dissonant pause. I stood on the brink of a new dance—one much more complex than any waltz, one I hadn't prepared for.

Embarrassment warmed my cheeks. I was thirty-six, a doctor, not a teenager swooning over a smile. 'Get it together, Margaret,' I muttered, my voice sharp in the empty room. I scoffed at myself, trying to push the feelings aside as childish fancy. But they stubbornly clung, embedding themselves in my heart despite my efforts to let go. It was a tug-of-war between reason and emotion, and I was caught unprepared for this dance of the heart. With a heavy sigh, I sank into my chair, the weight of my admission settling on me like a quiet storm.

Restless, I stood abruptly, a sudden resolve breaking through my chaos. I needed distance, a break from this emotional storm, from Max and the studio where my carefully ordered life had started to spiral out of control.

As I replayed Max's laughter, a memory surfaced—an empty apartment after a sixteen-hour shift, no one to share it with. The loneliness hit hard, and I couldn't face him, not yet.

"California," I said aloud, the word tasting of freedom and escape.

The idea of a trip—a physical break from the chaos inside—felt like salvation. I wanted to outrun the feelings threatening to overwhelm me and to regain the control I had always relied on. The irony wasn't lost on me: I, who thrived in the chaos of the ER, was running from my own heart. With a surge of determination, I grabbed my phone and dialed Dr. Batley, my voice tinged with feigned weakness.

"I'm under the weather," I said, exaggerating with a cough. "I need a few days off."

"Get well soon, Margaret," came the reply, warm and unsuspecting. I hung up, a mix of guilt and relief washing over me.

I moved to my wardrobe, flinging it open with a sense of frantic energy. Clothes spilled into my suitcase—dresses, jeans, blouses, undergarments—tossed in carelessly. Toiletries followed, then a phone charger and a dog-eared novel, shoved in with the urgency of someone fleeing a storm. Zipping the suitcase shut, I paused, my eyes scanning my apartment's familiar corners. A bittersweet ache tugged at my heart, but I clenched the handle tighter. The decision was made; there was no turning back.

At the airport, the noise of travelers reflected my inner unrest. I checked my luggage mechanically, my mind wandering. Boarding the plane, a familiar knot of nerves tightened in my stomach—part worry, part excitement. As we took off, New York shrank to a speck below, and I felt a pang of sadness mixed with a strange sense of freedom. I was leaving my world behind, stepping into the unknown.

The flight dragged on, the plane's hum a dull backdrop to my restless thoughts. In-flight movies and my book failed to hold my attention; my mind kept drifting to Max, to the studio, to the rhythm I was trying to escape. By the time we landed in Los Angeles, exhaustion weighed heavily, but as I stepped into the warm California sun, a tentative calm settled over me.

"Welcome to California, Margaret," I whispered, my heart heavy yet hopeful.

I attempted to ground myself in the rhythm of this new place—the hum of the city, the rustle of palm leaves, the whisper of the breeze. But Max's memory persisted, stubborn and vivid, dancing in the corners of my mind. To quiet the chaos, I wandered to the beach, my feet sinking into the warm sand. The ocean stretched out before me, its waves crashing in a relentless, rhythmic dance that mirrored the turmoil of my life—unpredictable, wild, yet strangely beautiful.

Drawn to the surfers riding the waves, I sat on the sand, the salty breeze tugging at my hair. Their lean bodies moved with a grace that mirrored ballet dancers, their boards slicing through the water with effortless precision. The similarity struck me: their dance with the ocean was not so different from Max's studio. I had come to escape, but the waves appeared to reflect my truth to me.

A surfer, a young woman with salt-streaked hair, nodded at me as she passed, her board tucked under her arm. I smiled back, digging my toes deeper into the sand, the ocean's cool spray grounding me.

Memories of my childhood suddenly surfaced. My mother, Ellen, appeared in my mind—not as the delicate ideal she'd hoped I'd become, but as the real woman, her hands moving quietly and gracefully over her, except for the music that.

"Come sew, Margaret," she'd call, her voice gentle with hope. But at seven, I preferred my father's garage, the air heavy with the scent of oil and metal.

"My little helper," he'd say, passing me a wrench, his grin my reward. I memorized engine parts—piston, gasket, spark plug—like a sacred litany, my small hands streaked with grease, my heart at home in that gritty sanctuary.

