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wiped her fingers with her napkin systematically, one by one.
"You can't tell me anything that would shock me," Thomas said matter-of-factly. "Trust me."
Ariana looked over at him. He stared back, his gaze unwavering. Open. Suddenly she felt as if she could tell
him the whole truth. His family was screwed up, too. Not like the Ryans. Or even the Langes, who did love
each other, even if they had odd ways of showing it.
"You have to swear you won't tell anyone," she said.
"Who would I tell?" Thomas replied.
He had no interest in gossip. That was what he was telling her. He was above that. And she believed him.
Ariana took a deep breath, clutched her arm, and let go.
"My mother has been in and out of mental hospitals since before I can remember."
She glanced at him for his reaction. He didn't even blink.
"So growing up, it was mostly my dad and me," Ariana went on. "My mom was only home here and there."
"No brothers and sisters?" he asked.
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Ariana's fingers clutched her arm more tightly, but she didn't answer. She had no interest in going there.
"So anyway, when my mom was home, everything was always great for the first couple of days. She would
cook and play games with me and just be this ... this kind of light," Ariana said, staring off. " Some -times it
lasted longer than others, but sooner or later she would always come back down."
"Depression?" Thomas asked, taking a bite of his pancake mash.
"Serious depression," Ariana confirmed. "She'd lock the bedroom door and nobody was allowed in. My dad
would always try, but he got more and more frustrated. He started disappearing for days and weeks at a time.
Luckily I had a nanny to take care of me. Otherwise ..."
"What would any of us have done without our nannies?" Thomas joked, trying to lighten the mood.
"Anyway, my mother would always get him to come home with threats," Ariana continued. She tore her
paper napkin in half, then in quarters. Perfectly symmetrical little squares.
"Threats?" Thomas asked.
"She'd threaten to ...you know...." She looked at Thomas. He
stared back. He was going to make her say it.
"Kill herself," she said quietly. She tore the napkin again. Eights, then sixteenths, and on and on. The
pancakes on her plate had soaked up all the syrup and were turning cold. "And then, one day when I was nine
