I shrug. I’ve got this vague memory of stopping at a pharmacy with Mom as a kid, her arguing about the price of a small orange pill bottle. But it’s been seven years since I lived with them, so I don’t remember much.
“They were antidepressants,” Dad goes on. “Did you know depression is genetic?”
“I’m not depressed,” I say on instinct. My voice is small and lifeless again.
“You’re showing a lot of the signs your mom did.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t have the energy to argue. I watch a few dry leaves scratch against the cement in front of the bench, the breeze pushing them around and making me shiver.
“You have a few days off for Thanksgiving,” Dad says. “Why don’t you come home? We can get you into a doctor and—”
At least I have the energy to laugh at that hilarious joke.
“What?” Dad asks.
“Home.” I scoff. “You mean with the Vinters? Or my billet family in Michigan.”
“I mean with me and your mother and Madison.”
“When has that ever been my home?”
“Mickey—”
“I don’t even have a room in your house, Dad.”
He breathes in sharply. Gets out half a syllable before stopping himself. He bought a four-bedroom house when he got traded to Carolina. One room for him and Mom. One for the twins. One for Bailey and Delilah. And one for Mikayla as the oldest. I was ten. But I wouldn’t need a room if I never spent more than a couple days there at a time.
“You still have a place there, Mickey,” Dad says after a tense moment of silence.
I stand up and start walking. “I need to shower.”
He doesn’t follow me.
* * *
I TAKE MY phone into the shower and open the group chat.
Mickey: Don’t forget the scotch
Maybe some vodka too
Actualy the whole liquor store woudl be great
Delilah: Someone needs a drink
Mickey: drinks.
Plural.
Many of them.
Mikayla: We got you covered kid
Mickey: Nice
Sure you don’t wanna drink at the lax house instead
Bailey: They’re not partying tonight
The guys have 6am fall ball
Mickey: Kill me
Bailey: We can just drink in my room?
Mickey: Omg yes pls
I’m pulling on a pair of black jeans when Dorian and Barbie come in.
“Terzo, perfect!” Dorian says, all excited like I didn’t just lose us a hockey game an hour ago. “We need your permission for something.”
I tense up, turned toward the closet. My eyes are swollen from all the crying and I don’t need them seeing me like this. “Okay?”
“Remember that film project I showed you?” Dorian sits on the edge of his bed and runs a hand through his hair, almost nervously. “We need your okay to use anything you show up in.”
“For what?” I pull on a black V-neck and look in the mirror. My closet isn’t exactly colorful, but I don’t usually wear all black like this. I actually kinda like it. Cauler and Dorian still pull it off way better than me though.
“We want to put it online,” Dorian says. “Barbie was drafted fifth round by the Flames. This is the only way to make him famous.”
I see Barbie give Dorian a look in the mirror as I run my fingers through my wet hair. He mutters something in Spanish that makes Dorian smirk. To me, he says, “Part of it’s a compilation of you saying kill me.”
“What?” I whip around to face them.
“You say it a lot, dude,” Dorian says. Then he gets a good look at me and his face drops. “You okay, man?”
Shit. I turn my face to the floor and look for my wallet. “I’m fine.”
“No, but you got like, emotions on your face.”
“The aftermath of emotions,” Barbie corrects him.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I can’t get mad at them when I’ve made it a point to seem emotionless. Dorian’s probably the nicest person to me on this campus. He already knows so much. And Barbie’s pretty much attached to him at the hip. If I’m gonna open up to anyone on this team, it might as well be them.
“Been a rough day,” I mumble. My phone vibrates on my dresser. A snap from Madison.
“Family issues?” Dorian asks. I raise my eyes to look at him without lifting my face. He gives me this knowing look. “Every time you get a message from your dad, you look like you wanna smash your phone. And now he’s here, so I figure you’d wanna smash his face instead.”