Page 78 of Gap Control

"You don't have to perform for me, you know," he said.

I blinked.

"I know you like being the strong one, but it's okay to take some downtime when you're sick."

"That's surprisingly romantic for someone trying to feed me ginger-lemon tea."

Mason smiled. "I don't know how to do all this caretaking stuff, but I'm good at soup."

"You got a trophy for that?"

"No, but I'm about to."

I stared at the ceiling. Everything felt loose and unmoored. My usual filters melted away from my feverish head.

"I was eight," I heard myself say. "When I learned that making people laugh was more important than being honest."

Mason froze.

"My dad got hurt at work. Back injury. Couldn't run the press for months, maybe longer. Workers' comp was a joke."

The words continued to roll out of my mouth, fever-loose and too honest. "He disappeared. I mean, we could see him, but he wasn't there. Slept all day. Wouldn't talk to us. Mom cried when she thought I wasn't looking."

Mason set down the thermometer.

"This one morning before school, I was reading the back of a Lucky Charms box in a stupid voice. I don't even know why, but he laughed. A long, loud laugh. First time in weeks."

My throat was raw.

"Mom looked at me like I'd performed a miracle."

I turned my head toward Mason. I couldn't decode his expression.

"So, I kept trying to do it again, every day. I'd come home from school and perform. Tell him about the weird kid in my class, or do impressions of teachers. Anything. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes he'd smile, or even talk to us at dinner."

The room was too quiet as I continued.

"And when it didn't work? When I couldn't make him laugh? He'd go back to bed, back to being gone. So, I got better at it. Funnier, but more desperate at the same time."

Mason reached under the blanket to grab my hand.

"I started doing it everywhere. At school. With the neighborhood kids. Even entertaining grocery store clerks. Anyone who looked sad or tired or disappointed. What if I could fix them? What if I were good enough?"

"TJ—" Mason gripped my hand tightly.

"He tried to kill himself when I was twelve." The words came out flat, matter-of-fact. "Pills. Mom found him. I rememberthinking, in the ambulance, that I should have been funnier that morning. Should have tried harder."

Mason leaned in close.

"He got help. Therapy, medication, the works. He got better, mostly, but the weird thing was that I couldn't stop. Even when nobody needed fixing, I kept doing it. What if they did need it and I wasn't ready?"

I closed my eyes.

"That's why this is hard for me. Someone taking care of me when I'm sick. I'm supposed to make sure everyone else is okay."

We were both silent.

Mason spoke up in a quiet voice. "You were eight."

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