Page 55 of Dearly Unbeloved
I tell her about the constant fear of judgment, the panic that someone would see through me and tell my parents, and the picture of me they had would crumble.
My only job was to be the perfect sibling, the easy sibling. Xan was the leader, set to take over my dad’s company. Jazz was the fun one, always meant to break away and spread her wings. But I was the perfect one. The youngest, the brightest, the most likely to elevate the Cannon family name to new heights.
Until I cracked. Until I woke up one day and realizedthat no amount of begging and crying to my med school professors was going to get me through. I didn’t have it in me, and it was easier to tell everyone I was dropping out because I didn’t like it than it was to admit there was something wrong with me.
I don’t regret dropping out. I just wish it wasn’t because of that.
There’s no judgment on Sierra’s face when I finally stop spilling my heart out and risk looking up at her, but her expression is heavy, and guilt instantly floods me. I don’t want her to worry about me. I don’t want anyone to worry about me. This is my cross to bear, and it’s not anyone else’s problem.
“Thank you,” Sierra says, running her fingers through my hair.
I squint at her, confused. “Thank you?”
“For telling me that. I know talking about shit like that isn’t easy.” The way she says it, it sounds like she’s talking from experience. “Can I ask you one more thing?”
“Yeah.”
Sierra hesitates, worrying her lip with her teeth, before speaking. “The scars on your thighs?—”
“They’re stretch marks,” I say, on autopilot.
“They’re not, and that’s okay. No judgment. I’m only asking to make sure you’re safe. That it’s not something you’re still doing or want to do.”
Fuck. The stretch mark answer has been serving me for almost a decade, and no one has ever called me out on it. Not that I show my upper thighs off to just anyone.
I rub my face, taking a moment to shield myself fromSierra’s gaze. How the hell does this woman, who doesn’t even like me, see right through me, time and time again?
“It’s been a long time,” I say, finally. “I was seventeen, and you know what seventeen’s like.”
“That I do,” she replies wryly. “So, you haven’t wanted to since?”
I shake my head. It’s not like I haven’t found other ways of self-harming over the years, intentionally or not. Pushing myself through med school for so long, skipping meals, canceling on my friends one by one, just waiting for them to cut me out of their lives altogether, working too much, drinking too much, taking pills I was offered at parties without asking what they were, running.
Running was the one that really stuck—pushing myself past the point of comfort at the gym or on a track until I could barely walk. Now, I force myself to stick to a strict routine on my home treadmill because the second I deviate, I slip back into hurting myself. I know how I come across—controlling, immovable, rigid—but I’m just trying to stay sane.
“I’m guessing you’ve never spoken to your doctor about any of this?” Sierra asks.
“No,” I answer quickly. “They’ll just throw medication at me, and I don’t want that.”
“Why?”
I blink at the question. “It makes you spacey. And…” I sigh. “It feels like admitting I’m a failure. Like I can’t get through the day without help. I know it’s not rational.”
Sierra laughs, soft and twinkly. “You’re right, it’s notrational. Did you know I’ve been on antidepressants since I was eighteen?”
My eyes widen. I had no idea. As disorganized and frustrating as she is, Sierra has always seemed so happy to me.
“Not the first time I’ve gotten that reaction,” she says, tapping me on the nose. “But I do need them to help me get through the day. Not every day, but they keep me level. You know we moved back from Canada when I was sixteen, right?” I nod. “Well, that’s a shitty time to leave behind everything you’ve ever known. My friends made promises to keep in touch, but we were sixteen, and that was easier in theory than in practice. Within a few weeks, they’d pretty much all stopped talking to me. I didn’t make any friends at my new school. Hell, I haven’t really made any close friends since, except for Jazz and Maggie now, because it fucked me up so much.”
My heart cracks at the thought of teenage Sierra being scared to make friends in case they left her. How have I never noticed that, like me, she doesn’t really have anyone? She dated in the year we were living together before our accidental wedding, and she even had a couple of girlfriends in that time, but the only time she went out with friends was with Jazz and Maggie.
“My parents begged me to take a gap year before college, to try medication and therapy. I didn’t like therapy, but the medication helped a lot. It’s not a cure-all, don’t get me wrong, it just gives me a little breathing space to work through things when I need to. I started spending a lot more time outside, too, which made a big difference.”
“Is that why you love plants and flowersso much?”
“It’s part of the reason,” she says with a soft smile. “How come you hate them so much?”
“I don’t hate plants. I find them messy, and I hate mess, but plants are fine. And it’s not that I hate flowers, I just hate the intent behind them,” I answer.
