“Okay?”
“I mean, I don’t know. He wants to close the relationship but…”
“Ah.” He said this like Jay hadn’t probably told him.
“I already know how you feel about that.”
He looked at me innocently. “I didn’t say anything.” But I could tell he thought it, that what Jay wanted from me was normal, that I was the one wanting something foreign and dangerous. I was grateful he held his tongue. It was hard enough trying to climb this hill at the same time I was deciding whether I was willing to die on it or not.
“We’re attached to each other so I just… I don’t know what to do, like.” I dropped my face into my hands, overwhelmed, about to cry, before gathering myself and playing it off by rubbing my cheek.
Tristan reached out to touch me before withdrawing his hand and placing it on the back of his neck. “Seven years is a long time to be with someone.”
“What’s your longest relationship?”
He paused. “Three years. But yeah, seven is a millennium to me. Like I said, I might be dead.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Fine.” He scooted toward me. My body clamped with anticipation, but he stopped, dropping his head down, looking up at me with big, liquid eyes.
“Can I ask you something personal?” I said.
“Go ahead.”
I picked up my wineglass, turning it in my hand. “Would you call yourself depressed?”
He paused. “Not at this moment. But I have depression, yeah. If that’s what you mean.”
“I’m sorry. That was probably insensitive.”
“It’s fine. I don’t have a problem talking about it.”
“I think my dad’s depressed.”
“Has he talked to anyone?”
“Like a therapist?”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
I stared at the slight wrinkle in his forehead to avoid his eyes. “Do you talk to someone?”
“Every week.” He smiled crookedly. “And I’m on drugs.”
“What does it feel like?”
“Being on drugs?”
He was trying to make me laugh, so I gave him my laugh. “Being depressed.” When he didn’t respond right away, I said, “Is that a dumb question?”
“No. I was just thinking. I don’t even know if I could explain it.”
He set his beer on the coffee table and thought for a long time. Outside, partygoers shouted on the sidewalk before the street went quiet.
“You’re a good student,” he began. “You have lots of friends, you want things—to learn, teach, that girl in your political philosophy class, you want herbad. Then one day, you’re just tired. Not sleepy, tired. You don’t want anything. Not to teach, not the girl, only the comfort of your bed, which no longer comforts you. You’re always crying. You didn’t even know you had that much water in your body. You were never good at biology.” He laughed. “Your friends drop by—”
