“I guess. But… I still don’t know how I feel about all of that. Guys. Girls.”
“You’ll figure it out,” she says. “And would it be so bad if you had the best of both worlds?”
I know that’s supposed to make me feel better, but right now I feel like I’m floating between both worlds with no idea of where I’m supposed to land.
nine.
Emil Choi and I have spent holidays together, taken joint family trips, and eaten more meals at the same table than either of us could count, but I’m still nervous Saturday afternoon, a few hours before we’re supposed to go out.
“Ooh, a date,” Mom said as soon as I told her, when I got home from the pool party. Because there was no way to not tell her. If she didn’t find out from me that same night, Emil’s mom surely would have said something, and I wanted my mom to hear it from my mouth—so I could stop her before she’d married us off and named our future children.
“We’re just getting sushi,” I said, leaning against the doorframe of her office. It’s a little room off the kitchen, smaller than our bedrooms but bigger than a walk-in closet. Large enough to hold a love seat and her small wooden desk. The mint-green walls are decorated with photographs from her childhood in Chicago and her years at Wellesley with Emil’s mom.
“Okay, sweet pea,” she said, and I knew she didn’t believe I was as relaxed as I sounded. For good reason. “I hope you two will have fun ‘just getting sushi.’”
“How’s the writing going?” I nodded toward the laptop opened on the desk in front of her.
She pursed her lips. “Well, it’s sort of like bleeding words from my fingers at this point. Thanks for asking.” She followed that up with a smile. Then, “Everything okay since you’ve been back, Suz?”
“Everything’s fine. It’s great, being back here. I missed everything—everyone—more than I’d realized.”
“We missed you, too, baby.” She brought her legs up so she was sitting cross-legged in her good-luck seat, which is really just a shabby chair from our old dining room set. She’s written all of her screenplays in it. “I’ve been meaning to ask you… did it hurt?”
She was pointing to my nose ring.
“Not too bad.” I paused. “Do you like it?”
“I think it suits you quite well.” She smiled. “Let me know if you want to go shopping before your—sushi thing.”
“Wouldn’t that counteract the casual nature of a sushi thing?” I said before I left her alone with her latest project.
But now, staring into the closet of my bedroom tower, I wish I’d taken her up on that offer. Emil has seen me in most of these outfits; I haven’t been shopping for new summer clothes since I’ve been back. I’ve narrowed down my choices to four pieces I don’t completely hate when my phone buzzes.
I walk over to my bed and retrieve it, only to find a text from Emil saying he’s sick: Ménière’s kicking my ass today. So sorry but should stay home. Rain check?
I respond that of course we can postpone and I hope he feels better, but I realize then how much I was looking forward to seeing him, because my chest instantly feels weighed down with stones. And I’m glad Mom isn’t around to see my face because she’d know for sure I was thinking of tonight as a date, that I wasn’t feeling nearly as casual about it as I sounded.
I lie down, across the clothes stretched over the top of my bed. It’s very warm up here and I suddenly feel sleepy, so I close my eyes. I think about Emil—all the times we’ve hung out together alone in the past, if I ever thought about him the way I do now, even for a second. If…
When I open my eyes an hour later, there’s another text. This time from Rafaela: The job is yours if you want it
I sit up and look at the flowers across the room. They’re dead now, the water thickened and murky, the petals dried out and drooping. But I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away. I guess I sort of understand why people are so into flowers now that I have some of my own. Even if Rafaela didn’t give them to me of her own accord, they’re still the first flowers I’ve gotten from someone besides family. They’re still just for me, and that feels special.
I try to think of something clever to write back, but I simply confirm that yes, I want it, and she tells me to show up at ten o’clock Monday morning. I think of her fingers typing out the text, long and pale with chipped black polish on the ends, and the rocks in my chest turn to backflips in my stomach.
A welcome distraction from the pill bottles hidden in my nightstand, inside a half-empty box of tissues. My eyes can’t stop inspecting the box from up close and afar, checking to see if the pills are still there, though no one has been in my room to move them.
I decide to check on Lionel. I never said this to him, but ever since his decision, I feel like it’s my responsibility to make sure he’s okay. I’m the only one who knows he’s stopped taking his meds.
He doesn’t have therapy today, so I expect him to be stretched out on his floor or his bed with his increasingly worn copy of Infinite Jest, but the book is lying open, spine cracked, on top of his rumpled bedclothes. His car is parked out front, but he’s not in the kitchen, living room, or dining room, either.
When I get up to the tree house, he’s vigorously sweeping at the dirty floor with a broom. I barely avoid catching a dust bunny in the eye as I pull myself up.
“This is exactly what it looks like,” he starts before I can say anything. “I figure we might as well make this thing presentable this summer, while you’re here.”
Panic zaps through me, and it’s only a moment, but I can’t forget last year, when Lionel’s hypomania kicked in. He had so much energy it was like he didn’t know what to do with himself. A lot of times he just seemed irritable, like someone had interrupted him when he had a brilliant idea on the tip of his tongue. But often it was just a buzzing in the air, constantly surrounding him. The need to be up and about, always talking, always coming up with something new to achieve.
He never went full-on manic—that’s not the form his bipolar takes. I know the real challenge is when he’s feeling down and doesn’t want to do anything at all—especially when that apathy turns inward. I know that without his meds that challenge could come sooner rather than later.
I look at his eyes to see if they tell me anything, but they’re clear. Not brimming with too much energy, nor are they so dazed that I wonder if he’s even aware I’m in front of him. So I send the panic back to its place and walk across the room to get out of his way.
“Looking good up here.” I take a seat on the futon, curl my legs up beneath me. “Almost like the palace it once was.”