Page 69 of Love on the Waiver Wire

Sometimes if you love something enough, you’ll breathe all it’s air, suffocating it.

And Leo is suffocating me.

Owen has been my peace for the last eight weeks. An unlikely pairing, if I do say so myself. But a welcome one. And I miss the morning texts. I miss the good night texts. I miss him grabbing my thigh in his car.

And we haven’t even kissed yet.

I turn over onto my side just as a loud knock echo through my place. Groaning, I kick my blankets off me, the feeling of the sheet getting stuck on a toe filling me with silent rage.

I don’t bother looking in a mirror or even changing out of my sweats and ratty old t-shirt. It’s probably going to be Leo anyway.

Swinging the door open, I come face to face with three people I don’t expect.

“We’re worried about you,” Amara says as she holds out a box of pancake mix. Heidi lifts syrup into the air, a large smile on her face. Mila pops up behind them, a bottle of orange juice in one hand, and a bottle of champagne in the other.

“Brunch! Brunch! Brunch!” Amara chants, and the others dance around her with their various items.

No matter how hard I try to remain cold, my heart melts.

“Who called you?” I ask, my eyes brimming with tears.

“Your brother,” Amara shrugs, pushing me aside as they make their way to the kitchen.

“Plus I asked you something about art two days ago. You still haven’t responded. I knew then it was an emergency.”

I think back, but can’t recall her text. I haven’t wanted to check just to realize I have none from Owen.

As happy as I want to be, I’ve dealt with bouts of depression for the last ten years of my life. Nothing serious, I don’t think, but once in a while I’ll have my moments, and I’ll take a week to just be to myself and sit in my feelings.

Eventually the fog lifts, and I’m okay again. It’s not bad enough that I’ve been concerned about getting help, despite what my friends think.

I don’t talk about it often. I’m well aware that my life is good. I have it easy compared to so many that chug through the day, getting everything they need to done despite their circumstances.

But as Leo told me one time, the chemicals in my brain are to blame, not my life.

I’m allowed to feel how I feel.

I just don’t want to push the burden on anyone else.

The three women in front of me have always been instrumental to getting me out of my funks. Somehow, they always know, no matter what, when I’m starting to slip, and they come barging into my life whether I like it or not.

“You have that stash of chocolate chips still, right?” Mila asks, invading my cabinets.

“Top left,” I tell her, perching on a stool, curling my knees into myself.

Amara pulls a large bowl out, immediately pouring pancake mix in before taking it over to the sink and adding water, no measuring cup needed.

Heidi finds my speaker, plugging her phone into it. She scrolls for a few minutes before finding our favorite playlist and hitting play.

The three dance and twirl around my kitchen without a care in the world, and after a couple of minutes and a shared look between Amara and Mila they try to hide from me, Amara spins around the island, making her way over to me. Her hands are in the air as she sings to the song playing, a large grin on her face as she grabs my hands, pulling me gently off my stool.

It’s not that I don’t want to dance. It’s that I can’t. I’d never intentionally act like an asshole when my friends are doing this for me.

But they know that.

Amara firmly grabs hold of my hand, holding it above our heads as she spins. When the next song comes on—an even more upbeat pop song—Mila abandons the pancakes on the stove, holding the spatula to her mouth as she dances over to us. Heidi follows closely behind, a mason jar filled with mimosa in hand. They circle me, jumping up and down to the song, and I can feel myself break.

When my lips tip up, it’s not because I’m forcing it. It doesn’t feel physically painful to do so.

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