“Maybe. Yeah, okay. Sure.”
“I’ve done some basic research about ADHD, and sometimes it can bring with it very high highs and very low lows. They talk about it like being flooded with emotions. I think yesterday was intensely emotional for you and for Lindy. You got flooded, and you couldn’t hold it back. Does that sound at all like your experience?”
When did my baby sister get so smart? That’s what I want to know. And she’s researching ADHD? For me?
I’ll admit—I only did a tiny bit of googling when she told us about being autistic and her sensory processing stuff. My sister is just Harper. Completely herself. And after the third webpage trying to define her for me, I gave it up. I didn’t need a manual to understand her. Knowing what a diagnosis said didn’t change who she was. Other than being a little more sensitive when she tells me things (like about hating the smell of cigars), I didn’t see the need to overanalyze.
So, why would I do that for myself? Every third person these days seems to have some kind of ADHD. It’s something I can know about myself, but as an adult, it doesn’t have an impact on my daily life.
Does it?
“Flooding is a good description,” I confess. “But it’s not because of the ADHD. It’s just me.”
Harper rolls her eyes. “Fine then. It’s because of you.”
I lift my hands, trying to maintain a serious face. “Hey—don’t blame me. It’s the ADHD.”
Grinning, Harper looks up at me. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m not impossible. My ADHD, on the other hand, is—”
“Don’t say it.” She laughs, shaking her head. “You know it doesn’t really matter, right? And you’ll never be able to separate the two things? You are you. You have ADHD. Personality, brain function—who knows. It might help to look up some of this stuff, just to see what you might struggle with or what some workarounds are.” She waves a hand. “Whatever the reason, the result is the same. If you get emotionally overwhelmed, those feelings build up and spill over. Then, you crash. You did that yesterday. You’re doing it now.”
My sister is so right. About all the things. And just talking about this, recognizing it, I feel lighter. As the sun crests over the trees and houses in the distance, hope emerges in my chest. I’ve messed up, but this isn’t the end. I’m not going to stay in this pit.
“I was an idiot,” I say.
“You were. But it’s not too late to fix that. I’m not always great at reading people, but Lindy and Jo love you. It’s clear, even to me. And I think you need to be with them, not here with me.”
I nod, already itching to get moving, to get back home.
I’m turning to thank Harper, when she gives me a hard shove. I go straight into the pool, arms flapping.
It may be heated, but it’s still a shock, and I emerge soaking wet.
Harper, clearly anticipating retaliation, has retreated to the door leading into the house. I see Tank behind her, blinking sleepily and squinting out at me.
“What was that for?” I ask, climbing up the steps and wringing out my shirt.
“That,” Harper says, “is for going to James—of all people, James—for relationship advice instead of me.”
When she puts it that way, I can’t even argue. Plus, I don’t have time to argue; I’ve got things to do. I have an apology to make, and not a single second to waste.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Lindy
I’ve realized something about the loft. It’s only the perfect space if Pat is here. Without him, even with Jo in the other room, it’s like a coffin.
Okay, okay—that’s dramatic. It’s like a stone tomb that holds coffins. A slightly less maudlin and morose comparison but only SLIGHTLY. The emptiness I feel in the loft only echoes the one in my chest cavity, which feels as though it’s been scooped out with a spoon and left gaping.
I could totally bust out some Edgar Allen Poe style prose right now, but since that’s not what’s trending on Buzzfeed, I can’t even try to lose myself in my work this morning. It was still dark when I woke up, and the sun is just starting to tint the sky a lighter blue. Coffee, usually my morning BFF, tastes the way cigarette butts smell.
When there’s a soft knock, I practically sprint to the door. Pat came back! Pat’s here! He’s—
“Hey, chica.” Val and Winnie stand in the doorway.
“Don’t look so happy to see us,” Win says.
I sag. “Sorry. I thought you were—never mind.” They push past me inside. “Come on in. Welcome to my sort of home.”
“Whoa. This place is killer,” Winnie says. “He’s still not back?”
“Nope.”
“Is Jo asleep still?” Val asks.
“Yeah. She crashed when we got home, then woke up at like six and we watched a movie until late. I bet she’ll sleep for a few more hours.”
Val sets a bag down on the kitchen island. I didn’t even realize she was carrying it. “Breakfast tacos from Big Mo. And donuts. Not from Daylight Donuts, just in case they really are trying to poison us.”
Normally, the smell of either of those things would be enough to add some spring to my step, but my olfactory system seems to have shut down. I can only smell the ghost of Pat lingering in the air. I eat a donut anyway, just in case the sugar will do anything to drag me out of this depressing little rut I’m in. It tastes like nothing, so I give up after two bites and flop down on the couch, which has no right being this comfortable when I’m having a crisis.
Val and Winnie join me after taking a self-guided tour of all the rooms but Jo’s, oohing and aahing over it all.
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. The place is amazing. Pat is amazing. Blah blah blah—ugh.”
“We left you alone last night because you asked,” Winnie says. “Now, spill. What the heck happened and why isn’t Pat here?”
“How are the dogs?” I ask, and they both stare at me like I’m an alien wearing a human suit.