A Freudian slip was waiting to jump out of him, so he shut his eyes.
“Can I tell you something?” she asked, cutting through the stillness. “You’ve been so open with me today, and I need to clear this up.”
“Yeah, of course,” he said, swallowing his sudden uneasiness.
She sat up on her towel, and he followed.
“I didn’t have the stomach flu when we met at the Grammys.” She exhaled deeply. “I wasn’t hungover or whatever else the internet said happened. Jamie, I was having a panic attack—a bad one. A lot of things have happened in the last few years. Unchecked shit I haven’t dealt with. Plus, I was nervous to be there and interview you and all those wildly famous people. Anyway, it all came to a head that day. I’ve lived with anxiety and panic attacks for years. Sometimes, I can breathe and calm myself down. But other times, it feels like I’m dying. And being chronically on edge makes it hard for me to connect with new people.”
She broke off with an uneasy laugh. “Hence why I have no friends. Well, except for my sister and twelve-year-old neighbor. Which, I know, is a big flex. And it’s the reason my ex-boyfriend dumped me.”
He rested a palm on her knee. “I’m so sorry you had to go through something so painful publicly. I want you to know that I’ll be here for you in whatever way you need. And for the record, that ex of yours, he sounds like a Grade-A shithead.”
Brinton laughed bitterly. “He was. So I try to be normal, because once people know…”
“You’ve been masking. I’ve heard of it while trying to understand my own shit.”
She nodded. “There’s a defined list of things I’m allowedto be stressed about as a Black person—and especially as a Black woman.” She counted on her fingers. “Police brutality. Hypothetical unplanned pregnancies. Struggle love with a dusty ex responsible for said unplanned pregnancy. And forget about it if I cry, because Black women are forbidden from expressing anything but anger.”
She shook her head. “But I’ve got an entire spectrum of feelings. The real world, however, punishes you when you show that.”
Jamie understood. He’d hid his pain since the day his mother died. “It must be exhausting. How do you?—”
Jamie stopped himself and closed his eyes, choosing his words carefully. He owed her that.
“Would you be open to talking to somebody about it?” he asked. “Or medication? I tried antidepressants for a while after my mom passed. They helped.”
“I don’t want to be doped up to numb the pain. It seems so easy for everyone else. Why not for me?”
“Honey, if someone tells you it’s easy for them, they’re full of shit. One day, you might be ready to take that next step.”
She tipped her head against his shoulder. “I think being here has been good for me in that way. Having time and space to think, breathe fresh air…Swim in murky lakes.”
He smiled, then his lips grazed the back of her hand.
“Only my mom and sister knew the truth about the Grammys. And now you.” A tear raced down her cheek, and she impeded it with a flick of her wrist.
But he wanted her to let herself cry.
“Sorry, I’m supposed to be interviewing you, not having another mental breakdown.”
He wasn’t surprised to hear what had been bothering her. He knew grief when he saw it. And he knew how devastating it was to exhume skeletons she’d rather keep buried.
“Thank you for telling me,” he said, tracing her shoulder. It was as warm and soft as he remembered. “But you ain’t ever gotta apologize to me for being who you are.”
“Thank you, Jamie.”
He leaned in and kissed her, softly and deliberately chaste. But satisfying.
“I’m not supposed to do that out here, but I decided I don’t give a damn,” he said, grinning.
“I’m glad you don’t.” Sighing, she wrinkled her nose. “I can’t handle any more talk about feelings. Not good for my delicate constitution and all,” she said with a laugh. “But…I do want to keep hanging out.”
So they did. She told him about her lovably unhinged sister and her eternally optimistic mom, the women she loved and trusted more than anyone. He revealed that he and his father had become strangers, with the mixing of business and familial duty fracturing them like an ice pick. They talked about their favorite ’90s nostalgic movies. She told him about Gael and the book club. Jamie told her about how, junior year, he and Cory got duped into buying dime bags of oregano from the resident burnout. Jamie’s house smelled like lasagna for weeks.
A little later, the sun retreated behind the treeline and protracted shadows waltzed across the lake. From the boat, Jamie could make out a few party stragglers slurping beers on the shore. Yet, once again, he wasn’t ready for the night to end. He hoped she wasn’t either.
“Do you wanna come to my cottage?” he asked.
