Dr. Warren removes her reading glasses and settles them on top of her head. “You remember what we talked about?”
I sigh. My family’s concern isn’t unwarranted. People with bipolar 2 disorder have longer depressive episodes and higher rates of suicide than most disorders. Even when taking medication, they can relapse. And if they don’t take medication consistently, it can become less effective. Dr. Warren has reminded me countless times how important a support system is to staying healthy, and I don’t disagree. But my family’s version of support has resulted in a micromanagement of every aspect of my life.
“It’s hard to recognize early signs, I know, but I’m following the schedule we developed. After this, I’m going to read for fun for my Friday relaxation activity. I know I need to pace myself.”
I’m choosing to live in a world with constant triggers. Dr. Warren knows about my rigorous academic schedule and my part-time job at the café, but not my gymnastics. I could tell her because I’m protected by patient-doctor confidentiality.
But I don’t; I’m afraid of what she might say.
I trust Dr. Warren. She taught me how to keep myself safe and detect an oncoming episode so I could head it off. It’s not an exaggeration to say I owe her everything. She convinced my parents to loosen their grip and let me come here for school.If Dr. Warren doesn’t approve of my return to gymnastics, I’d have to revisit the plan. And I don’t want to do that. I trust she’s sufficiently prepared me.
“That’s good, Finley,” she says. “I’m proud of you and all the progress you’ve made.”
I swallow hard, trying to keep my emotions in check. “Thank you.”
Her words remain with me thirty minutes later as I curl under a blanket on the absurdly comfortable couch to read a sports romance novel. I’m a sucker for these, even if the athletes on the page are nothing like the ones I know in real life. It’s nice to pretend.
Ten minutes have passed when the front door of the house opens, followed by the beep of the security system.
“Hey,” Zach says, stepping into view moments later.
It’s like the universe is poking fun at me, at the declaration I made.Here’s an athlete who’s not like the rest of them.
“Were you driving?”
He shakes his head, his dark hair flopping with the movement. “Nah, one of the athletic trainers drove me. I’m not great at driving on a good day. Best not to chance it.”
It’s such a minor thing, the way he stresses the Ain certain words, but I find it so damn endearing.
“No sunglasses,” I observe.
Between my hectic schedule the last few days and Zach working with the Palmer City Wolves trainers, we haven’t seen much of each other. I read no fewer than two hundred pages and wrote a ten-page history paper on the Cold War. Add twelve hours of gymnastics and conditioning and eight hours of sleep each night, and I haven’t had time to join Gem and Zach for dinner.
Zach poked his head into my room a few times to sayhibut didn’t mention the deal we struck, my questions about hisromantic life, or my casual comment about our hookup. I’m on a roll with bad decisions lately.
I’m trying not to read into his standoffish behavior, which is challenging, given my history with men. Not that Zach and I are anything more than friends. Friends who are temporary roommates. Friends who are going to help each other with what they struggle with most. Friends, friends, friends.
“I’m tolerating light better.” Zach takes a step into the room, then pauses. “Okay if I join you?”
He’s sonice.Considerate without being suffocating. How does he manage to chip away at the walls I’ve carefully built?
“Sure,” I reply, which is all the permission Zach needs to hurl himself onto the couch like he’s jumping into a swimming pool.
“That must be a relief, getting back to video games and movies and whatever.”
His shrug is subdued, which gives me pause. Zach Briggs doesn’t usually have low energy.
“I’m not watching much…”
He trails off without explaining. He doesn’t have to. I know what it’s like to worry about permanently losing the sport you love. The stakes are higher for Zach, whose sport pays his bills. He’s been in the league for a couple of years, but he’s not set up for life if injury cuts his career short.
I don’t need to be a professional to understand the ramifications from an identity and a fulfillment perspective though. Both of us arranged our entire lives to chase the joy of success in our sports, the cheer from the crowds, the high of a win.
Losing can untether you, leave you drifting in a current, hoping to find a port.
I roll my silver ring around my ring finger. “Should we… start on the list?”
His head turns to the side, his dark eyes soft, vulnerable. “Maybe you can read to me?”
