If I See You Again Tomorrow

CONTENTS Cover Title Page Dedication Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Acknowledgments About the Author Copyright Guide Cover Start of Content Title Page Dedication Acknowledgments About the Author Copyright III V VI 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 208 209 210 211 212 213 214 215 216 217 218 219 220 221 222 223 224 225 226 227 228 229 230 231 232 233 234 235 236 237 238 239 240 241 242 243 244 245 246 247 248 249 250 251 252 253 254 255 256 257 258 259 260 261 262 263 264 265 266 267 268 269 270 271 272 273 274 275 276 277 278 279 280 281 282 283 284 285 286 287 288 289 290 291 292 293 294 295 296 297 298 299 300 301 302 303 304 305 306 307 308 309 310 311 312 313 314 315 316 317 318 319 320 321 322 323 324 325 326 327 328 329 330 
 
 If I See You Again Tomorrow
 Robbie Couch
 Author of The Sky Blues
 
 
 
 
 
 For the lonely ones
 
 
 CHAPTER 1
 I’M ABOUT TO TELL MY therapist something that I’ve never told anyone before. I shouldn’t be nervous because it’s Ms. Hazel (she’s heard it all by now), and nothing matters anymore anyway. But still, it’s going to be strange admitting this out loud for the first time.
 “Can I tell you something?” I ask.
 Ms. Hazel pauses from unwrapping her caramel hard candy to offer her full attention.
 I clear my throat. “I think… I’m lonely.”
 She pops the candy into her mouth, smiling. “It’s terrific to hear you say that.”
 My forehead crinkles with confusion. “I don’t know if I’d consider it terrific.”
 “It’s not terrific that you’re lonely,” she clarifies, shattering the caramel between her teeth. “It’s terrific that you told me.”
 I like Ms. Hazel. I knew I would on day one. Oddly enough, it started with her office. You know how they say people look like their dogs? I think therapists look like their offices, and a therapist’s office can tell you a lot.
 Take Dr. Oregon. He had deep wrinkles carved into his face, like the cracked hardwood floor he insisted I sit on cross-legged and shoeless. I quit after our first session, not because I don’t want my therapist to have wrinkles, but because I appreciate chairs. Mr. Ramplewood had chronically bloodshot eyes and only wore gray, which matched the vibes of his dreary, water-damaged basement clinic. If he ever quits being a therapist—and he really should—I’d suggest Mr. Ramplewood follow his true calling and become a haunted house tour guide.
 But Ms. Hazel’s has a real Museum Collector Meets Amateur Hoarder energy, and for whatever reason, I dig it. We’re sitting in identical brown-leather chairs separated by a coffee table covered in ancient psychology magazines, candy dishes to feed her self-diagnosed sugar addiction, and discolored rings from decades of coaster-less drinks. Faded floral wallpaper is hardly visible between rows and rows of shelves housing worn books and broken trinkets, and there are enough crookedly hung photos to sufficiently fill the interior of an office ten times larger than the one we’re in. It may be a minimalist’s nightmare, but I could tell, even during our first session, that the room’s noisiness strangely helps in quieting my mind.
 And Ms. Hazel, dwarfed in a waffle-knit sweater and yellow scarf despite the late-summer heat, is an extension of the elaborate room she’s spent decades curating. An immovable gray crown of hair rests atop her head, and sparkly earrings shaped like ice cream cones dangle on the outside of her gargantuan glasses, which look like they were custom made for a beach ball with eyes—not a shrinking sixtysomething-year-old (though, somehow, they suit her.)
 Sure enough, unlike Dr. Oregon and Mr. Ramplewood, I’ve enjoyed my visits with Ms. Hazel. Not necessarily because she’s a better therapist than they are—although I think she is—or because her office is more comforting than theirs—although I know it is. I like Ms. Hazel because she gives it to me straight. Like I’m sure she will right now. So I ask, “Why did you suspect that I’m lonely? What gave it away?”
 Without a moment of hesitation, Ms. Hazel breathes, “Everything.”
 My eyes pop at her bluntness, but Ms. Hazel doesn’t seem to care as she springs up and starts busying herself around the room yet again.
 During