My sisters, Lisa and Claire, twirled through the house, their laughter a melody I couldn't join. They embodied the grace my mother longed for me, a softness I rejected. Her sighs—"You're a girl, not a grease monkey"—stung, but I held onto my tools, choosing strength over lace. The garage was my refuge, where I could be more than what was expected of me.

Then came that sweltering July day at thirteen, bent over a rusted Ford with Dad. A sharp pain blossomed in my belly, followed by bright, undeniable blood staining my jeans. Panic overtook me. I tied Dad's flannel around my waist and hurried to the bathroom, the mirror reflecting a stranger marked by womanhood I wasn't prepared for. My mother found me, her gaze stern.

"It's natural. Time to grow up," she said, handing me pads and a pastel dress. I shoved them away.

"I don't want this," I snapped, tears burning.

"You don't get a choice," she replied, her voice cold as the tile beneath my feet.

At school, the shame intensified. Boys sneered, "Girls don't fix cars." Girls with polished nails mocked my calloused hands. Tommy's taunt—"Not even a real girl"—cut deepest, his laughter echoing long after I stopped running. I buried myself deeper in my father's world, turning my pain into resolve.

By twenty-five, I had built armor from that pain. Medical school and the ER became my fortress, competence my shield. "Stay composed," my superiors praised, and I obeyed, my hands steady as I sutured wounds, my voice crisp as I gave orders. The Chief's condescending "Good work, Voss, no tears" was a hollow victory. I'd molded myself into their ideal—detached, authoritative, a doctor above all else. But alone at night, tracing the edges of my worn furniture, I wondered what I'd lost. The overdose patient's words—"nothing left"—echoed my emptiness, a life spent healing others while neglecting myself.

Now, watching the surfers surrender to the ocean's rhythm, I saw a strength I had overlooked—one not of resistance but of flow. Their dance wasn't much different from Max's studio, except for the music that stirred something in me. I came to California seeking an escape, but the waves revealed the truth of who I was. My past wasn't a cage to run from; it was a rhythm to embrace, a dance I needed to learn.

Standing, I let the tide tug at my feet, with the salt air filling my lungs. I wasn't running anymore; it was time to go home.

My phone buzzed, startling me out of my thoughts. Max's name flashed on the screen, causing my heart to skip a beat. I took a deep breath, calming myself before answering.

"Max," I said, my voice steady despite the storm inside.

"Margaret," he replied, his tone warm but tinged with uncertainty. "Where are you?"

"California," I said, my gaze drifting to the surfers, their dance with the waves a distant echo of our own. "I needed a change, some space to clear my mind."

"Clear your mind," he repeated softly, the words hanging between us. Silence stretched, heavy with unspoken questions.

"Yes," I said, breaking the silence. "I needed perspective."

"Margaret," Max said, his voice warm but strained, like he'd been holding his breath. "I pictured you on the dance floor, not halfway across the country." His words carried a quiet ache, as if my absence had left a gap.

"I'll be back in a few days. "I'll let you know," I said, my eyes fixed on the horizon.

"I hope you find what you're looking for, Margaret," he said, his voice softer now, filled with a vulnerability that tugged at my heart.

"I need this to find myself, away from the life I've always known. Can you understand?" I replied with a resolute tone.

"I do," he said. Take your time," he said, his sigh audible through the phone.

Back in New York, the city's pulse felt both familiar and unsettling. I'd returned, but I was no longer the same Margaret. The studio, Max, the dance—they stayed with me, a rhythm I couldn't get out of my mind. I had decided to keep my distance, to protect my heart, but my feelings for him hadn't faded. They beat like a steady drum, echoing in the empty spaces of my chest. The city's energy, once comforting, now felt off, a reminder of the connection I'd tried to leave behind.

I didn't call Max, as I had hidden his number in my contacts. But a week later, my phone vibrated with his name flashing like a beacon. My heart pounded with a mix of dread and longing. I hesitated before answering, my voice almost a whisper.

"Hello, Max."

"Margaret, I… was hoping you're okay. Would you come back? To the studio?" he said, his tone a mix of hope and hesitation.

Silence lingered between us, with my breath the only sound. The ocean's rhythm still echoed in my mind, pushing me onward.

"I'd like that," I said softly, the words a gentle surrender. "I'd like that very much."