Jill Knapp - You’ll Find Me in Manhattan

“Miss what?” I asked, genuinely confused by his statement.

“Everything,” he said with a straight face. Planning your wedding is supposed to be a happy and enjoyable time in your life. Sure, there are common stressors that every couple goes through. But I don’t want you to look back five, or ten, years from now and wish you had appreciated it more. We’re only going to get to do this once.” He looked away for a moment and chewed on his bottom lip. “At least I only plan on doing this once.”

That’s when I realized what I was doing to Alex. My anxiety and obsession over everything working out perfectly was making him feel insecure. A fresh wave of guilt hit me and I immediately reached for his hands.

“I am doing this once ,” I said in a measured tone. “Only once. You are the person I want to marry and this is not cold feet, or doubts about you. And I am so sorry if it came across that way.” I squeezed his hand a little tighter. “Till death do us part. Not divorce!”

“So, then let’s go with the Mondrian!” he exclaimed. “I mean, it’s gorgeous, it’s in the city, the food is fantastic, and it’s a hotel, so all of our out-of-town guests will have a place to stay. Also, they did have an opening on the day you wanted.”

I bolted up from the couch and snatched my cell phone off the coffee table.

“What are you doing?” he widened his eyes. Probably the sexiest thing he did, without knowing it.

“I’m calling them,” I said through an over-sized grin. “I’m done obsessing about this. You’re right. They have the date we want, they have the space, they have everything. I am calling them right now and booking our wedding for July of next year. One month after graduation and at least a month before we have to start any doctoral programs. It’s going to be wonderful.”

Alex stood up next to me and leaned in for a soft, buttery kiss. I stood up on my toes to reach him and he bent down slightly to lift me up. He held me in his arms for a moment and then said, “Don’t call them. I want to be the one to do it. Is that alright?”

I nodded and he loosened his grip and slowly lowered me down until my toes reached the hardwood floors. He kissed me on the forehead and then made a beeline for his cell phone, which was sitting on the counter top in the kitchen. Phone still in hand, I scrolled through my contacts until I found Amalia’s number and started to compose a text message.

Hey, Maid-of-Honor! Not sure what your plans are for after graduation. Hopefully you’re not planning on taking off to Abu Dhabi, or something, because I need you here in June.

Save the date, girl. I’m getting married Saturday, July 15th!

What does one wear to a fancy, black-tie wedding in downtown Manhattan? I touched my finger to my lips as I scanned the fridge for a bottle of water. This would be a perfect job for Cassandra.

I found the bottle and closed the fridge door. It didn’t matter, Cassie wouldn’t be at Olivia’s wedding and it was still far enough away for me not to need to worry about finding the perfect dress. Come to think of it, Olivia would probably have my dress picked out for me since I was in the wedding party.

A few days after Olivia texted me that she was getting married July 15th, I received an email from Dr. Greenfield summoning me to his office. He said he had something important to talk to me about, and it couldn’t wait until the next time I was due to report to work-study.

I got to his office around nine-thirty, trying to look as put together as possible with grey dress pants and a burgundy blouse on top. I even pulled my usually untamable curls into a low ponytail. Everyone at my school always seemed so dressed-up, so put together. I thought back to the first time I met Michael, how his demeanor and confidence had completely tripped me up for the rest of my day. No matter what I wore, or how put-together I pretended to be, I always felt dowdy next to the rest of my classmates. And that went double for the professors. But Dr. Greenfield didn’t seem to pay any attention to my outfit as he motioned for me to take a seat on the oversized leather chair across from his mahogany desk. As I lowered myself into the chair, I noticed a picture frame face down next to a stapler on his desk. I thought it was weird, but then again, I thought everything about the professor was a little off.

“Amalia,” he began, folding his hands in front of him and leaning just a bit forward. “As you know, NYU offers a few different work-study programs to its students to help them make extra money while they’re enrolled here.”

I nodded my head, never taking my eyes off him. I was determined to remain calm and collected. I wouldn’t interrupt or let my gaze drift over. This way he couldn’t perceive anything I did to be rude.

Every time this man spoke to me, I felt small and insubstantial. Whenever I sat through one of his classes or so much as took a meeting with him, I wanted to be anywhere but there. I think, on some level, it played into the idea that maybe I just really never belonged here at this school.

“Beginning this fall, the doctoral students in the psychology department here at NYU will have the opportunity to partake in the counseling program for work-study. Only a select few will be chosen, the best and the brightest, of course.” He rung his hands together and smirked. “We wouldn’t want anyone in there talking to the younger cohort if they didn’t know what they were doing.”

I cocked my head to the side and opened my mouth just a bit, but then quickly closed it. I wanted to make sure I phrased, what the heck are you talking about? in the most respectful way possible.

“Sir,” I said, crossing my right leg over my left. “I’m not exactly sure what this has to do with me.”

Dr. Greenfield had a frustrated look on his face. “As part of their requirement to graduate, the psychology students have to conduct psychoanalysis on individuals to prove they have a great enough understanding of the knowledge they’ve obtained while they have been studying here. There are a few ways to get volunteers for this treatment.” He stood up and slowly began pacing the room. His steps were small for a man of his height, and he kept his head down the entire time. I began to wonder if something was bothering him, but didn’t dare ask.

“Treatment?” I whispered the word, unsure of what he was getting at.

“It’s really a win-win situation,” he stopped pacing and looked at me. “You would come in twice a week for about forty-five minutes a session, and one of the senior-level doctoral students would analyze you. They would get the credit and experience they need, plus a little extra money, and you would get free analysis.”

Without noticing, I shot up from the chair. “I don’t need analysis. I’m not crazy.” I immediately sat back down and folded my hands in my lap. So much for coming across as professional or not seeming crazy.

Dr. Greenfield shook his head. I could almost hear him mentally wish he had a glass of scotch at that very moment. “Just the fact that you think analysis is only for the clinical population proves how far behind you are here, Amalia.” His eyes were narrowed and he had an undeniable look of disappointment on his face. I lowered my head in embarrassment. Shame crept through me like the kind of goose bumps you’d get when you had a fever. I didn’t know which was worse, the fact that I had been recommended for psychological treatment by my professor, or that said professor just confirmed my fears that I wasn’t doing well in the program.

“This isn’t something I feel comfortable with,” I said, shrugging, reaching my arms around my stomach, this conversation suddenly feeling vexatious, “I am afraid I’m going to have to decline.”