Page 5 of Deep In Love
The to-do list I wrote after Cheryl’s email sits by my laptop, none of the items crossed off. Rather, I continue to add tasks in fear they will be the topic of her cryptic meeting.
There’s no space in my schedule to pencil in “annihilating middle-aged men in trivia.” My silence is answer enough, and Amy flops onto the floor and steals my grading pen—the perfect shade of blue—and taps it against my forehead.
“We’ve talked about this,” she begins, winding up to start the same lecture she gives me every time I decline an invite. “There’s a life waiting for you outside of the lab.”
She sighs deeply like she always does when we have this uncomfortable chat; the one where she tells me my achievements do not define my worth and I ignore how her words strike a chord.
It’s easy to get lost in my work. There’s almost a rush of oxytocin when I achieve something great. It’s the one aspect of my life I’m proud of.
I scramble for a rebuttal, but Amy has heard every excuse under the sun and has every counter argument locked and loaded, so instead, she shoves a piece of chocolate into my mouth.
“Wait here. I bought you something to wear.” She pops up from the floor and sprints into her bedroom, while I chew the treat I was force-fed. Amy returns with a small bag.
“I don’t want to go.”
“No, you don’t want to be seen.”
Fuck, I hate how her words peel back every hardened layer I’ve created to protect myself.
When I first left the hospital, I hid away. Didn’t leave my house until I moved from Philadelphia to Rhode Island for graduate school. In lectures, I would sit at the back of the class and avoid conversation. My groceries were ordered online and left outside my door. Every invitation to birthday parties or game nights was met with excuses and refusals. I was a hermit.
The only event I mustered up the courage to attend was the new student mixer, and I went partially to assuage my parents’ concern. It’s where I met Amy.
She found me in the bathroom, tears streaking my cheeks and wine covering my dress. One look at my mess and she leaped to action, dabbing away the wine with her stain stick and chatting away about the horrible date she had left.
She appeared when, more than anything else, I needed a friend.
Three weeks later, she moved into my two-bedroom apartment and brought life and love into the space when it was barren and cold.
Ithasgotten easier to exist in the public eye, but I’m not choosing to do so voluntarily.
Amy sees all, including the way my lip curls into a snarl at her statement. But she ignores my disdain and pulls a white linen long-sleeved top from the bag.
“It covers most of your scars, but it’s thin enough that you won’t get hot,” she explains as she offers the shirt. The fabric is soft beneath my fingertips, and emotion clogs my throat. “Go put it on.”
I’m halfway to my room when Amy adds, “And those cute jeans that make your butt look good!”
I change into the outfit she demanded, and for the first time in ages, I can hear it: the small, nearly silent voice in my mind saying I’m pretty. It’s been ages since I heard her voice. The thought alone is enough for tears to form, but I sniff them away and smooth the wrinkles from the fabric. I spin left, then right, examining the outfit in the mirror.
It’s fragile, but the foreign excitement of going out takes root. I’m running my fingers over the sleeves for the third time when Amy appears in my doorway and wolf whistles.
“Hottie on aisle four,” she yells, before launching to wrap her arms around me in an odd hug. Once again, I’m left without words, unable to express my thoughts.
I’ve never been great at sharing how I feel or unpacking my emotions. With Amy, I don’t need words. She understands everything I’m unable to say.
Her head falls onto my shoulder.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she whispers.
“Maybe tomorrow.”
It’s the same response I offer every time she asks. I don’t want to burden her with my thoughts. She’ll take on my emotions, try to carry my baggage, and she doesn’t deserve the weight on her shoulders.
I don’t miss the disappointment that flickers in her eyes.
Maybe one day I’ll work up the courage to tell her what rattles in my mind, but today is not that day.
Tugging on a loose strand of my hair, she allows the moment to fizzle away.
