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Kind of an understatement. But, whatever. Not my battle.
Graham clasps his right wrist with his long fingers. “Do you remember what you were like before we got you on those meds for the ADHD?” He glances up at Dale, who gives him a tiny grateful smile, for relenting and accepting his point. “Dale’s right. Your behavior lately is a lot like that.”
I don’t like where this is going.
I mean, Ireallydo not like where it’s going.
“Maybe we should get you in for an evaluation again. Just to check in. See if there’s maybe more going on. Could be it’s something as simple as, you know, just tweaking your meds or something that will help keep you from going into these tailspins; where you get so wrapped up in these wild schemes that you don’t realize until too late what the consequences might look like.”
Uh, yeah. Hard no on that one. No freaking way I’m going to see a doc.
“I don’t need to see another shrink,” I tell them firmly, sitting up straighter because, dammit, they need to take me seriously on this. “I swear I will make a change. Can you just give me one more shot? Please.”
The irony of this whole situation, though? The real truth? Is that the stress of it all makes me literally itch for a distraction—to erase this horrible feeling. It’s how I handle pressure. Or stress. Or pretty much any negative emotion you can think of. That’s what sends me into those tailspins. Like, Ihaveto do something that’ll give me some kind of rush. Usually, the crazier that thing is, the better. It’s sort of a compulsion. And a hell of a vicious cycle. I fuck up, I rush off and do something epic to forget that I fucked up. Then I get in trouble or freak my folks out (usually both). I feel bad and stress, so I need to do something to forget again. To feel that rush.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
“I don’t think you’re getting what we’re saying.” Dale steps closer.
And no, I’m not getting what he’s saying. My brain went into scramble mode there for a couple minutes and I’m totally lost now. Like, no clue what we’re talking about. And fuck me, the timing on these mind glitches is the worst.
“We’re saying it might not be completely within your control to make a change,” Dale explains. Which should give me a clue. But I’m still totally lost.
He taps the toe of his Oxford against my sneaker. “Seeing a specialist again isn’t a bad thing, Seb. You have absolutely nothing to lose by going for an assessment. In fact, it’s probably a good idea, anyway. To go check in a few months after that bad concussion you had at the beginning of the summer.”
And with those words, Dale tugs at the thin thread holding my whole world together right now, and I know it’s just a matter of time before everything comes crumbling down around me.
Chapter Nineteen
Caroline
Thesameeveningofthe stupid water slide incident, I’m sprawled on my bed reading the third book in my latest favorite fantasy series when there’s a knock on my open door. I look up to find Sebastian Murdoch leaning against my doorframe; cool as always, ball cap facing forwards for once.
“Hey,” he says, tucking both hands in his pockets. “Your mom let me in… Hope it’s okay. She said you’d be up here.”
My face must filter through at least five different expressions before settling on confused. Also, really intimidated, because Sebastian Murdoch is standing in my bedroom doorway. I can’t remember the last time I had someone my age in my bedroom.
I’ve definitely never had a guy in my room.
It’s a weird clashing of worlds: Sebastian Murdoch standing in my cozy, safe space. I’m annoyed my mother let him up. Especially without warning me.
“So, uh… Can I come in?” he asks, and there’s something different about him. Like he’s still the same guy, only kind of… faded: not totally sure of himself, not loud and boisterous and brimming with mischief.
Okay, maybe there is still a tiny glint of mischief in his eyes. And in the lopsided way his lips curl up just slightly on one side, like he’s got this secret he’s holding onto that makes you want to keep him around, if only to get in on it. Which is such a stupid thing to think, since that look alone should be enough to warn anyone away—not draw them closer. Surely any secret Sebastian Murdoch is holding onto can only be a recipe for trouble.
Also, I’m still mad at him.
“I don’t appreciate you coming here,” I tell him, not inviting him in. I sit up and close my book on my bookmark. “You could have texted. Or called.”
“You stopped responding to my texts.”
I have nothing to say to that, so I just roll my eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. And I’m aware it probably makes me look like a petty five-year-old. But this is all new to me. I’ve got zero experience talking to a guy when he isn’t making fun of me or tormenting me or making rude jokes at my expense.
“I didn’t come about the tutoring thing,” he says, and my brow lifts in surprise.
“Okay… What did you come for, then?”
Now I’m even more on edge. God, why did my mom have to let him upstairs? Why couldn’t she be one of those mothers who has a strict “no being alone in your bedroom with a boy” policy?
