Chapter Six

As soon as I open my eyes, I know the mood stabilizers have not been repressing mania. The garbage in my brain is not aided by the man standing over me unknotting the ropes on my wrist.

"You could have gotten out of this, you moron." He only needs to use one hand and the other holds a hot coffee. I have the fear he'll pour it over me.

"Did you want me to?" I'd fallen asleep certain he'd come back any minute with a new device to punish me.

Laur wears a suit today, like a bad cosplay of a billionaire dom fantasy. He sips his coffee. "I'll drive you back to East Quay on my way in. Can you be ready to leave in forty minutes?"

No. I can't leave this bed.

Ah, shit. I missed my meds. My first dose in, what, two years? Because I was tied up at my—

Not my boyfriend.

By daylight, my not-boyfriend's house is far cozier than I'd have guessed based on my experience in the basement. He decorates mostly with neutrals and really likes living plants— loads of ivies, spider plants, and other vines. A quick peak out the bay window shows a meticulously mowed lawn completely fenced by American flags, the top of the roofs across the street, and in the distance the ocean. Great view. There's a bike path curling along the cliff. I get lost in the mad fantasy about settling into a house like this with a man. Maybe this house and this very man.

Don't get your hopes up, Champ. People don't tie up their future husbands in the guest room.

"I wouldn't make a habit of running thirty minutes earlier in hopes of catching me again." Laur hands me an orange juice.

Does he remember I don't own a coffeemaker? Seems like a small observation from a fella who speaks at least three languages.

"My buddies have been texting me all night. Bunch of worrying bitches."

I'm still debating the importance of the orange juice in my hand. "It's not likely. My shrink isn't very flexible."

"Shrink?" He snorts and pours his coffee into a thermos. "The fuck do you need therapy for? Being too pretty?"

Does he think I'm some anxious middle-class kid wearing mental illness as a badge of honor?

Take a minute, Jeremy. He doesn't know.

My stomach is gnawing itself open, I haven't slept, and I'm coming off mood stabilizers for the first time in two years. I do not take a minute.

"Four suicide attempts, recurring episodes of mania, depression, and other antisocial and risk-taking behavior related to bipolar disorder. I wasn't diagnosed until I had to be talked down off a bridge."

Laur puts the coffeepot down and turns his whole body to see me. "East Bay Bridge?"

Weird answer.

But accurate. I nod.

"Yeah." He returns to his thermos. "That one's a problem for us, too. How d'you like the safety mesh?"

I remember the shining metal net, a strange hammock built to preserve my life. Seeing it between me and the water had been enough. I called Paul, even though he'd broken up with me three months prior. I'd started walking back as soon as he answered and he'd convinced me to check myself into a clinic before I was even off the bridge.

Yeah, remember how fast you went from wanting to die to wanting help.

"I saw it," I answer Laur.

Back off, Jeremy. You can still have a nice morning. You like this guy.

I do not back off. "You one of those Republicans who fought against it because it ruins the skyline?"

"Why the fuck do you think I'm a Republican?" That pisses him right off.

I'm exhausted by his anger. "I don't know. There's a lot of flags."

"I'm a damn patriot." He screws on the thermos cap. "But you're damn right I fought against them. A little fucking net isn't going to do shit to stop someone who is determined."

Because I didn't want to die enough?

"Someone—like a trained solider two months off his tour of duty—has the physical chops to climb down the mesh and execute his jump from there. We wanted a fucking fence."

He doesn't mean me. I know veterans are an at-risk group, just like LGBTQ+ youth, but I never considered the difference. Being trained to kill, conditioned to push through your limits, mixed with the pressure of being "all you can be"…

My people mix sleeping pills and booze and slash their wrists. What do his people do?

To the silence I offer, "I'm told any barrier is usually enough."

"Must be why guns work better than bridges, huh?" Laur smirks like it's a joke.

The idea makes me lightheaded. Like hovering above a dark pool of water and not being sure I can make myself swim. "Do you have guns here, Laur?"

"No." He glares as if I'm accusing him. "New Jersey has … very strict laws and I can't..." He clears his throat. "I can't pass the mental health exam."

Hot damn! Common ground. "Oh, cool! What's wrong with you?"

As soon as the words leave, I know they're all wrong, but still they land and burn.

"What's wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with you? Asking a guy a thing like that?"

"I just told you," I answer defensively. "Bipolar disorder."

"Fuckin' moron." He swipes his thermos off the counter and picks up his keys.

"Forgive me, I thought spending the night in a guy's literal dungeon—"

"It doesn't."

Keys and coffee in hand, he stands refusing to look at my face. Lips pressed so tight they disappear. Maybe bringing me to his house was his version of vulnerability. How did it backfire so spectacularly?

"Your sneakers are on the doormat and your phone is on the counter. Meet me in the car. Five minutes. Do not bring this up again."

****

Neither of us has the courage or kindness to say something soft as he drives.

Galway City is desolate at this early hour. There must be days when he doesn't see the sun.

"Listen, Chard, um…"

So sorry. Chard's not here right now. Care to leave a message?

"I'd hoped this morning would go better."

"It's my fault." Entirely. Because I'm a moron.

"Not really. I'm—I don't know, a bastard at the best of times."

Oh, shit. This is an apology. What do people say when I apologize? "I … it's okay. Thanks. I shouldn't pry."

He snorts, agreeing. Then continues, "I don't know anything about bipolar."

We turn a corner and I recognize my safe space by the fluttering rainbow flags. About three blocks from East Quay.

"I'm conflicted here."

Shit. That means breaking up.

We weren't dating!

"On the one hand, I like, uh … engaging in a bout of wildly passionate, totally protected sex, once a week."

I nod, holding the knot of fear in check, because don't I want more? But not a lot more? Just what we'd almost had this morning.

"But on the other..." I'm on his blind side and he can't look over. "I'm … I am aware … I don't know—a friend of mine—a doctor friend of mine, talks about self-destructive tendencies. Like a fire in a person's head. And the best you can do is find someone to help keep it a nice warm bonfire."

I like that metaphor. But what the fuck is he trying to say?

"But there are other people who kind of throw … uh." He had a word he wanted, and chose something different. "Gas on the fire."

I frown. "I can manage my symptoms just fine."

"Chard." He huffs out a breath, self-defeated and smiling. "I'm not talking about you."

Right. His self-destructive tendencies. His doctor friend. His experiences with self-harm and suicidal ideation.

"I'm the gas on your bonfire."

I wanted to be that other person. I'd never wanted anything more and I'd never had a goal so impossible to attain.

Laur says, "Maybe we ought to have this conversation when you're in a better state."

Right because I was off my routine, off my meds, and out of my mind.

"I shouldn't have said anything," He stops in front of the club, which looks sickly in dawn's early light. He doesn't turn off the car or turn to see me. "I'm gonna do what I want anyway."

"Good." I reach out to take his chin and turn his face toward me.

He fights, but he looks.

I smile. "Next time you kidnap me, let's make sure it's after five p.m. Or, you know, break into my apartment and bring me the pillbox."

He sneers from whatever fresh meanness is in his head. I meant to kiss him, but his expression grew blank and unreadable.

And that scares the shit out of me.

He said, "I've gotta go to work."

"Right." I get out feeling oddly unsettled but weirdly happy at the same time.

We had a kind of relationship and it scares him as much as it scares me. I'll take my meds, take a nap, eat something, and figure this shit out for both of us.