Chapter 33
CECILIA
Idon’t know what I expected when I agreed to grab lunch with Adriana after class. Some part of me assumed it’d be awkward. Mostly because of me. But it hasn’t been awkward. It’s been … nice.
“What year are you?” she asks, dipping a fry into some ketchup before popping it into her mouth.
“Junior. You?” I ask, taking a bite of my own food. I used to come here all the time. The Wolf Den was a popular hangout for the cheer squad and for most of the athletes at PacNorth. From the look of things, it still is.
The restaurant is packed with several students standing around their tables since there aren’t enough chairs.
Not that anyone really cares. The food is good and relatively cheap, and when you’re a college student, you can’t afford to be picky.
Also, the bartender rarely cards. A perk if you’re an underclassman and want a drink with friends. Not that I drink anymore.
“Same.”
“Any plans after graduation?” I ask.
She pauses and thinks about it. “Not really,” Adriana says. “Get a job, most likely. Maybe move out of Richland. I haven’t given it much thought.” She takes a bite of her burger and adds, “I’ll probably move, though.”
“Where will you go?” It feels weird to think about leaving Richland.
It’s always been my home. But I won’t lie and say it doesn’t have an appeal.
If I lived somewhere else, I wouldn’t have to worry about running into Austin.
Not on campus and not around town. My parents would still be here, so of course I’d come and visit, but some separation could be good for us.
Dad could focus more on work. Mom could host more of those charity functions she enjoys.
“I haven’t really thought about it. But a move would be good for my parents.” The way she phrases that. Good for her parents. It’s weird. Wouldn’t she be moving for herself? I know I would be.
“Do you have a good relationship with them?” I’ve always been close with mine. I don’t tell them everything. Obviously. If they knew about this past year, it would destroy them. But I know they love me. That’s never been a question.
Adriana shrugs. “It’s not bad, but it can feel …
strained. They don’t always know how to act around me.
” She shrugs again. “That’s more of a them problem than a me one, but they love me the way parents should.
It would make their lives easier if I moved away, so I guess I should plan on doing that after graduation.
I’d like to make their lives easier if I can.
” Her smile is wistful but the way she says it, so matter of fact, like her parents would be happier with her gone, it makes me sad for her.
Not that she seems upset at all while she’s talking. Just very matter-of-fact.
“What about you? Do you and your parents get along?”
“Yeah. They hover, and that can be annoying. But for the most part, they’re alright.
” Mom is a stay at home wife, so she was always there when I needed her growing up.
Dad is in politics. He’s Richland’s Mayor, and he’s always been the type to work long hours, but he’d drop everything if I called and said I needed him. They both would.
“Did they hover as much before the suicide attempt, or was it mostly just after?” she asks.
The hand with my burger freezes midway to my mouth, and my eyes widen as I register her words. Setting my food down, I stare at her with what I’m almost sure is a what-the-actual-fuck expression. Did she seriously just ask me that?
I swallow hard, trying to push past the lump in my throat. I’ve never had someone refer to what I did so … casually.
My hand shakes as I reach for my water. Fuck. I put down my glass, steal my breath, and try again.
“I’ve made you upset,” she says, tilting her head to the side as though to study me. “Why?”
She sounds genuinely curious, like she doesn’t know why bringing up my previous suicide attempt would upset me.
“I don’t like talking about what happened.” I push my plate aside, my earlier appetite now gone.
“How are you supposed to move past it if you don’t talk about it?”
“I do talk about it. It’s just not something I casually bring up with people.” Especially people I barely know.
Her eyes bore into mine until I fold and avert my gaze.
“You talk to your parents about it?”
Well, no. “Not really.”
“Friends?”
I shake my head. Kinda hard when you don’t have any of those.
“So, who do you talk to about it?”
Nobody.
My vision blurs. Urgh. Do not cry. Do. Not. Cry. I blink hard to clear my gaze and find a point on the wall across the room and stare at it. Hard.
“I guess I don’t really talk to anyone about it,” I admit. “But it’s fine. I prefer it that way.”
“Therapist?”
“No.” I have one. Dr. Walker. But I don’t talk to her about that.
I sorta just sit there and wait for our hour to be over.
I’ve been better these past few weeks about talking.
I opened up a little about the suicide attempt.
