Page 89 of Past Present Future

About the depression that’s been lurking beneath the surface this year, and most likely longer than that.

Then I took a deep breath and Audrey asked if I’d like some water or tea, because apparently I had been talking for thirty minutes straight.

What I’ve learned so far, and what I probably should have realized much sooner, is that my trouble opening up likely stems from the fact that I kept my home life hidden during high school.

And I don’t want to do that anymore.

“How many people know about your dad?” Audrey asks today.

“A few friends from Seattle. And my girlfriend.” Assuming, of course, that’s still what she is the next time we talk.

“Right. Rowan.” Audrey’s memory is sharp—she rarely looks back at the notes she takes during sessions. “You haven’t told anyone since you’ve been to college? It sounds like you have some close friends here.”

“We’re close, but…” I trail off, clutching at my knee to keep my leg from jiggling. “I don’t know. There’s never a right time to bring it up, is there?”

She nods, understanding. “Sometimes we have to create one.”

“I haven’t wanted to burden anyone, I guess? That was why I sort of ended things with Rowan, or took a break, or whatever it is that I did.”

“You mentioned that last time,” she says. “Neil. You simply being yourself—that is not a burden. Everyone brings baggage to a relationship. Some of it might be able to fit in an overhead compartment, but plenty of it needs to be checked with the airline. It’s impossible to go through life without collecting any, and someone who loves you isn’t going to consider you a burden.”

This is what I’m trying to wrap my head around. All that time I didn’t want to burden Rowan, I pushed her away because I didn’t think she should have to deal with me like this. The shame sank me deeper and deeper. I thought I needed to handle this on my own, become well enough for her to love me.

When the whole time, she already did.

We’ve started texting again, mostly small talk and gentle check-ins, but I know that a proper reunion will have to happen face-to-face, not over the phone. Though everything in me aches to see her soft smile and intense eyes and bangs in their usual lovely state of disarray, I want to be certain I’m not relying on her as my sole source of joy.

Audrey and I schedule another session for next week, and on my way back to the dorm, I stop for shawarma at one of the hundreds of carts scattered across the city. They’ve always struck me as touristy, but they also always smell excellent.

Because here is a very simple source of joy: eating street food in Central Park on the warmest day of the year so far. New York in the spring more than makes up for New York in the winter, and the people-watching is sublime.

Gradually, I’ve gotten my psychology grade back up, which is vital if I want to change my major. I haven’t yet been to the club Dr. Serrano suggested, but I plan to. Eventually.

I am okay with eventually.

By the time I get back to our dorm, it’s early evening, Skyler holed up at his desk with his laptop and a sandwich. He swivels his head to greet me.

“Doing okay?” he asks.

I nod, sliding my backpack onto my desk chair. “Yeah. I, uh. Just got back from therapy, actually.”

He closes his laptop and turns in his chair to face me. Suddenly I’m worried I’ve said too much, that this wasn’t the kind of thing you bring up in casual conversation—

But he bursts into a grin. “Dude,” he says, giving me a soft punch in the arm. “That’s so great. I’m happy for you.”

And this time, when Skyler asks if I want to go home with him for the weekend—“because no offense, you look like you could use a little fun”—I don’t hesitate before telling him yes.

* * *

Skyler’s dad is waiting at the ferry terminal to wrap his son in a hug, and while I’m surprised when he does the same to me, I also find that I don’t hate it.

“Neil! Great to see you again,” he says.

“You too, Mr. Benedetti.”

“Please. Marc.”

Skyler’s room at home is exactly what I’m expecting: posters of sports teams, photos of his friends, a complete mess. He even blushes when my eyes land on a photo of a mostly nude Maxim model.

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