“There’s no way I’d survive an entire day. I was barely holding on here… but it’d be a good way to go.”
Finley shoves my shoulder.
“I want to take you somewhere,” I say. “Can I?”
“You’ve got me until twelve,” she says. “I need to work out this afternoon, plus finish some homework. You can come if you want.”
I bite my lip, holding in anAlready did, thanks. Finley’s smiling at me, like she can read my mind.
And I know without a doubt, I’m going to end up loving this girl.
19
Finley
“Where are we?” Iask Zach after he directs me to park anywhere in the lot.
Now that his concussion symptoms have subsided, he can drive but I insisted because… well, I guessI’mnot ready for it. I avoid the reason for my concern the way I avoid the fact that Zach is my brother’s teammate. Both are boulders waiting to come loose as we head down this winding road.
“My apartment,” he answers.
He waits for me to exit the driver’s door before walking toward a nondescript brick apartment building.
“This is the place you wanted to take me? I think I’ve given you the wrong impression.”
“No, High-flyer,” he says, playfully grabbing my waist while I swat at him. “I’m grabbing some clothes before we go where I want to take you. If it means you see where I live to prove I can be responsible, who am I to stand in the way?”
He pauses at the first landing and holds his arm out wide waiting for me to pass him. “Second door on your left."
I pause beside him to whisper, “I bet your neighbors don’t know a Calder Trophy winner lives among them.”
A laugh bursts from Zach’s chest. It’s cute the way he laughs, an understated heh-heh-heh he sometimes covers with a hand, as if he’s self-conscious about it. The most adorable laugh lines stencil into his reddening cheeks. I don’t wait for him to respond and continue to the door marked 124. The doormat beneath my feet reads,Welcome to the Sin Bin. I look over my shoulder at him.
“It was a housewarming gift from Volk,” Zach explains.
“I like it.”
The weight settling in my chest gets heavier once Zach opens the door and invites me into his apartment. His life. Would he do this if I told him the reason I dropped out of the sport I love? The reason my life will always be more complicated than it is for other people?
It’s new for me, having to tell someone about my bipolar disorder. My therapist says I’ll know the right time, to trust myself, which is laughable given how adept my brain is at lying to me.
During the highs, it tells me I don’t need to sleep, that I should do gymnastics at three in the morning. It forgets to warn me my actions have consequences. And then when it sinks into the depths of hell during my lows, it whispers I’m pulling everyone around me down, that I’m a disappointment, that I’d be better off not being here at all.
I shiver, thinking of how low I felt two years ago.
I know the signs of an oncoming episode, but it’s not always easy to determine whether something’s inane or significant. Like this morning with Zach, I can’t remember how long it’s been since I feltthatgood.
I’m not talking about the orgasms, which I give myself often. But being around him lights a lantern in my chest, brighteninga space that has long been dark. The rush when I kissed him, when his body fused to mine, when he looked at me like I was the greatest gift he’d ever received reminded me of the highs of my bipolar disorder. I’m not sure if this signals the beginning of hypomania or falling hopelessly in love.
I should ask Dr. Warren, but I’m afraid of the answer. Because if I’m entering a hypomanic state, it’ll throw off my entire life. It’ll mean I’m heading for a crash, the kind that could derail all my progress at school and gymnastics.
“Are you coming in, or…?” Zach stares at me, still standing in the doorway, enveloped in my thoughts.
I take a breath and walk into a normal apartment. It’s nice—hardwood floors, a large open-concept space, marble countertops in the kitchen. “I’ve never had my own apartment,” I tell him.
Zach’s shoulders relax. “Me neither. Kennedy and I lived here together. She moved out only a month before I was flattened like a pancake.”
I can still picture the hit in my head, the way he tried to stand and fell back down, how he had to crawl to the bench. We’re both athletes. Injuries come with the territory. But my chest aches remembering how helpless he looked.
