Page 78 of Puck You
Sebastian’s voice was a welcome comfort.The sound glided over my skin and left raised goose bumps in its wake.He slid onto the bench beside me, close enough that our legs were touching, and I found myself shifting even closer to absorb the heat of his body.Sebastian lowered a hand to his thigh palm up, an open invitation for me to touch him.I reached down and traced the tip of my finger over the creases etched into his palm.They were like the lines carved across the rink after practice, right before the Zamboni came through to smooth out the ice.
“You’re supposed to hold my hand, not read my palm,” Sebastian teased.
I slowly intertwined our fingers, marveling at the sheer expanse of his hand in comparison to mine.“Do you believe in that stuff?”I asked.“Palm reading and fortune telling?”
“Not really.I like to think we pave our own path, not that it’s already written.”
Sebastian glanced over at me in amusement, as if he’d just discovered something strangely fascinating about me.Was there something on my face, or had my question taken him bysurprise?I resisted the urge to brush away a nonexistent crumb from the corner of my mouth.
“If our lives were fated by some predetermined factor, at least we’d have the chance to know how things would play out.”
He chuckled.“That would make life very boring.”
“I hate not knowing.It drives me crazy.”
“I can understand that more than anybody,” Sebastian said in a low, pained voice.“But what if you knew how things were going to end and couldn’t do anything about it?”
That, I thought, was a very good point.“Why couldn’t we have the best of both worlds?A little peek into the future to see what’s coming, but the power to change things you don’t like.”
“You’re quite introspective tonight.Any particular reason?”
I was preparing to shrug my shoulders and change the subject when he squeezed my hand, as if to convey something that couldn’t be said.I could see it in his eyes.You can trust me,just like I trust you.
“I played like shit tonight.”Sure, it wasn’t a heartfelt confession, but it was a start.Sebastian didn’t say anything; I could tell he was waiting for the real answer.“There’s nothing you can do to help.I don’t even know how to help.”
“Help what?”
I could hear Caroline’s voice in the back of my mind.Why are you so scared to talk about him?Or anything related to your feelings for that matter ...
“My sister.She hasn’t been herself lately,” I admitted, biting my bottom lip out of nervous habit.“At first, I thought she was just being a teenager—moody, and stubborn, and a little bit sassy.But it’s more serious than that.”
“How so?”
“I—well—it’s not easy for me to talk about.The only person who knows about my family is Sam,” I confessed.Sebastian waited patiently for me to work up the nerve to finish my thoughts.“Gabby is clinically depressed, most likely, or she’s in a depressive episode, one that might eventually shift into a manic episode.That’s how bipolar disorder works.Both illnesses run in the family—my mother’s side—so we’ve seen this before.”
“What can be done?”he asked in a soft, calming voice.
“There’s therapy, and medication, of course.But my dad has a hard time trusting mental health professionals.We talked about her seeing a therapist over winter break, but he hasn’t followed through.Not yet, at least.I’m just worried he’s going to keep putting it off.”
“And your mom?”
This time, opening up about my past felt a little easier, as if speaking with my roommates had prepared me to be more vulnerable with Sebastian.Rather than blurting things out in a moment of panic, I spoke softly; each word felt like an unburdening.I recounted my mother’s struggles, skimming over the grim details and focusing on the main event: her departure.
“That couldn’t have been easy,” Sebastian said.“Having someone there one day and not the next is, well ...”
“It’s not the same as your dad.I can’t imagine the pain of losing someone that you know loved you with every fiber of their being.My mom wanted nothing to do with me.She wouldn’t even let me visit during her hospitalization.I was only twelve, and my parents probably wanted to shield me, but it was too late for that.I was with her during the manic episodes.I heard her and my father fight every night for weeks.I saw her sit in the same chair for over three months and rot.It’s hard to hidesomething like that.”
Every time they’d turned me away, I’d felt the knife lodged in my chest slide a little bit deeper.I couldn’t fathom why my own mother didn’t want to see me.Even to this day, I felt partly to blame.Was it something I’d done?Or was I just not worth fighting for?
“Do you keep in touch with her?”
“She sends me letters sometimes, but I don’t read them.She really fucked us up, you know?My dad still hasn’t moved on.He’ll likely blame himself for her leaving for the rest of his life.”
“Why haven’t you read the letters?”he asked.
“I’m not interested in hearing excuses for why she left, and I don’t want to dredge up those memories.It’s painful.”
“How often does she write you?”
