66. Lydia
Lydia
There are times when I’m really sad because…
sad shit is happening. And then there are other times, like now, when I’m just fucking sad, and I don’t understand why.
My therapist tells me it’s just my brain trying to sort through and process a lot of the things that have happened recently or in my life in general, and basically my brain is getting backed up and clogged up with all the bad shit that’s stuck up there, so it’s all being pushed to the forefront because it doesn’t know where else to safely put it.
It fucking sucks. It sucks to feel like you were pulling yourself up out of the pit and then something shoves you back down.
I don’t even know what caused it, so how am I supposed to know how to fix it?
I ping-pong between pretending I’m okay—don’t be the girl who’s always struggling, Lydia—and admitting I’m not, aka telling someone I’m not okay before I explode on them for breathing too loudly or saying the wrong thing to me.
I guess this is where the giving yourself grace part comes in.
Then there’s the other craving, the one that has a face.
He put us back in the safe box and taped it shut, though.
Labeled it ‘Do Not Touch’. I get it. But some traitor part of me wants to untape it anyway.
Wanting him feels dangerous, addicting. That word feels scary, attaching it to someone, but the feeling I get around him is something I find myself chasing.
Am I insane for even liking a boy again?
I try to tell myself I don’t need one more thing to spiral about, and then my brain pulls up an image of his smile. I thought the part of my brain that could feel this way again was fried, nonexistent, didn’t work anymore…but then he came along, all perfect and calming and fucking unavailable.
Simone’s eyes scan me from across the table. “How’s my girl?”
“Kinda off, honestly…having a hard week,” I admit.
Simone doesn’t flinch. She’s always the steady one. “Okay.”
“It’s a little more manageable this time,” I add, because I need her to know that I’m not spiraling. “Like, I know what it is. I know the signs. I’m able to poke my head above water and get air even if I’m still in the water.”
“What can we do?” Lani asks next to me. “Besides physically removing you from the hole and feeding you a bunch of fun carbs.”
“Honestly?” I shrug. “Just be here, like you always are. And maybe…distract me. Keep my brain busy so it doesn’t pitch a tent in the worst possible campsite.”
Simone perks up. “Greek game night is coming up soon! Could be fun…I mean, I’ll definitely brainstorm some stuff for us to do that doesn’t involve being stuck around a bunch of drunk college kids, too, but I think we could all still enjoy that, even sober.”
“That actually doesn’t sound awful,” I tell her.
I glance at the time. “I’ve got to run to class,” I say, standing. “I love you, idiots.”
“Love you,” Simone sings.
Lani squeezes my wrist, and I give her a soft smile.
I slide into a seat a row over from where I usually sit. I don’t look at him, but I can feel him.
I try to take notes, but all I manage is a page of arrows and the words scribbled down.
I hate how aware I am of him. The sound of his voice when the professor asks him a question.
The way I can get lost in watching him focus on his work.
The low rumble of his laugh when Dr. Helms makes a dumb joke.
The entire class, I rehearse an apology in my head, but as soon as class ends, I do my usual pack-up-fast-and-bolt routine instead, trying to leave.
I’m still shoving my notebook in my bag when I feel him closing the distance.
The fine hairs on my arms do their tiny salute because my body knows he’s there.
He says my name in that low, warm voice of his, and I hate that I love the sound.
“Lydia.”
I turn. “Bash, hey.” My voice comes out a little squeaky.
He grins, a small one that still somehow forces me to smile back. How can a girl not be stupid for that smile? I’ve hooked up with a lot of guys—that I’m not proud of—and none of them made me feel a fraction of what Bash does, and he’s not even actively trying to sleep with me.
“Hey,” he says, softer now. “I…wanted to ask you something.”
“I’ll try to answer,” I say, teasingly.
“Would you…maybe want to grab coffee, one day after class…or whenever you’re free?”
I’m confused at first, and my brain is only hearing ethics and danger and yes please, all at once.
“Isn’t that…not allowed?” I ask.
“Yeah—so.” He rubs the back of his neck, and I watch the nerves flicker across his face.
It’s…cute, which I will not be telling him.
“I wanted to talk to you about that, too. I mean, it sounds weird after I just asked you to coffee. I probably should’ve led with this part.
They’re not connected, and I don’t want you to think they’re connected—”
“Bash,” I say, smiling. “Breathe.”
He huffs a little laugh. “Right. Okay. Well, I got switched out of the CRC group. My professor moved me to the suicide loss group. It’s something we’d talked about for a while, and the slot opened.
It wasn’t…I didn’t request it because of—” He gestures vaguely between us.
“I wasn’t expecting it to be this soon, but… I think it’s where I’m supposed to be.”
The words make me feel relieved and scared. The tape on that box loosens. Excitement sparks inside me. I hate that a little. I love it too.
Dammit.
“Oh,” I say. “Okay.”
“And the coffee thing was just…separate,” he adds, smoother now. “Publicly and no pressure. If that feels like too much for any reason, I understand.”
It doesn’t feel like too much. It feels exactly like what I need. “Yes,” I tell him. “But…on one condition.”
His eyebrows tick up. “Name it.”
“Pali bailed on me,” I say, rolling my eyes with a smile. “Debate tournament season. She was helping me catch up, and now I’m kind of…on my own. I need to be ready for midterms, and I’m so behind. If you can’t, it’s fine, I’ll figure it out—”
“I’ll help,” he says immediately. Then he smiles like he’s trying not to look too pleased that I asked. “I wouldn’t leave you hanging like that,” he shrugs. “Maybe coffee can double as a first study session.”
“I’d like that.”
“How’s tomorrow?” he asks.
I nod before my anxiety can talk me out of it. “Tomorrow works.”
“Cool,” he says, backing towards the door, eyes still on me. “I’ll…text you?”
“Yeah,” I say all awkwardly, and nod again. I need to stop nodding like a bobble-head. “Sounds good.”
He gives me one last look. “See ya, Lydia.”
“Bye, Bash.” I hate how much I like the way his name tastes.
He peels off toward the door, and I stand there for a second in the emptying classroom, holding my backpack and my breath.
I don’t want to turn this into some grand narrative in my head.
I also don’t want to pretend my heart didn’t just do a stupid gymnastic routine because a boy I think I like asked me to drink coffee.
On the walk back across campus, the cravings try to slide in, offering their miracle cure for everything that always aches.
I put my earbuds in and play the playlist I always have ready to pull me out of my own head.
I feel okay. This is okay. This is good.
Right? I mean, I’m excited. I hate that I’m excited.
I actually, really don’t hate it.