I can feel my fingers trembling, so I clench them into fists. I'm flabbergasted. He can word it however he wants, but he has the nerve to sit here and tell me he thinks I'm too depressed to date right now?
"Get over yourself," I mutter. I push off the swing and he stands up to move out of my way. I walk toward the house, but when he calls my name, I start running. My stupid, loud skirt adds a serious level of ridiculousness to my anger. By the time I make it to the house, I slam the door so hard I'm afraid I might have woken Moby.
Who does Sagan think he is? He won't pursue me because I might get "too happy" with him and that elation could mask my supposed depression? "Get over yourself," I say again as I shut my bedroom door. Just because I've been unhappy lately doesn't mean I'm depressed. I unbutton my stupid dress and let it fall to the floor. I barely have a T-shirt over my head when Sagan walks into my bedroom without knocking.
I spin and face him and he closes the door, walking toward me. Apparently he isn't finished with this conversation like I am. "You accuse everyone else in your family of not having the courage to be honest, but the second I'm honest with you, you get mad at me and walk away?"
"I'm not mad because you were honest, Sagan! I'm mad because you arrogantly assume I'll be so happy with you that I'll use my feelings for you as a mask for my apparent depression!" I roll my eyes, folding my arms over my chest. "You're giving yourself way too much credit. If you tried to kiss me at this point, I'd probably slap you." It's a ridiculous lie, but I'm already embarrassed by how angry I am at this whole conversation.
Not everyone likes themselves! That doesn't mean I'm suicidal or depressed or unable to differentiate feelings for a guy with feelings for my life.
Sagan looks at me apologetically, like my frustration actually means anything to him. He slides his hands in his pockets and stares at the floor for a moment. When he looks up at me, he does it slowly. Starting at my feet, trailing up my bare legs. I can see the roll of his throat when his gaze meets the hem of my T-shirt, then crawls up my body until he's looking me in the eye. He doesn't even have to speak for me to know what he's thinking. He's looking at me like maybe I'm right--maybe a kiss wouldn't interfere. Maybe it would bring us both relief.
I quietly inhale because that one look makes it feel like I just sank to the bottom of his heart and there isn't a single air pocket to keep me alive. He could probably open his mouth and call me an asshole again and I'd still want to kiss the lips the insult came from. I can't even remember what we're arguing about because my head is swimming.
Apparently, neither can he because he stalks toward me and grabs hold of me, one arm around my waist, one splayed out against the side of my neck. I tilt my face up to his, hoping he's about to realize how wrong he was so he can just kiss me. I want it hard and frantic and fast, but he's painfully slow as he draws closer.
He lets out a quiet sigh and his mouth is so close to mine, I steal his sigh with a gasp. And then his lips finally connect with mine. It's both unexpected and overdue. I moan with relief against his kiss and immediately reciprocate.
As soon as our tongues collide, it becomes so frantic, I lose my way around him. My hands get lost in his hair, my reservations get lost in his touch, my anger gets lost in his groan. His tongue strokes mine with delicacy, but his hands are making up for the patience of his mouth. His right arm slides down my back and down to my thigh where my T-shirt ends. He slides his hand up my bare thigh, over my panties and then up my back, this time skin to skin. He pulls me against him but walks me backward at the same time until my back meets the wall behind me.
"My God," he whispers against my lips. "Your mouth is amazing."
I think his is pretty amazing, too, but I don't respond because I'd rather give him back my tongue. He takes it, kissing me deeper, pressing himself against me and into the wall.
This kiss is everything I thought it would be and more. I'm amazed at how healing his mouth is. As soon as he pressed it against mine, it's like all the stress that's been swimming around in my head disappeared. All the angst, the frustration, the anger--it subsides with every stroke of his tongue.
This is exactly what I needed.
His hand is now sliding around to my waist, but before he goes any higher, he pauses to catch his breath. I gasp when I have air again, clasping my arms around him, trying to stop the room from spinning. I let my head fall back against the wall. Sagan drags his lips across my cheek and then kisses me on the mouth, soft and gentle, before pulling back to look down at me. He runs a hand down my hair, stopping at the nape of my neck. "That was fucking dazing," he whispers.
