The door to the suite slides open, and Tia steps out, frayed denim shorts brushing against her thighs, one arm angled in the air, holding up her cellphone. Her eyes narrow and she moans in frustration before practically throwing herself down in the lounge chair beside me.
She chucks her phone to the end of the chair, dropping her head back dramatically before she rolls to face me, smiling. “You know, it was nice of my brother to get us this shared, family suite—”
“Was it?” I interrupt wryly.
Tia purses her lips. “Yes, it was. The private balcony? Hello!” She waves a hand towards the empty balcony, dotted with lounge chairs like the ones were sitting on, the unused Jacuzzi inthe corner, the dining table, and the vast stretch of ocean. “But the Wi-Fi still sucks. I was trying to connect to Slack.”
“What could you possibly need to check in on at work?”
“The accounts won’t account themselves, you know.” She flashes me a bright smile before she wrinkles her nose and leans forward, plucking at the front cover of my book. “And what are you doing? This looks like work to me. Something for the new job? Wait, I’m sorry—A cultural analysis of cruise ships?Feeling inspired by my brother? Don’t tell me you’re going to start exploring the phenomenon that is a cruise ship in your studies? Do we need an intervention? I’ve got Lu on speed dial.”
She holds up her phone, eyes big and wide like she’s about to press call.
“Why do you have my ex-therapist on speed dial?” I roll my eyes and jerk the book away from her. “I just thought it was interesting.”
“Ex-therapist. Still not sure that’s the best idea given the recent developments ...” When I don’t respond, Tia clicks her tongue, dropping her elbows to her knees and her chin to her palm. “When we ... ‘go ashore’”—she rolls her eyes, air quotes around her brother’s itinerary descriptors—“I thought we could skip the cooking class? Go find a rooftop somewhere out in the open air, ask for bottomless alcohol, and not get stuck inside with the fumes of whatever Talon fails to cook properly and ...him.”
“No.” I sit up straighter, wanting so desperately to be relieved of all the weight of Bohdan I carry around on my shoulders, but it’s still there, and I think it will be until I understand. “It’s fine. We made a deal.”
“A deal,” Tia repeats, skeptical.
“Yes, a deal. We’re going to be civil, and we’re going to achieve such civility by pretending like we don’t know each other.”
She blinks, once, and then two more times before she bursts out laughing. “You’re going to act like you don’t know him? I’m sorry, you expect him to act like he doesn’t know you?” Tia pulls back, incredulous, before she shakes her head at me. “The man who couldn’t keep his hands off you for the better part of a decade? Who quite literally saw you once through shitty, scratched-up glass when he was on the ice and banged on it until you gave him your number like we were in a Hallmark film? Who once ran across campus and almost knocked down our door until you let him in? Who didn’t go home after games and road trips, but went straight to you? Who learned to count to six in five languages to distract you?” She almost looks sympathetic before she scrunches her nose, bringing her thumb and forefinger together to form an OK. “Sure. Yeah. Bohdan can pretend he doesn’t know you.”
“I didn’t mean it literally, but he has incentive.” I shrug, sticking my hands under my legs. “I have his cup ring, and I said he could have it back.”
Tia cocks her head, a smile splitting her cheeks. She looks radiant all the time, but particularly when she’s vindictive. She flicks a manicured finger at me. “You are a little shit. So what, he follows the rules and you give him the ring back?” Tia widens her eyes. “What do you get in return? A peaceful week cruising the Mediterranean with my brother? Sorry, I don’t think such a thing exists.”
“No. I get ... to move on.” I don’t look at her when I say it, because I know she won’t understand.
No one does.
Why he’s still all over me, why the weight of being loved by him sits so heavy on my shoulders it buckles my knees and some days I don’t think I’ll be able to walk, let alone get out of bed.
She hasn’t lived in my brain, or one really like it at all, and she’ll never understand what it means to have your worst fearscome true—the things you’ve obsessed over, tried to cure and tried to absolve yourself of since you were little and painting patterns in watercolour on an easel.
Not enough, not enough, not enough.
My eyes pinch closed and I feel the tears pressing at the back of them, warm and ready to slice me open. A cut for each failure I’ve ever had.
But my best friend speaks, soft and lovely, and even though she’ll never understand, I know she’s trying.
“You think entering into some sort of deal with rules that, I’m sorry, neither of you are ever going to be able to achieve, is going to help you finally move on? You’ve got this new job, and this exciting new move ahead of you ... Sloan, it’s been a year and a half. This isn’t going to change how you’re feeling.”
I blink, pressing my hand to my chest, counting the beats of my heart and trying not to remember what it was like to lie in the dark in a different life, with Bohdan’s hand spread over my chest, fingertips tapping out the counts when I couldn’t.
“No.” I shake my head, tears making the ocean seem even brighter. “But I’ll finally know why.”
“Sloan ... what difference does it make?” Tia angles her head, full lips curving down. She drops her elbows to her knees, her chin to her palm. She looks so beautiful out here, sparkling under the sun, but her words don’t feel beautiful. They just remind me that there was one person who understood me, my brain, and he still left. “People don’t always have good reasons for the things they do. He’d lost his career. He could barely walk into a room with the lights on. His dreams ... he was on three different antidepressants. Sloan ... you do research about human behaviour and culture for a living. Quite literally, you explore social and cultural representations of mental health and illness ... use your head.”
He knew. He knew I loved him. That I would have died for him, happily. I gave up so much for him. Hopes, dreams. So he could chase his.
None of me was enough, and I never will be.
I dig my hands into the side of the lounge chair, fingers gripping the curved edge. She doesn’t understand.
It’s not a want. It’s not a curiosity. It’s a deep, visceral need that lives in me and swims through my bloodstream, permeating through every inch of my body because living this last year and a half without knowing why, and only being left to wonder with my brain for horrible, cruel company, revisiting every single thing I’ve ever done and ruminating on all the ways they might not have been enough—I told Bohdan I wouldn’t survive knowing him again.
