Page 47 of Again with Feeling

“I’m fine.” It seemed to cost him something to add, “Thank you for asking.”

“Oh good. Great. That’s—that’s awesome sauce.”

Bobby wasn’t the eye-rolling type. But I could sense some emotions trying to make their way to the surface.

“So, like, what did the doctor say?”

More slowly, Bobby said, “I’m fine, Dash. I appreciate the concern. It was a one-time thing.”

“Is that what the doctor said?”

“I’ve got it under control.” He put his hand on the door, the nonverbal equivalent of:I’m going to shut this now, so go away. “I need to get back to work.”

A year ago, I probably would have slunk away. Maybe even six months ago, because everything with Bobby had felt so precarious after Christmas. But a lot had changed in the last year. A lot had changed since Christmas. A lot, it turned out, had changed in the last month. And all of a sudden, I was angry.

“Great,” I said, pushing past him into his room. “Let me help.”

Aside from the cardboard boxes, most of which were taped and ready to go, the room looked like it always did—which was to say, like Bobby didn’t live there. He was so neat. So organized. So considerate. Everything was always put away and in its place. Even with boxes all over the place, it felt more like a hotel room than somewhere someone actually lived. I had a vision of this room after all those boxes were gone, and it would be like every other room in Hemlock House. Frozen in time. A museum. Empty.

“So, did the doctor give you some exercises?” I asked. “Did you get a Xanax prescription in case it happens again? What did they say about seeing a therapist?”

Bobby turned to follow me as I moved around the room. He folded his arms again. He set his jaw. “What is this?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m being your friend. I’m checking in.”

“Really? Because it feels like you’re trying to pick a fight.”

“What would I be trying to pick a fight about?”

Bobby took a long breath through his nose. In tones so measured that they were like a klaxon for an imminent explosion, he said, “I didn’t see a doctor.”

“Oh! See, that was confusing because you kept answering my questions like you had. Kind of, you know, like you were lying to me.”

“I wasn’t lying to you. I was telling you the truth. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I have it under control.” He seemed to think I needed further clarification, so he added, “I don’t need to see a doctor.”

I said something that would have gotten me kicked out of the sandcastle competitiontout de suite.

Bobby said, “I need to finish packing.”

“You’ve got it under control?” I said.

He stared at me a moment longer. Then he crossed the room, opened a dresser drawer, and took out a stack of clothes. Normally, Bobby moved with an unthinking grace; he was a natural athlete, and he was a surfer, and he moved like someone confident in his own body. Now, his movements were choppy. His back was stiff. He looked like his head might snap off his neck if he turned too quickly.

“Let’s see,” I said. “Like you had everything under control after you broke up with West.”

He took out another stack of clothes.

“Remember that? When you were working every shift the sheriff would give you? And when you weren’t working, you were going to the gym? And when you weren’t at the gym, you were surfing—” My voice threatened to crack, so instead, I turned the volume up—anger instead of, you know, real feelings. (That’s a life hack.) “—and almost getting yourself killed because it was stupid to be out there by yourself, stupid to be out there in that weather, stupid to be taking risks like that when you knowbetter.” Somehow, I managed to bring my voice down, although it stayed quavery. “Under control like that?”

A flush climbed Bobby’s neck, rising into his cheeks. He looked away.

“You’re not going to say anything?” I asked.

“What do you want me to say?”

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