I merely smile because he summed it up perfectly with a phrase I'm not sure I've ever used. Fucking dazing.
He kisses the corner of my mouth and then brushes his nose across my cheek. He pulls back, gently taking my face in both hands. With a small smile that completely melts me, he says, "It's incredible how much better a kiss can make you feel, right?"
I nod. "So incredible."
His thumb brushes my cheek, and then his satisfied grin falls into a pointed stare. "That's exactly why I won't do it again, Merit. You need to fall in love with yourself first." He watches me for a moment, his eyes searching mine.
I have no reaction.
I'm too shocked to move. Or too hurt?
Did he seriously only kiss me to prove his point?
What?
I'm flat against the wall, unable to move. When I say nothing in return, he releases me and calmly walks out of my room.
I'm too shocked to cry. Too angry to run after him. Too embarrassed to acknowledge that part of what he's saying might actually have some truth in it. That kiss took away everything I've been feeling and replaced it with a momentary sense of euphoria. I'd give anything to have that feeling back. Which is exactly what Sagan was trying to tell me. My feelings for him will cloud all the other stuff that's going on in my head.
Just because I finally understand what he's trying to say doesn't mean I'm over my anger. If anything, I'm even more pissed at him.
Chapter Thirteen
Merit?"
I reluctantly open my eyes and Luck is standing in the doorway of my bedroom. I try to process what time it is, what day it is.
"Can I come in?"
It's afternoon, I think. I nod and sit up. "Yeah. I didn't mean to fall asleep. What time is it?"
"Almost time for dinna."
I smile at his random accent slip. It hasn't been happening as much as it did at the beginning of the week. He pulls my blanket over his lap and leans back against my headboard. "You've had a busy couple of days," he says. "You probably needed the nap."
I laugh halfheartedly. "In that case, I think we all needed a nap." But as it stands, this wasn't a nap. I'm just now waking up for the day, considering I stayed up most of the night last night pissed off at Sagan for what he said. I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned all night, throwing around all the excuses for why he's wrong. I don't even want to think about it again. I glance at Luck. He's wearing his Starbucks uniform. He looks so strange in normal clothes.
"How do you like your new job?" I ask him.
"Great. Pretty sure any job I have from here on out will beat working on a cruise ship, though." He pulls at a string on my blanket until it comes loose in his fingers. He puts the string in his mouth and eats it.
"Do you suffer from pica?"
"What's that?"
"Never mind," I say, shaking my head.
He pats my leg, and the room grows awkwardly quiet. I sigh. "Are you here to talk about why I swallowed twenty-eight pills?"
Luck shrugs and then says, "Actually, I was going to ask you if you want any beef jerky yet. I still have half a tub in my room."
I laugh. "No, thanks. I'm good."
"But since you brought it up . . . are you okay?"
I roll my eyes and drop my head against the headboard. "Yes," I say, slightly annoyed. Not annoyed that he's checking on me, but annoyed that my behavior this week is
embarrassing and I just want to forget it but I have a feeling no one is going to allow that. Especially my father and Sagan.
"Why'd you do it?"
I shake my head. "I don't know. I was just exhausted and over it. And drunk."
He starts unraveling another thread and then spins it between his fingers. "I tried to kill myself once," he says nonchalant. "Jumped off the deck of a cruise ship into the water. I thought it was high up enough that I would hit the water and it would knock me out and I'd drown peacefully."
"Did you drown peacefully?"
He laughs.
I don't know why I'm making light of what he's telling me. I've never been good with serious conversations.
"I sprained my ankle and got fired. But a few weeks later I had a new fake ID and a job with a different cruise line, so the firing didn't really teach me a lesson."
"Why did you do it? Did you hate your life that much?"
