Chapter 24 Neil

DR. CLARK'S OFFICEis cheerily but sparsely decorated: plush couch, patterned rug, four succulents thriving on the windowsill. The first time I was here, my eyes snagged on the box of tissues in one corner, and I wondered how frequently she had to replace it. Whether psychologists have a budget for this kind of thing.

It took a couple false starts to get here, including one where I made it all the way and then doubled back because I couldn't fathom finding the right words for how I was feeling. But I finally made it, right words be damned. Our third session in two weeks, not because I'm determined to do this as quickly as possible—I understand that one cannot get straight A's in therapy—but because I have had a lot to say.

"Good to see you again," my therapist says after reminding me that I can call her Audrey.

"You too," I say. Meaning it.

Maybe there's some parallel here that my interest in psychology comes at the same time as my own mental health crisis. I want to understand my own brain better, and more than that, I want to arrive at a place of peace with it. Maybe that means more therapy and maybe that means medication, too—whatever it is, I'm keeping an open mind. Literally.

Unpacking my history in front of this stranger isn't easy, but I'm doing my best. During our first session, she told me to start wherever I wanted—"wherever feels right."

So I've told her about my parents. My dad. The ways he spoke to me and the rest of my family—and maybe even more than spoke. The trauma that I've been unable to excavate until now.

Everything I've repressed.

I've told her about school. About how I forced myself to become an overachiever because I thought it was the only way people would forget my background.

About Rowan.

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.

"Joke gift from one of my brothers a few years ago," he says, the tips of his ears turning bright red. "I kept it because of the, uh, artistic integrity. The composition. It's a really beautiful shot, just from a photography perspective."

In the kitchen, I meet his mom, who's petite and blond but with his same kind blue eyes. "I'm Maggie," she says after lassoing me for another hug, and I begin to wonder if Skyler told them I haven't been myself lately. Which might have actually been very thoughtful. "If you're thirsty, if you're hungry—feel free to grab anything you want. The rest of them certainly do," she says with a laugh, and though I thank her, I can't imagine being that comfortable in his house quite yet.

Meanwhile, Skyler's older brothers might as well be his triplets—tall, broad-shouldered former athletes with floppy brown hair and easy smiles. Luca is a banker in the city, and Emile is a high school math teacher. I also meet his ten-year-old twin sisters, Carlie and Kendra, and Carlie shyly asks if I'll sit next to her during dinner.

The meal is boisterous and delicious, everyone lovingly teasing each other. I can't believe I waited so long to take him up on this invitation.

Later, once we're full and the younger ones have gone to bed, Emile heads home and Maggie tells me she's made up his room for me. I'm running out of ways to tell this family thank you.

Skyler and I take bottles of hard cider out onto his back porch—he wasn't wrong about his parents not minding him drinking underage. "As long as they're doing it here, they're doing it safely," Marc explained during dinner.

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting the yard in a warm amber light. Branches of a cherry blossom tree sway softly in the breeze. There's a tire swing out here, a barbecue, a fire pit. I can picture the Benedettis spending hours upon hours out here, defying their bedtimes.

"Thanks so much for this," I tell him after we tap our bottles together in cheers. "I think I love your family."

"Don't tell them that. They'll adopt you."

I take a sip of cider, the tartness lingering on my tongue. I'm more relaxed than I've felt in ages, and I don't think it's just that I've gotten away from the city. It's that Skyler is easy to be around, even when I've been a shit friend the past few weeks.

"I know I probably haven't been the greatest person to live with lately," I say.

"We're friends, man. I'm not going to cut you out just because you had a few bad weeks." He stretches his long legs out on the porch, bottle dangling loosely from one hand. "And I'm glad you're here, because I've been dying to tell you… I finally talked to Adhira."

My mouth drops open. "Way to bury the lede!" I say, nudging him. "What happened?"

"Well… I wanted to do it all romantic, right?" He's already blushing. "And I had this idea that I was going to spell it out with pizza toppings—‘I LIKE YOU,' or something like that. Only I couldn't get my pepperoni letters to look like much of anything, and in the end, I just asked if she wanted to go for a walk. And I told her I'd been thinking about our past a lot lately, and that I wasn't sure if I ever stopped having feelings for her."

"And?"

"It wasn't the ‘I've been in love with you all these years and it's been torture spending so much time with you when we're not together' I was hoping for," he says, "but she said she's been feeling something too, and she thought we should explore it." At that, his mouth splits into a grin.

"Skyler! I'm so thrilled for you," I say. "It sounds like a good start. Or restart, as the case may be."

Skyler tips his bottle to mine. "Hear, hear. And you? What's going on with Rowan? You never gave us the full story."

I hesitate, staring down at my bottle and scratching at the label with my thumbnail. "We sort of… took a break for a while."

"Shit. Did she say why?"

"It was my suggestion, actually."

His brows pull together in confusion. "Oh—I just assumed, because you were so…"

"Miserable?"

"Yeah."

I shake my head. "If I'm going to explain it, I have to tell you something about my family. Something I haven't shared with many people." A deep and calming breath of Staten Island air. The confidence that I can do this. "When I was eleven, my father was sent to prison."

Skyler doesn't interrupt. He doesn't have strong, outsize reactions. He listens, letting me unspool this tangled mess of story, and by the time I've given him the full tour through my family's scrapbook, I can't remember why I was so nervous to begin with.

"I'd wondered about that letter," he says, "but it seemed like you'd tell me when you were ready. If you were ready." Then he clasps my shoulder with his free hand. "Thank you for telling me. I mean that."

His reaction is both quiet and genuine, and it makes the pressure in my chest ease the tiniest bit.

It's a start.

"I'd look forward to my visits with Rowan as a way to pull me out of this funk that I'm now realizing was—is—depression," I say. "And none of that felt fair to her, so I told her we should take some space."

"Wow. That is like… really intense."

I blow out a laugh, because he's not wrong.

"But you still love her," he says.

"I'm not sure I'd know how to stop."

He gives me this solemn nod, as though he gets that on a deep level, and for a while we just gaze out at the sky. Silently understanding each other.

Before spring break ended, I sat down with my mom and Christopher, explained everything I'd been dealing with at school, and when my mom asked about therapy, I told her I'd already made an appointment.

Then I said, I'd really like you to come for family weekend next year. I didn't tell you about it this year because I was worried about the money, but if it's possible… that would be pretty great.

My mom held a hand to her heart. I don't want you to feel like you have to keep anything from us, she said. If it's this important, we'll figure it out.

Figuring it outseems to be a common theme in my life lately, and I think I'm beginning to embrace it.

"I guess I'm still learning how to be a whole person," I say to Skyler now, the sun dipping beneath the trees. "And that I can share all of that with people I trust without being this extra responsibility they never wanted."

Skyler shakes his head firmly, his hair remaining perfectly coiffed. "Nah. No way. If she really loves you—and it sounds like she does—then I'm guessing she loves you through all the shit you have going on."

It's not dissimilar to what Audrey said, and I'm finally starting to believe it. I think there might be a value in letting someone know all of you and realizing they won't let one single thing define you.

Because maybe I can have both. She can hold my baggage for a while, and I can hold hers. We can have these separate lives that beautifully intersect, and our time apart doesn't need to be any lesser because of it.

It's not dependence or reliance. It's the steady feeling I have when I'm with her. The safety and comfort, but also the thrill of continuing to learn about each other. The backbone that is our history and all our starry-eyed plans for the future.

As the sun sets over Staten Island, I'm filled with one solid, reassuring conviction:

We're not meant to end this way.