28. A Confession
O rion has been quiet. Not “me talking his ear off” quiet like a couple days ago, and not because I’ve also been quiet. No, his silence is as heavy and loaded as the world after a gun’s gone off.
Meanwhile the cicadas are having entire conversations of their own, their constant buzz filling the night with white noise as I try to figure out what’s going on. There’s an undercurrent of emotion that thickens the air between us, the kind I’d have sprinted away from in the past.
But my friend just died. In my arms. Any emotion after that is child’s play. I couldn’t avoid them right now if I tried anyway. And I don’t want to. Not anymore.
The toast soothed some of those raw nerves, and like Orion said, I can’t explain why. Just that it felt like the kind of finality Benoit would’ve wanted and a much-needed stopgap before the funeral.
The only way to fully mourn him is to get back home. Which means climbing this mountain to his car in a threadbare Swan Lake outfit, an oversized leather jacket, frayed satin ballet flats, and an ankle swollen to the size of a baseball, wrapped in tulle that hangs on by a thread.
So yeah, Orion’s silence wears on me, if at least because I need something to take my mind off the fact I’m turning into one giant blister. Sitting in front of the fire he built, safe in Fury land, I’m still racking my brain for what changed between us.
First I blamed the fact he hasn’t been able to get in touch with his brothers, every call going to voicemail.
But he seemed to chalk that up to “single-minded Fury men when it comes to protecting their wives,” which is kind of hilarious when I think about it.
The way Brylie would absolutely fuck Dash up if he ever called her that.
Lucy’s scaredy-cat behind would flee if Hatch ever looked at her the way Orion looks at me.
Once I knocked that off my list, I went to the Wildes. Orion’s worried about them, certainly. That’s why we’re going at a speed that’s as breakneck as my body will allow.
My pain tolerance is dwindling back to normal, sheer exhaustion burning off my hypomania like the sun to the mist this afternoon. Hypomanic episodes aren’t ideal, obviously , but the reality of this disorder is there are some perks to riding the high… until there really aren’t.
That last part is something my mom has drilled into me, and I’ve seen it firsthand. In the middle of the wilderness, an extended episode could’ve been disastrous, so I’m glad I’m coming down. I just hope we can get to safety before my mood does what it always does. Plummets.
I guess there’s plenty on my mind too. If I can’t figure out why he’s being so quiet, maybe I can at least find out answers to my own questions.
“One of the Wildes seemed shocked that I had a knife,” I begin. Orion’s gaze drags from the fire to mine. “Why is that? It’s just a knife. Women can have knives too. Do Wilde girls use spoons for everything?”
He snorts, but there’s little humor in it.
“It’s not ‘just a knife.’ It’s a Fury knife.
There’s rules about weapons out here too.
The first is don’t touch a dead man’s weapon.
The second is that family knives are sacred.
The Furys get ours after coming home from Survival Week.
From that moment on, we never, ever give them up.
Not unless it’s to someone we trust and care about. ”
My knee stops bouncing as that sinks in. “And you gave yours to me.”
“Yeah, little bird. I gave mine to you.” He tilts his head sadly. “I hope by now, you realize that I’d give you anything. That you can trust me with anything too. You know that, right?”
I nod slowly, unsure why that sounded like a vow and a plea all at once.
After a moment, he sighs like he’s disappointed. His gaze returns to the fire, and we fall back into a wordless discomfort. I’d hoped to distract him with the question, get him out of his own head like he did with me the other night, but I’m afraid I only made it worse.
The bags underneath his eyes are deeper in the flickering dark. His beard looks soft to the touch but hollows his cheeks. He sits across from me on the stump he dragged to our camp, elbows propped on his knees, hands hanging between his legs.
There’s something that’s eating him up from the inside, and the catalyst I’ve tried to avoid confronting comes to a head.
“What did my dad say to you?” I ask a little sharper than I intended.
Something like guilt flickers with the firelight in his eyes.
“Shit.” He swallows, then swipes a hand down his face. “It wasn’t so much your dad.” My nose wrinkles in confusion as he continues, “It was your mom.”
“My mom ?” I chuckle. “What on earth could she have?—”
The words lodge in my throat as he slips a pill bottle from his jeans pocket. The one Benoit carried.
Dammit.
Orion turns it over in his hands, idly studying it, then holds it up between his index finger and thumb.
His voice is rough when he finally speaks. “Why didn’t you tell me you have bipolar disorder?”
