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“I’d really like to be a brain surgeon.” I snicker. “Sounds crazy, right? At least a neurologist of some kind, but that’s going to take forever. I g
uess I’m still figuring out my options.”
“I don’t think that sounds crazy at all,” Cree says. “I can’t even say that I’m surprised. You were always the smartest one in class.”
“Ha!” I shake my head. “Like you really remember.”
“I do remember.” He narrows his eyes. “You busted the curve in Modern Euro. Screwed up my A.”
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“I’m just teasing,” he says. “I remember a few classmates being ticked off at the time, but it’s hardly the sort of thing anyone thinks about now.”
“I got more than one hate message after that.”
“Who sent you hate messages?”
“A few people.” I sigh and look away. This is not the sort of thing I like to remember about high school. In fact, there isn’t much of anything about high school I care to reminisce about. “Like you said, it doesn’t bother me now, but at the time, it was pretty stressful. I worked hard on that material.”
“I’m sure you did. Anyone who gave you shit for it is an asshole.”
“Well, there were a few assholes in that class.”
“No doubt!” Cree nods and laughs. “So, what did you do for your off year?”
“Well, I worked.” I look down and start twisting my fingers together. I’m not sure how much detail I really want to get into about that year, but he seems genuinely interested, and it’s not like I can make up some elaborate story. “I had a few things I needed to work out for myself before I was ready to go be a proper adult.”
I glance over to see Cree staring at me intently. I can guess the question he wants to ask: “How much time did you spend at a fat farm?” Thankfully, he doesn’t say anything like that.
I didn’t go to a fat farm, but I did find a nutritionist and joined a gym. I worked with a new therapist who helped me a lot more than the previous ones, and I disconnected from my poisonous friends. My parents were supportive in my efforts though I’m pretty sure they were just glad I wasn’t embarrassing them anymore.
My fight has always been my own. By myself. Against myself.
“I understand,” Cree says softly.
I look into his eyes, trying to fight down the panic creeping into my gut. Just being this close to him is difficult. Having vague knowledge that my current physical state gets a lot more attention than my previous one doesn’t make me comfortable around guys. Regardless, his eyes are soft and kind, as if he really does understand.
He doesn’t though. No one does.
A splash from below diverts my attention. I can’t see much of the lower level from back here against the wall, but it sounds like another set of bookshelves toppling into the water.
“All those books,” I whisper. “It’s heartbreaking.”
“I hope at least some of them can be salvaged.”
I doubt he really cares about the books, certainly not like I do, but it’s a nice thing for him to say anyway.
“Any idea how long this storm is supposed to last?” I ask.
“None,” Cree replies. “Like a proper member of our generation, I don’t check the weather. I just look at an app when it seems necessary, and of course, that isn’t working now.”
“My dad always had one of those weather radios,” I say. “We had a place in the basement that served as a storm shelter. The radio was there along with gallons of water and flashlights.”
“Your dad is a prepper?” Cree raises an eyebrow.
“Nothing that extreme. He grew up in Kansas and knows a bit about tornadoes.”
“Gotcha.”