Luck shrugs. "Not really. I was mostly indifferent. I worked eighteen-hour days. I was tired of the monotony. There wasn't really anyone who would have missed me. So, one night I was standing on the deck, staring out over the water. I was thinking about what it would be like to jump and not have to get up and work the next morning. When the thought of death didn't put fear into me, I just decided to go for it." He pauses for a moment. "A friend of mine saw me do it and he reported it, so they threw me a life raft and had me back on the ship within the hour."
"You got lucky."
He nods and looks over at me. He's unusually serious. "So did you, Merit. I mean, I know they were only placebo pills, but you didn't know that at the time. And I don't know many people who would stick their hand down someone's throat and then sift through their vomit to count the number of pills they swallowed."
I divert my eyes and look back down at my lap. It occurs to me that I haven't once thanked Sagan for that. He saved my life, got covered in vomit, and then cleaned it up and watched over me all night. And I haven't even told him thank you. Now I'm not so sure I even want to speak to him again.
"I did learn something from jumping off that ship," Luck says. "I found out that depression doesn't necessarily mean a person is miserable or suicidal all the time. Indifference is also a sign of depression." He looks me in the eye. "That was a long time ago, but I still take medication for it every day."
I'm shocked. Luck seems like one of the happiest people I know. And while I do appreciate what he's trying to do, it's also annoying as hell. "Are you trying to turn this into an after school special?"
He shakes his head. "Not at all. It's just . . . I think we're a lot alike. And as much as you want to believe that it was a drunken mistake . . ."
"It was," I interrupt. "I never would have swallowed those pills if I hadn't gotten drunk."
He doesn't look convinced by my statement. "If you weren't intending to take them . . . why were you stealing them?"
His question silences me. I break eye contact with him. He's wrong. I'm not depressed. It was an accident.
"I really didn't come in here to say all that." He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. "I think maybe I had too much caffeine at work today. I'm not usually this . . . sappy."
"It's probably the whole gay thing you're experimenting with. It's making you sentimental."
He glances back at me and narrows his eyes. "You can't make gay jokes, Merit. You aren't gay."
"Does being gay make you the gay authority on who can or can't tell gay jokes?"
"I'm not gay, either," he says.
"Could have fooled me." I laugh. "If you don't think you're gay, you're sexually confused."
Luck rolls his head until his neck pops and then he leans back against the headboard again. "I'm not confused, either," he says. "I'm very comfortable with my sexuality. It seems like you're the one who's confused by it."
I nod, because I am definitely confused by it. "Are you bisexual?"
Luck laughs. "Labels were invented for people like you who can't grasp a reality outside of a defined gender role. I like what I like. Sometimes I like women, sometimes I like men. A few times I've liked girls who used to be guys. Once I liked a guy who used to be a girl." He pauses. "I liked him a lot, actually. But that's an after-school special for another day."
I laugh. "I think I might be more sheltered than I thought."
"I think you might be, too. Not just from the outside world, but you might even be sheltered from what's going on inside your own house. How did you not know Utah was gay? Have you not seen his wardrobe?"
"Who's making gay jokes now?" I say, shoving his shoulder. "That's such a terrible stereotype. And I didn't know he was gay because no one tells me anything around here."
"In all fairness, Merit. I've lived here less than a week and I can already tell you live in your own version of reality." He stands up before I can shove him again. "I need to go shower. I smell like coffee beans."
Speaking of showers. I could probably use one.
A few minutes later, I'm in the bathroom, trying to gather all the stuff I need to shower, but I still can't find a damn razor. I look in all the drawers, in the shower, under the sink. My God, they overreact!
I guess I'll just be hairy, then.
As soon as I pull my T-shirt over my head, a piece of paper is shoved beneath the door. I would assume it's from Sagan since this seems to be his method of delivering art, but the paper looks like an article. I bend to pick it up when Luck speaks to me from the other side of the door.
"Just read it. You can trash it if you want, but I wouldn't have a clear conscience if I didn't give it to you."
I roll my eyes and lean against the counter and read the title. It's a Web page printed off the Internet.
