I hike my shoulders like it’ll hide it. “Shut up.”
“So what’s the deal with you two?” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Please tell me you’re boyfriends.”
“Oh my god.” I look around in a panic, but Colie’s still snoring and I can hear the bounce of a pong ball off a cup before the boys start yelling in the kitchen. “No. We’re not … dating.”
“Ugh. Men.”
“What do you care?”
She shrugs and takes a short sip of her drink. “I just think it’d be good for you. You’ve seemed better since this started.”
I frown at her. “Better?”
“Yeah, like…” She points a finger at her own head.
My stomach drops. I went so long without anyone ever catching on, and now it’s like everyone can see right through me. It’s one thing to tell people myself, but to be confronted with it, first by Dad, now by Delilah?
Anger flashes sudden and hot in the back of my skull. I try to stamp it out before it takes hold, but it settles in and pours out of my mouth anyway. “Better,” I snap. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”
She seems so tired when she looks at me again, pinching her lips together and giving me these sad eyes. “Mickey, I wasn’t trying to—”
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” I repeat. I stand and head for the kitchen.
I need a drink.
* * *
THE LAST TEXT I have from Mom is from back in the summer, when I was coaching at that lax camp with Bailey. My thumbs hover over the keyboard for ten whole minutes before I get the nerve to type.
Mickey: Hey mama
She answers right away, which kind of makes me feel bad.
Mom: Topolino! Happy Thanksgiving!
Mickey: Happy thanksgiving
Mom: Mi manchi
Mickey: Miss you too
Sorry i couldn’t come
Lot of homework
Mom: That’s ok. Christmas maybe?
Mickey: Maybe
I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. I can hear the rumble of the boys talking through the floor of the bathroom, where I sit on the closed toilet. I didn’t even drink that much, but I feel sick. Tired. Like I could crawl into bed and stay there for three years.
All because Delilah said something about me getting better. Like her pointing out that I have a problem made it come back, I don’t know.
My hands shake when I pick my phone back up and start typing again.
Mickey: So
Dad said something about depression
Like that you have it i guess
I don’t remember much from when i lived with you guys so i didn’t know
Mom: Yes. It runs in my family. Why? Are you ok?
Mickey: No
Not really
Mom: Let me get somewhere quiet and I’ll give you a call.
Mickey: Ok
Mom: Ti voglio bene Mickey.
Mickey: Love you too
* * *
I READ THROUGH the medication pamphlet three times before I even touch the pill bottle. It’s the same antidepressant Mom takes, at the lowest dosage to start. The list of side effects is so long, my mouth goes dry reading through them. But Mom said she just gained some weight. The only time she’s ever had a problem is when she missed a couple doses and started going through withdrawals.
I shake the bottle slowly, listening to the pills rattle as I stare at the ceiling.
Antidepressants.
Me. Taking antidepressants.
Me, Mickey James III, with such a bright, financially prosperous future ahead of me. So many people would kill to switch places with me. And here I am. With a bottle of antidepressants in my hand.
I don’t have a right to be depressed, I’d said to Mom. My life isn’t horrible. Nothing really bad’s ever happened to me.
Depression doesn’t care who you are or what you’ve been through, she said. It’s an illness that can happen to anyone.
She said it, the internet said it, the Hartland counselor said it when I went to ask about medicine. The doctor who actually prescribed the medicine said it. Hell, I even said it to Dorian.
But as much as I logically know it to be true, that it’s all in my genetics, my brain won’t stop telling me that I’m being ungrateful. Dad didn’t abandon me as a kid, he set me up for success. I didn’t have this life pushed on me, it’s just what I’m good at. I don’t hate hockey, I just don’t have the energy to like it.
Because I’m depressed.
I close my eyes and breathe slow and deep, tapping the bottle against my forehead.
Dammit.
TWENTY
As soon as Dorian makes it back to campus after Thanksgiving, he motions to my neck and says, “Hope you’ve got a story spun for that one.”