For the first time in days, I’m speechless. My tongue literally won’t move, my lips glued together, teeth clenched. My burning cheeks have nothing to do with the fire.
But he doesn’t relent, waiting patiently as ever.
I swallow. “She told you?”
He nods, then lightly tosses the pill bottle from one hand to the other.
“That wasn’t her story to tell,” I snap, grasping for anger, indignation, anything other than humiliation I know I shouldn’t feel.
“Nah, don’t give me that,” he chides. “She’s a momma worried about her daughter. And she wouldn’t have had to tell me”—he points with the pill bottle, voice firm—“if you had. So…” His voice gentles. “Why didn’t you?”
My tongue stays stuck to the roof of my mouth.
He rolls his lips between his teeth, gears clearly turning as he tries to figure me out.
“You know you don’t have to be… embarrassed, right? I care about you. In my family, marriage means what’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine. Good. Bad. Sick. Healthy. I’m there for it all.”
My heart takes flight, words that are way too freaking soon to say bounce around my mind, and not an ounce of pushback is left in me.
He takes my silence as encouragement, continuing, “And if anyone ever does make you feel embarrassed, I’ll fuck them up. Having a disorder ain’t nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I’m not embarrassed about having bipolar disorder,” I insist, but my eyes drop to the fire. “That’s not it.”
“Then what is it? Come on, baby, talk to me.”
I bite my lip, then release it slowly.
“I was embarrassed because… I’ve never had to tell anyone about my bipolar disorder.”
My eyes flick to his furrowed brow and pursed lips. The back of my neck burns as I force the truth out, starting from the beginning so hopefully he’ll understand.
“My family and friends know. It’s no big deal with them. Genetics sometimes play a part, so my parents were on notice that either Nox or I—or both of us—could have it. Nox hasn’t shown symptoms, but we figured out mine pretty early after a rough go of it at eighteen.”
I idly brush away a crunchy brown leaf caught in the tulle of my tutu as my knee bounces at a frenzied tempo.
“We figured out meds, gathered a good medical team. Dance helps channel my energy and gives me a routine. My symptoms have been mild, all things considered. I’m lucky too.
I have support that a lot of people don’t have.
I couldn’t do it without my family, my friends…
not to mention my psych is also a therapist, and I trust that saint with all my secrets.
Which, I mean, aren’t that many. I’m kind of an open book.
Lies are just another thing to stress over. ”
Shame itches under my skin about what I have to say next.
“So when I felt the hypomania coming on this week, I sort of freaked out. I thought I could white-knuckle through it. Ride it out until we got back to civilization and skip the whole ‘woe is me, I have a mental health condition’ convo. I’ve never had to have the conversation.
It’s the first time I’ve failed at taking care of myself. ”
“Luna, you didn’t fail.”
My head shakes. “Logically, I know that. It’s just that, I’ve seen people find out my mom was bipolar because she was mid-episode.” Tracing the dirt, I admit my worst fear. “People look at you differently when you tell them while you’re sick versus when you tell them while you’re well.”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“Well, they look at me like…” I lift my gaze to find Orion’s brow furrowed and his wary eyes waiting for my answer. “Kind of the way you are right now, if I’m honest.”
His jaw goes slack, then he shakes his head hard.
“I don’t see you differently because of this. I mean, sure, it fits together a few puzzle pieces I hadn’t realized were missing. But I love finding those.”
“Then why are you looking at me like you don’t know whether I’m going to pop off or break down?” I counter.
He winces. “If anything, what you’re seeing is me pissed at myself. You felt that you couldn’t trust me with this—why would you after what I’ve put you through? And besides that, you shouldn’t have had to tell me. I should’ve put the pieces together.”
I frown as he rakes a hand through his hair, gripping his nape before gesturing toward me with a defeated exhale.
“I know everything about you, birdie. Literally everything.” His voice softens. “At least, I’m supposed to.”
His lips quirk up at my scowl. “Go on and be irritated if you want, but don’t act like you don’t love it.”
I roll my eyes, and he chuckles, though it fades fast. He glares at the fire like it’ll tell him what to say next. The flames pop twice, making him flinch before he finally speaks.
“This week, I knew something was off. But I chalked it up to stress. Or me being an asshole that deserved a good ass-kicking.”
I snort. “You’re not wrong .”
His fleeting grin makes my heart skip, then vanishes. “Point being, I missed this, and I shouldn’t have.”