“Um. Everything? I’ve eaten here like every night,” I admit, then wince, because how sad is that, to eat the same Chinese takeout every night. It’s evidence that my life is a series of poorly planned meals grabbed at the last minute because I’ve been too busy filling my days with things to keep the darkness at bay.
“Pick something you haven’t had.” Nat relaxes back against the couch. “We’ll try something new.”
He stays close, and his legs relax into a soft V. The edge of his knee just brushes mine.
I, once again, pretend not to notice.
Pretend to focus on my phone as I click through the menu. “Anything you don’t like?”
“Nope. Wow me.”
“Challenge accepted.” I pinch my lower lip between my teeth as I scroll the menu. And maybe it’s because my brain’s half occupied, but only half, that the next words slip through. “You don’t really think you’re a mess, do you? ’Cause you’re not.”
Nat laughs, the sound a soft roil of disbelief. “You kidding? I’m . . . I’m here. In the same place where I was born and grew up . . .”
“So are plenty of people.” I tap a menu item. “Plenty of people stay in their hometowns, work the same kind of jobs they’ve always worked. Most of them aren’t a mess.”
“But I’m . . .” He tilts his head back against the cushions to stare at the ceiling. “I’m backwards. You see that, right? It’s one thing to be where you’ve always been, dreaming of better days or making plans or . . . whatever. But when you had that and lost it, when you know the only way you have to go is backwards—”
Nat cuts off. Suddenly. Voice choked. And I almost put down my phone, almost turn to look at him, to study the lines of his face, but I know better. I know when you stare at the ceiling like that, eyes out of focus, voice choked, I know you don’t want to be looked at.
So I focus on the menu. On the task of selecting and ordering. “You know, one of the most frustrating things about having clinicaldepression is the shocking number of people who will tell you to just stop being sad. Just stop thinking about the stuff that’s bringing you down. Just be happy . . .”
I let the words trail off because I don’t really know where I was going. Didn’t have a plan, just needed to get some words out. I feel his gaze rather than see it, feel the way he’s tilted his head to look at me, to study my profile.
That gaze is a caress.
“I’m not trying to, like . . .” I hit send on the menu to place the order, and click my phone closed. “I guess what I’m saying is that what you feel, it’s valid. It’s legit. It cuts to the bone and it sucks, to feel like the world is a weight on your shoulders that you’ll never get out from underneath.”
I finally dare a glance up at him. He’s still got his head back against the couch, tilted towards me so our eyes meet.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s what it feels like.”
I don’t look away. “You had a dream, and you lost it, and thatsucks. How would anything else ever feel the same?”
“I don’t evenwantit anymore. I just . . . I don’t know how to move on.” He squeezes his eyes closed, hard enough I wonder what he’s fighting—an emotion inside or one on the outside, an expression he doesn’t want me to see. “When you had your back surgery, and they didn’t know if you’d play again . . . How did you keep going?”
I tuck my phone into my pocket, and I notice how his hand lies on the cushion between our bodies. So I set mine down, right next to his. Close that distance between us.
The edge of my pinkie brushes the edge of his. So light it might have been an accidental touch. “I was fifteen. I wanted to prove them all wrong.”
He chuckles, and if he objects to our pinkies brushing, he doesn’t move away. “Stubbornness. Guess we have thatin common.”
“There were days I doubted myself.” I shrug, clench the hand in my lap into a fist. “But yeah, I’m stubborn. I had a dream, and I wasn’t gonna let any doctors tell me I couldn’t have it.”
“I know the feeling. Or, I did.”
“You still do.” I dare a glance towards him, to his profile, his gaze directed towards the ceiling again. “Even the dreams we think are dead are hard to let go of.”
His eyes flick towards me. “But your dream isn’t dead.”
“Not yet. But . . .” My turn to stare at the ceiling. It’s that swirly popcorn stuff, and I never noticed before. “It’s more like . . .”
“More like what?”
The next words tumble off my tongue before I realize I’ve even thought them. “I know, deep down, I have what it takes. But I still wonder . . . if it’s right for me? If I really, truly want it when it’s always gonna be a fight, you know? Not just to get there, but tostaythere. I don’t know if I have the energy to fight like that.”
“Because of the darkness.” It’s not a question. “Because you’re already fighting another battle.”
