Spoiler alert: it was a huge deal. One my mom and best friends are still recovering from. I hate that I made them worry like that, so I take my pills like clockwork now.
And the sad part is that even with that cocktail of meds, I’m still basically a loose cannon.
I’ve seen enough therapists during my twenty years to know that some of my mania is the result of brain chemistry that I probably inherited from my dad, Jesse Whitman. And some of it probably stems from the childhood trauma I suffered the day he died saving me.
Yeah, I’m a fucking wreck.
But my friends aren’t. Don’t get me wrong—they all have their issues, no doubt. But they don’t have this weight pulling them down the way I do. They aren’t chained to little pill bottles just to function somewhat normally in society.
So, ok, Ty’s a little too obsessed with this girl he’s never actually met and making amends for something he didn’t do.
And Knox is still pining for some girl who fucked and ducked on him.
And Booker’s trying to pretend his future as an upstanding member of the Evangelical Church is avoidable, which it isn’t, unless he can stand up to his dad. And though Booker can do just about anything, standing up to his old man is the one thing he’s never been able to do.
We all have our burdens to bear, but somehow, I’m sure they’ll all figure their shit out.
And I won’t.
But right now, the only thing I need to figure out is the playlist for the party I’m deejaying tonight. Yeah, most people my age just stream music when they have a party. But why let Spotify deejay your party when I’m around?
Way back in the day, my dad was a deejay at a radio station in Philly. He met my mom, moved to Maryland to be with her, they married, had me, and the rest is a tragic, horrible story I’ll save for another day.
The point is music is in my blood. I love it. I dream about it. I sing constantly, and half the time, I don’t even realize I’m belting out 80s hair metal or 90s grunge or even club hits. Music makes sense to me.
I catch the tennis ball for the final time and stick it in my nightstand drawer before heading downstairs. I figure I’ll brainstorm a playlist while eating the leftover chicken parm I made last night.
I’m warming my dish in the oven when I hear the garage door go up. A minute later, my mom walks in the side door.
“Hey, sweetie. Heating up some dinner?”
“Yeah, there’s plenty. Want me to make you a plate?”
“No thanks, honey,” she says, reaching up to cup my face and kiss my cheek. It kills me. I ruined her whole life, yet she adores me like I’m the best thing that ever happened to her.
“You got a hot date?” I joke, knowing she’s probably meeting some friends for dinner at the country club.
“Actually…”
I swear, my heart stops for a minute.
“Well, not a hot date exactly. But there are a bunch of us going to dinner at the club tonight, so I’ll pass on your chicken parm, even though it’s my favorite.”
I smile, relieved she was just joking. “No worries, ma. I’ll pack some up for your lunch tomorrow.” It’s not that my mom doesn’t deserve happiness—hell, she’s more than earned it. But love only brings heartache. She knows that better than most.
“Thank you, sweetie. I’m going to get ready. Are you leaving soon?”
“Nah, I’m picking Book up in a couple hours.”
“Alright. And you’re staying over if you can’t drive?”
“He still thinks it’s the regular season, so he’s the sober driver. But yeah, if he drinks, we’ll crash there. Promise.”
She kisses my cheek again and there’s an unspoken agreement between us—we’re all the other one has left, so we get a little overprotective of each other.
I’m the same way with my best friends, and that's proof they love my crazy ass. I routinely text to check in on them, I’ve got to be the one to lock up each night, and I force them into weekly dinners. But just like my Ma, they love me, and they put up with me.
My mom heads upstairs, and I take a bite of chicken parm. I may be loosely held together with pharmaceuticals, but damn, I can cook.
