“I haven’t really thought about it. But a move would be good for my parents.” The way she phrases that. Good for her parents. It’s weird. Wouldn’t she be moving for herself? I know I would be.
“Do you have a good relationship with them?” I’ve always been close with mine. I don’t tell them everything. Obviously. If they knew about this past year, it would destroy them. But I know they love me. That’s never been a question.
Adriana shrugs. “It’s not bad, but it can feel … strained. They don’t always know how to act around me.” She shrugs again. “That’s more of athemproblem than ameone, but they love me the way parents should. It would make their lives easier if I moved away, so I guess I should plan on doing that after graduation. I’d like to make their lives easier if I can.” Her smile is wistful but the way she says it, so matter of fact, like her parents would be happier with her gone, it makes me sad for her. Not that she seems upset at all while she’s talking. Just very matter-of-fact.
“What about you? Do you and your parents get along?”
“Yeah. They hover, and that can be annoying. But for the most part, they’re alright.” Mom is a stay at home wife, so she was always there when I needed her growing up. Dad is in politics. He’s Richland’s Mayor, and he’s always been the type towork long hours, but he’d drop everything if I called and said I needed him. They both would.
“Did they hover as much before the suicide attempt, or was it mostly just after?” she asks.
The hand with my burger freezes midway to my mouth, and my eyes widen as I register her words. Setting my food down, I stare at her with what I’m almost sure is a what-the-actual-fuck expression. Did she seriously just ask me that?
I swallow hard, trying to push past the lump in my throat. I’ve never had someone refer to what I did so … casually.
My hand shakes as I reach for my water. Fuck. I put down my glass, steal my breath, and try again.
“I’ve made you upset,” she says, tilting her head to the side as though to study me. “Why?”
She sounds genuinely curious, like she doesn’t know why bringing up my previous suicide attempt would upset me.
“I don’t like talking about what happened.” I push my plate aside, my earlier appetite now gone.
“How are you supposed to move past it if you don’t talk about it?”
“I do talk about it. It’s just not something I casually bring up with people.” Especially people I barely know.
Her eyes bore into mine until I fold and avert my gaze.
“You talk to your parents about it?”
Well, no. “Not really.”
“Friends?”
I shake my head. Kinda hard when you don’t have any of those.
“So, who do you talk to about it?”
Nobody.
My vision blurs. Urgh. Do not cry. Do. Not. Cry. I blink hard to clear my gaze and find a point on the wall across the room and stare at it. Hard.
“I guess I don’t really talk to anyone about it,” I admit. “But it’s fine. I prefer it that way.”
“Therapist?”
“No.” I have one. Dr. Walker. But I don’t talk to her about that. I sorta just sit there and wait for our hour to be over. I’ve been better these past few weeks about talking. I opened up a little about the suicide attempt. Meaning I’ve acknowledged it happened. But that’s as far as I get. Seeing her every week checks a box. It’s a step in the right direction, and I like leaving it at that.
“I get it,” she tells me. “My parents made me see a shrink for years when I was a kid. I wouldn’t tell any of them my secrets either.”
I snap my attention back to her, but she isn’t looking at me. Instead, she takes another bite of her burger, her expression blank, like admitting you had a therapist isn’t a big deal, except that it is. College students don’t walk around admitting things like that out loud. Mostly because our peers can be assholes, and no one wants to be ridiculed for needing a little help. But Adriana drops that bomb like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
“Why did they make you see a therapist?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me. It’s none of my business, and if she says as much I’ll leave the subject alone, but I don’t think I’ve offended her by prying. Granted, it’s hard to tell with her. Adriana keeps her emotions locked up tight. It might just be because we don’t know one another, but she’s incredibly difficult to get a read on.
Adriana sets her burger down and grabs her napkin before wiping her mouth. “Do I seem different to you?” she asks.
My brows furrow. “Different in what way?” I mean, her bluntness is different, sure. But I don’t think that’s what she’s asking.
