“I wanna be allowed to like her,” I say. “And if she says no, I wanna be okay with that. I don’t wanna make the ‘no’ into a mark on my worth or treat her differently.”
“Okay,” he says, still assessing me. “I think that sounds possible, right?”
I lean back and stare at the ceiling. “There’s also a part of me that’s…scared we’d be bad for each other,” I say finally. “Like two people with matchbooks and no water to put out an accidental fire.”
“Or,” he says, gentle now, “two people who have both learned where the fire is sitting and are self-aware of that. It’s not about not having fire around. It’s about what you do with it. Are you both doing your work? Are you both willing to put the brakes on if one of you hits something you’re not ready for? You don’t get burned if you’re just watching the fire from a distance, if you don’t forget it’s there, and accidentally fall into it. It can be there and keep you warm without one of you pushing the other into it.”
“That’s a little violent of a metaphor,” I tell him, smirking.
He shrugs. “Working off the dome here.”
I forget to speak for a second, thinking about all of it, what I want, if she could want the same thing, if I could be what she needs, or if I’d just be exactly what she doesn’t need. I guess all I can do is shoot the ball and let it land in her court. See if she even wants to play the game with me.
66
Lydia
There are times when I’m really sad because…sad shit is happening. And then there are other times, like now, when I’m just fucking sad, and I don’t understand why. My therapist tells me it’s just my brain trying to sort through and process a lot of the things that have happened recently or in my life in general, and basically my brain is getting backed up and clogged up with all the bad shit that’s stuck up there, so it’s all being pushed to the forefront because it doesn’t know where else to safely put it.
It fucking sucks. It sucks to feel like you were pulling yourself up out of the pit and then something shoves you back down. I don’t even know what caused it, so how am I supposed to know how to fix it? I ping-pong between pretending I’m okay—don’t be the girl who’s always struggling, Lydia—and admitting I’m not, aka telling someone I’m not okay before I explode on them for breathing too loudly or saying the wrong thing to me. I guess this is where the giving yourself grace part comes in.
Every time these mood dips come, so do the cravings. My brain whispers,we know a shortcut.Then that annoying tingling in my hands starts. Then a freight train through my thoughts,just a littledoesn’t hurt anything.Alittlewill quiet it down. I chew the stupid cinnamon gum I keep in every pocket. I press my cold water bottle to that spot on the back of my neck that my therapist showed me. I do the stupid 4-2-6 breaths until I feel semi-human again. Nothing completely blocks out the wanting a hit, the wanting the high, the wanting the numb…but they ground me enough to get past the moment, to get somewhere safer.
Then there’s the other craving, the one that has a face. He put us back in the safe box and taped it shut, though. Labeled it ‘Do Not Touch’.I get it. But some traitor part of me wants to untape it anyway. Wanting him feels dangerous, addicting. That word feels scary, attaching it to someone, but the feeling I get around him is something I find myself chasing. Am I insane for even liking a boy again?
I try to tell myself I don’t need one more thing to spiral about, and then my brain pulls up an image of his smile. I thought the part of my brain that could feel this way again was fried, nonexistent, didn’t work anymore…but then he came along, all perfect and calming and fucking unavailable.
Simone’s eyes scan me from across the table. “How’s my girl?”
“Kinda off, honestly…having a hard week,” I admit.
Simone doesn’t flinch. She’s always the steady one. “Okay.”
“It’s a little more manageable this time,” I add, because I need her to know that I’m not spiraling. “Like, I know what it is. I know the signs. I’m able to poke my head above water and get air even if I’m stillinthe water.”
“What can we do?” Lani asks next to me. “Besides physically removing you from the hole and feeding you a bunch of fun carbs.”
“Honestly?” I shrug. “Just be here, like you always are. And maybe…distract me. Keep my brain busy so it doesn’t pitch a tent in the worst possible campsite.”
Simone perks up. “Greekgame night is coming up soon! Could be fun…I mean, I’ll definitely brainstorm some stuff for us to do that doesn’t involve being stuck around a bunch of drunk college kids, too, but I think we could all still enjoy that, even sober.”
“That actually doesn’t sound awful,” I tell her.
I glance at the time. “I’ve got to run to class,” I say, standing. “I love you, idiots.”
“Love you,” Simone sings.
Lani squeezes my wrist, and I give her a soft smile.
I slide into a seat a row over from where I usually sit. I don’t look at him, but I can feel him.
I try to take notes, but all I manage is a page of arrows and the words scribbled down. I hate how aware I am of him. The sound of his voice when the professor asks him a question. The way I can get lost in watching him focus on his work. The low rumble of his laugh when Dr. Helms makes a dumb joke.
The entire class, I rehearse an apology in my head, but as soon as class ends, I do my usual pack-up-fast-and-bolt routine instead, trying to leave. I’m still shoving my notebook in my bag when I feel him closing the distance. The fine hairs on my arms do their tiny salute because my body knows he’s there. He says my name in that low, warm voice of his, and I hate that I love the sound.
“Lydia.”
I turn. “Bash, hey.” My voice comes out a little squeaky.
