The key to what, I’m not exactly sure. Unsticking me?
Could it be as simple as an apology? Avulnerableapology?
I hope so.
I breeze into the kitchen, where Dad is chopping away at zucchini, already deep into cooking dinner. “Smells good!”
“Thanks,” Dad says, pulling off an impressive spin move to cascade the zucchini chunks from the cutting board into a sizzling pan. “How was therapy?”
“Good! I think... Yeah.”
I don’t want to get into all the details, nor do I want to bring up Maggie to my parents. I probably didn’t share that much with them, so it’ll be more annoying than helpful. They might have opinions I don’t like.
“All right, great. I don’t want to pry, of course, but if you ever want to share more...”
“Thanks, Dad, yeah. There weren’t like any major epiphanies or anything. But it was helpful to talk with him.”
“I’m glad.” Dad holds the pan above the flame and gently shakes the contents around. This guy could seriously have his own cooking show. “Hey, and you’ve been taking the herbal medicine, right? From the Ayurvedic doctor?”
“Oh, yeah.” I forgot to the past two days, but I don’t want to tell Dad that. The appointment happened earlier this week. The doctor was warm and smart and wise, and talked about everything in the body and mind being interconnected, but I wasn’t really sold that she’d be able to cure me. Dad seemed so hopeful about it, though. “It’s good. I mean, I can’t really feel if it’s, like, gonna help me turn seventeen. But who knows, right?”
“As long as you’re taking it. And doing the pranayama breathing exercises too.”
“Definitely.” Nope. I suck.
“Hello!” Mom says, taking off her long camel coat as she walks into the room. “My boys in the kitchen, what a lovely sight to come home to.” She kisses Dad and wraps an arm around me.
“Hey, Mom,” I say.
“Carter had a good therapy session,” Dad said. “And he feels like the herbal medicine might be working.”
“Oh! That’s great news!” I can’t fully read Mom’s expression.But it seems possible she’s just as skeptical about the effectiveness of any of this as I am.
“Yeah!” I can’t maintain this faux-hopefulness for much longer. “I’m just gonna drop my stuff in my room and do one thing before dinner.”
“Go for it,” Mom says, giving me one final squeeze before releasing me.
Once I’m in my bedroom, it’s Layla time. I pull out my phone, dive onto my bed, and head to Instagram.
Layla has a story up, a reshare of a dog rescue looking for a family to adopt a fuzzy little creature named Peaches, who is looking directly into the camera in a way that’s unexpectedly moving. Maybe I should adopt Peaches. Maybe that would fix everything.
I scroll through Layla’s grid again. She’s definitely attractive. But nothing on here makes it seem like we’d be a perfect match or anything—I’m not actually a dog person, and I prefer captions that have jokes in them—so I get why I might’ve wanted to end it. Still, I need to apologize for being a heartless sixteen-year-old.
And show her—and the universe—that I have what it takes to be seventeen.
I begin crafting a message.
Layla! Whaddup! You are looking so good, girl!
No. Delete.
Layla! Yo. Do you remember me? Because of my condition, I only just found out we dated. Fun! But then I also found out I broke up with you like a real jerkhole. Less fun!
That’s not right, either. Delete.
It’s hard to write a message when you’re hoping it will, like, singlehandedly solve your life.
Ten minutes and approximately eighty-five drafts later, I compose something I’m happy with:
