We looked at each other.
“My father is cheating on my mother,” she said, “and I amdesperateto talk to your dad about it. I don’t know what to do. He’s the only one who can help me figure it out.” Tears ran down her cheeks. “It’s not fucking fair that he’s gone.”
“No, it’s not,” I agreed. “You’re practically quoting me during every single one of my therapy sessions.”
“I asked Papá if I could see a therapist,” Isa said quietly at the same time I said under my breath, “My therapist thinks I’m depressed.”
Again, it was silent. I didn’t ask Isa what her dad had said (my guess was no), but she nodded in her resolute manner. “And what do you think?” she asked gently.
“Oh, I don’t think, Iknow,” I answered. “I know I’m depressed, Isa.” I sighed. “I’m always tired, but then I get so restless at night and can’t fall asleep. I find myself pulling away from people.” I swallowed. “I like my other friends, but I never eat lunch with them anymore. Maybe a few times a week, but that’s it. I go to the library for peace and quiet; I sit there alone and stare at the clock, just like in class. Watching—waitingfor the day to end. The only time I’m not a complete killjoy is during baseball or at home with my family and Grace.” I paused. “Or with you.”
Because, truthfully, being with Isa today had splashed some color back into my life.
“We tried an antidepressant last summer,” I continued. “And it made everything worse. I was…” I searched for the right words, reluctant to find them. “One day I’d be racked with anxiety and agitated by everyone, and the next I felt like I’d totally disassociated from my life. I wasn’t myself.” I coughed. “Anyway, I stopped taking that medication.”
Isa nodded again and waited. Ever since we were kids, she could always tell when I had more to say. It was a superpower.
I told her about the not-so-new medicine that my therapist had not-so-recently recommended, and my fear of history repeating itself. I didn’t want to be a ghost again.
“I’m always here for you, Everett,” she said after I finished speaking. “And I promise I’m going to do a much better job of showing it.”
“Thanks, Isa,” I said. “I’m always here for you, too. I know I’m not my dad, but you can talk to me.”
In response, she smiled.
I smiled back and moved closer to her, close enough to hold out my hand.
She took it.
But instead of shaking hands, we faced off in a thumb war.
It was how our childhood secret handshake started. We’d created it in third grade, and it had seven stages. Isa laughed when we sealed things with an aggressive pinkie promise.
Muscle memory, for once, had never felt so good.
“We should probably tell Grace we found my parents’ car,” Isa said, patting the Tesla’s hood. “What do you think? Should ‘fingerprints’ be filed under damage?”
“Eh, I’d let it slide,” I said. “Considering they’reyourfingerprints.”
Isa giggled. “On three?”
I nodded. “On three.”
One.
Two.
Three.
Chapter 36
Grace
I cheered when James and I found them; Ev made a grandta-dagesture toward the Tesla. “Oh my god, thank god!” I raced over to assess the car, where Isa preened on the hood, jokingly batting her eyelashes. I smiled and flipped her the bird. “Not abruise, not a dent, nothing. Not even pigeon poop!”
Then I basically collapsed into Ev’s arms, relieved. “Whoa there,” he said. “Stay with me.”
“I am never driving that car again,” I vowed into his shoulder.