Meaning I’ve acknowledged it happened. But that’s as far as I get.
Seeing her every week checks a box. It’s a step in the right direction, and I like leaving it at that.
“I get it,” she tells me. “My parents made me see a shrink for years when I was a kid. I wouldn’t tell any of them my secrets either.”
I snap my attention back to her, but she isn’t looking at me.
Instead, she takes another bite of her burger, her expression blank, like admitting you had a therapist isn’t a big deal, except that it is.
College students don’t walk around admitting things like that out loud.
Mostly because our peers can be assholes, and no one wants to be ridiculed for needing a little help.
But Adriana drops that bomb like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
“Why did they make you see a therapist?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.
It’s none of my business, and if she says as much I’ll leave the subject alone, but I don’t think I’ve offended her by prying.
Granted, it’s hard to tell with her. Adriana keeps her emotions locked up tight.
It might just be because we don’t know one another, but she’s incredibly difficult to get a read on.
Adriana sets her burger down and grabs her napkin before wiping her mouth. “Do I seem different to you?” she asks.
My brows furrow. “Different in what way?” I mean, her bluntness is different, sure. But I don’t think that’s what she’s asking.
She shrugs. “Like, am I abnormal to you?”
“I’m not sure any of us can really be considered normal,” I tell her. “We all have shit and we all handle it in different ways.”
The corners of her mouth curl into the ghost of a smile. “I like you, Cecilia Russo. You’re different from most people.”
“Uh, thanks.”
“It’s a compliment.”
Alright. I’ll take it as one.
“My parents made me see a shrink when I was younger because they thought there was something wrong with me.”
Oh. I don’t really know what to say to that. “I imagine that had to hurt.”
She makes a face. “Not really. I knew where they were coming from. Like I said, my parents love me. It’s just … hard for them. Having a kid they think is different. I’m not what they expected.”
“I don’t get it.” I feel like Adriana is trying to tell me something without coming out and saying it, but I’m having a hard time reading between the lines.
“I like you,” she says again.
Okay. “I like you, too,” I tell her.
“I would like us to be friends.”
I mean, I was sort of hoping for that as well, so that’s good. We’re moving in the right direction.
“Alright. Let’s be friends.” It will take some time, getting to know one another to be real friends, the ride-or-die kind, but I’m game to try if she is.
“Good.” Her smile widens, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Friends are supposed to be honest with one another.” Where is she going with this? “So I think it’s important that I be honest with you.”
Her eyes meet mine, and she holds my gaze, almost like she’s trying to pass along some sort of silent communication.
“Okay?” I brace myself for whatever bomb she’s about to drop, but what she says next isn’t at all what I expected her to say.
“I don’t think like you,” she tells me. “After meeting with a therapist for close to a year, my parents were given a diagnosis.”
“Alright.” Where is she going with this? “Are you dangerous or something?” I mean it as a joke but she answers me seriously.
“No. Not really.”
That’s uh … reassuring. I don’t get the feeling that she’s trying to scare me off, so I’m going to take her at her word. For now, at least.
I’m a firm believer in letting people show you who they are, and thus far, Adriana has been nothing but nice to me and she defended me when she had no reason to. Whatever diagnosis she received as a kid, it doesn’t define her. She’s still good people.
“Like I said, I want us to be friends. Unfortunately, I have a shitty track record at being a good one. It doesn’t come naturally to me. But with you, I’d like to try. If you’re open to that.”
I feel sort of like I’m having a conversation with a female version of Sheldon Cooper from the Big Bang Theory, the way she talks to me so matter of fact and without any real emotion. It feels very similar to the character’s speech patterns and mannerisms in the show.
“I mean, yeah. I’m down.”
“Good.” She picks her burger back up. “That settles it, then.”
I guess it does.
“I might screw up,” she tells me. “Not intentionally, of course, but you know,” she waves a hand through the air, “the whole my brain not working like yours.” Her lips purse in frustration.
“Sometimes I slip up. I’m hoping that if I do, you’ll give me a chance to fix it.
That you won’t—” she briefly looks away, “cut me off.”
Oh. My stomach drops. Someone’s done that to her before. I can relate. It sucks when your friends turn their backs on you. Whether it’s your fault or not makes no difference. It still hurts.