“It’s been going on a while,” she says vaguely. “It got really bad at the end of last year. He’s addressing it but…”
I have so many questions, I don’t know where to start. Is that why he’s been bitching so much while we’re working? Why he’s been so negative?
“You—” She starts, but then shakes her head in frustration, looking away. “This is so embarrassing.”
“What’s embarrassing?” I’m instantly wary. Protective. “That Josh has depression?”
Her eyes bug. “No. Of course not.” She shuts her eyes, and a little crease arrows between her sable brows. Then she opens them, and it’s like she’s conceding defeat. “You’ve known him longer than I have.”
“So?”
“So—”she stresses with irritation, “have you ever seen this in him before?”
“No.” The answer is knee-jerk, but as soon as I say it, I’m already hedging. “I mean—”
“What?” Greta leans closer. Like she’s hanging onto my every word. I catch the scent of lilacs, and for a moment my head spins.
Lilacs bloom all over New England, but they don’t grow in Louisiana.
It must be her. Her perfume or her body wash.
“Uh…” I lean away and wrangle my thoughts.
Which were about Josh.
My best friend.
Not his girlfriend’s body wash.
And I remember one afternoon at the end of the fall term junior year. I walked into the room Josh and I shared at the Sigma Chi house at LSU and found him at this desk. Leaning over with his forehead pressed to the surface. His eyes staring blankly at the floor.
And when I asked what was wrong, he muttered something about dropping out because he was going to fail his Statistical Methods final. But he’d been quiet for days before that. Weirdly quiet. I helped him study, and he scraped by with a C, and then we both went home for break.
But he’d sometimes go quiet like that when we’d day drink. Like at a crawfish boil at the frat house after we’d been sipping beers all afternoon. He’d leave the circle and head up to our room just when the vibe moved from chill to party.
And maybe other times.
I swallow. “He’d withdraw sometimes,” I admit but then shake my head. “I never thought of it asdepression.”
“He’s good at hiding it.” She leans back and takes a sip of her coffee. And does she look…relieved?
She might be relieved, but I’m not.
“So, what’s going on right now? I mean, what should we do?”
And just like that, the heaviness settles over her again. “We let him rest for a few days.” She winces like she’s not sure about this. “He’s on meds. I’m wondering if this jump in physical activity is outpacing his dosage.”
Meds? Antidepressants? Hearing this is like getting socked in the gut. Why didn’t he say anything to me?
She must read all of this in my face because she leans forward again, and I nearly jump out of my skin when she lays her hand over mine.
I force myself to hold still.
“Please don’t say anything to him.” The plea flashes in her eyes. “He’d be mortified.”
I don’t love keeping a secret with Greta. It feels like crossing a line.
But if Josh doesn’t want me to know…
