“Yep. You can go do whoever you want, because I’m not waiting for you to decide that you want me.”
I move to close the door, but he stops it with his boot. “I thought you knew I wanted you already, and who is this mystery other woman I’m supposed to be hooking up with? I never knew about this.”
“I can’t keep doing this.” I give up the battle of the door and retreat into the room. “I’m tired and a little tipsy and honestly kind of pissed at you.” All of this is true. My head is already starting to ache from the booze at the party and the rollercoaster of emotions as I flop down on the bed.
Part of me expects Eric to make a pass at me, to push my limits like I suspect Michael would, but he surprises me. He grabs a water cup from the bathroom and hands it to me, pressing a kiss to my hairline.
“Get some rest, Stardust,” he whispers. “I’m right here when you decide you want me.”
Damn him. I don’t know what just happened, but his tenderness and proximity flipped the switch on me. I want him. Now.
“Wait,” I tell him as I try and pull him down to me.
“Good night, Constance.”
18 – Eric – Then
It was the fourth day of the festival, and I was anxious to see Connie. We didn’t get to see each other at all yesterday, since we were each busy with our own workshops, but today, today was going to be a full day of hanging out.
We had been hanging out at Chris’ house with a bunch of people from the festival—not quite a party, but I don’t know what else to call it. I had noticed she was withdrawn throughout the day, and honestly, I couldn’t figure out why, so I asked Lilli if something had happened.
“No, Connie just has low days sometimes. I never really know how to navigate them, but she wants to be alone during them, so I let her be,” she said.
I heard her say that Connie wanted to be alone, and I thought about listening to her advice, but I couldn’t keep myself from looking for her. I think it was unintentional, as in I never made the decision to find her. I just wandered throughout the house, subconsciously methodical in the way I started on one side of the house to the other.
Connie was nowhere inside, nor out in the backyard. I looked up at the sky growing more and more brownish gray, and I went to text her, but my phone was dead. There was a park across the street, and I finally saw her in a swing through the front window.
I didn’t think twice. She seemed dimmer somehow. Maybe it was the slump in her shoulders, the way her spine curved as she lazily pushed herself back and forth in the swing. She looked defeated. My shoes made a crunching noise as I walked over to her on the wood chips, and her head snapped up before her eyes locked on mine. Recognition was the closest thing to a spark in her normally-bright eyes. I didn’t know what it meant, but it scared me. I wanted to make it better, whatever it was.
“There you are!” I said, trying to brighten her spirits. She managed a small smile, and I took the victory. I sat next to her on an open swing facing the opposite direction. “Are you doing okay?”
She looked at her shoes, the toes buried in the wood chips before she shrugged and pushed the swing gently. “Yeah, I don’t know. I’m just… in my own head, I guess.”
Connie’s voice sounded dry and small, as if she hadn’t really spoken yet today. She was closed up, like a barricade holding back an onslaught of soldiers.
“Talk to me, Connie.”
19 - Connie – Then
“Talk to me, Connie,” Eric said.
I recognized the invitation before he vocalized it. We sat in the swings as I looked up at the grey clouds encasing us. The birds had gone into hiding. The air crackled. It was like the whole world knew I was on the edge of canceling out all my progress. Were the dark skies meant to be oppressive? Were they pushing me closer to the edge? Was nature already in mourning for the relapse I hadn’t committed?
Once the words were out, they couldn’t be taken back. My mind was racing. How much was too much? Did Eric care about me, or was he just enchanted by the performer? What were the tell-tale signs something was a real connection? How could you ever be sure that they love the parts of you you’d hidden away?
I weighed my options. I didn’t want his pity, and I didn’t want him to think I was fishing for it either. I could either annoy him, or he’d feel bad for me. Neither felt great. I could say nothing, but that wasn’t a great option either. I just wanted to be honest with him. I wanted to be real, to show him all my shadows and flaws and still be enough.
I took a deep breath and let it out. Eric’s eyes were still on me, waiting.
“You know how people are made up of mostly water?” I looked at him, and he had his full attention on me. I squirmed under the intensity of his gaze. “I feel like that sometimes. Like, even under still water, there is a strong current pulsing through me. I feel like a part of the ocean that has been bottled up, the water in me yearning for the vastness of its past life.” I paused to see if he would ridicule me, or of he was confused, but he stayed quiet, just focused on what I was saying. He was holding space for me so I could say what I needed to. “My doctor called it Persistent Depressive Disorder. It gets better, but it also gets worse. There’s not a cure; there’s no end to it. It comes in waves, and I just have to live with it.”
The Arizona sky was a slab of sheet metal as thunder rolled and shook through me. I leaned my head back and took in a deep breath of the thick humidity. I had no idea if my analogy made sense, but I felt a little lighter being able to put the heaviness I felt into words that were clear to me. The more ambiguous the heaviness felt, the harder it was to manage.
I could tell it was going to rain. I thought about suggesting that we go inside, find some shelter, but I also felt that desire to connect to the vastness in some way. The closest this desert could get to the ocean was in a downpour.
“I hate this,” Eric said, startling me from the onset of disassociation, his voice a medicinal salve gently applied to a wound. “I wish I could take it from you. I wish I could help.”
He meant it to be endearing, and it was, in a way. My heart swooned at the implication he cared enough to say anything, but I also felt like my mind had lost its footing. Does he want to take this so I’m happy, sparkling Connie all the time? Am I not good enough as I am? I remember thinking that maybe it was my fault for wearing my depression like a badge of honor,but shouldn’t I be proud? Proud that I’ve survived all my worst days?