Symptoms of Depression.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter.
Below it is a list, but I don't even read the first symptom. I fold the paper up and toss it on the sink because Luck is ridiculous. He really is a walking after-school special.
After I shower and change, I open the door to the bathroom. Before I walk out, I grab the paper and walk to my bedroom with it so no one sees it lying on the bathroom counter. I sit down on my bed and begin to open it, curious as to what symptoms Luck has if he's been diagnosed with depression.
When I examine the list, there are empty boxes next to each symptom, waiting to be checked off. It's a quiz. This might actually be what I need to prove to Sagan and Luck that I'm not clinically depressed.
I grab a pen and start with the first one. Do you ever feel sad, empty, or anxious?
Okay, that's a stupid question. Check. What teenager doesn't?
Do you ever feel hopeless?
Again. Check. They should just say "Are you a teenager?"
Are you irritable?
Um . . . yeah. Check. But anyone in this household would be.
Do you have less interest in activities or school?
Okay. You got me there, Luck. Check.
Do you feel less energetic than usual?
If less energetic means sleeping at random hours of the day and night and sometimes not at all, then yeah. Check. My heart starts to beat faster, but I refuse to take this list too seriously. It came from the Internet.
Do you have trouble concentrating?
I've made it through this list, so I can answer no to this one. I don't check the box, but before I move on to the next question, I start to think about this question a little more. I haven't been able to focus on my crossword puzzles like I usually do. And one of the reasons I stopped going to school is because I was getting so antsy in class, it was hard to pay attention. I draw a check mark, but make it lighter than the rest. I'll count it as a no if I need to.
Have you noticed changes in your sleep patterns?
Well . . . I didn't used to sleep all day. Check. But I think that's just a side effect of skipping school.
Have you had a change in appetite?
If I have, I haven't noticed it. Finally! One I'm not checking.
; Or . . . wait. I've been skipping meals lately. But that could also be a side effect of skipping school.
Do you ever feel indifferent?
Check.
Have you cried more than usual?
Check.
Have you ever had thoughts of suicide?
Does just once or twice count? Check.
Have you ever attempted suicide?
Check.
I stare at the list with a knot in my stomach. My hands are trembling as I look over the list and realize I've checked off every single box.
Fuck this stupid list. It's no different from any other online symptom checklist that leads people to falsely believe they're suffering from some terrible disease. Have a headache? You must have a brain tumor! Have chest pain? You're having a heart attack! Trouble sleeping? You're depressed!
I crumple it up into a ball and chuck it across the room. Five minutes pass as I stare motionless at the wad of paper on the floor. I eventually force myself to snap out of it.
I'll go check on Wolfgang. At least he won't torture me with conversation or questions.
"You want to help me feed Wolfgang?" I ask Moby as I make my way through the living room. He's sitting on the couch, watching cartoons, but he jumps off the couch and beats me to the back door.
"Is he mean?"
"No, not at all." I fill the pitcher up with dog food and open the back door.
"Daddy said he's mean," Moby says. "He called him a bastard."
I laugh and follow him down the steps. I don't know why it's so cute when kids cuss. I'll probably be that mother who encourages her kids to say things like "shit" and "dammit."
When we make it to the doghouse, Wolfgang isn't inside it. "Where is he?" Moby asks.
I look around the yard. "I don't know." I walk around the doghouse, yelling his name. Moby spins in a circle with me as we scan the dark yard for him. "Let me go turn on the back porch light." I make my way back to the porch when Moby calls my name.
"Merit!" he says. "Is that him?"
He's pointing to the side of the house. I walk around the corner and Wolfgang is crawling out from under the house, right next to the window to the basement. I sigh, relieved. I don't know why I'm oddly attached to this dog, but I was about to start panicking. I walk back over to Wolfgang's bowl and fill it with dog food. He slowly makes his way to the bowl and begins eating. "Getting your appetite back, huh?" I pet him between the ears and Moby reaches out and does the same. Guess that means he's not depressed.
Without Merit Page 19
