Under Rose-Tainted Skies(52)

‘Why would you end up in a hospital?’

‘Because hurting yourself is not exactly something stable people do.’ I’m not fully invested in the idea that scratching and self-harm are the same, but I keep that piece of info to myself.

‘People hurt themselves for lots of different reasons, but right now I’m confident that you’re not trying to escape life.’

‘I’m not at all,’ I agree vehemently.

‘Right. But I do think we need to re-evaluate how you cope with stress. So what do you say, maybe we can give this a shot?’ She’s not really giving me a choice. All I want to do is erase this conversation with brain bleach.

I nod, can’t say yes because scratching is a normal response, and I can’t get past thinking everyone does it. I don’t hate myself for it. It can’t possibly be the same as self-harm. I don’t always break the skin, and when I do, the marks don’t even scar. In fact, they totally disappear within a week. I’ve seen more damage from squeezing pimples, so how is it self-harm?





When I get back to my room, the stress balls, along with the happy-shiny pamphlets, get dumped in the bottom drawer of my dresser, where I’m almost certain they’ll stay until the day I die.

I’m tired and my bed looks so inviting, soft and safe, like a giant pile of feathers, willing me to come over and rest my head, which is suddenly so heavy my shoulders shudder under the weight. I want to burrow, sleep until next spring. This isn’t good. I don’t want to turn to sludge before tonight. I have to stay perky. Sunny. Excited. Shouldn’t be a problem. I’m practically a pro at beating back sadness.

I veer left, drag unwilling legs away from my bed and plonk myself back at my dressing table. The chair that came with it is anything but inviting. I think at one point it might have been used as some sort of medieval torture device, despite the expensive velvet upholstery covering the seat.

Only two butt-numbing hours until Luke arrives. At 6.45, Mom lets me know that she’s making herself scarce and scuttles off to her bedroom. Exercise and I are estranged, but I have fifteen minutes to fill and I can’t sit still, so I do laps around my room while chewing the inside of my mouth into a mini–mountain range. At least I’m not scratching.

I squeeze my hands to keep them from shaking. According to 90 per cent of the internet, everybody gets nervous before a first date. But then I guess it’s pretty safe to assume most of that 90 per cent are worrying about making a good first impression, not wondering what sort of bacteria their date will be breathing into their airspace or trying to determine the odds of choking to death on a piece of popcorn.

I decide to avoid eating solids altogether . . . just while he’s here.

Luke knocks on the door at 7.01, and I trip down the stairs, making a din like a running herd of wild wildebeests. I take the last step twice then race to the door, my arms only slightly bruised, my legs begging not to be used any more today.

‘Hi.’ Luke flashes me that grin, and my motor functions fail. ‘You look really good,’ he tells me. ‘You always look good.’ He tips his head, rubs the back of his neck, and I think I see a slight red tinge blossom on his cheeks.

‘Thank you,’ I reply, feeling a little flushed around the gills myself but happy I stuck with the lipstick.

One of the things I kept freaking out about on Monday was the prospect of silence. My mind isn’t always where it should be, which makes conversation hard to carry. I guess I was worried we’d find ourselves stuck in an atmosphere of not-knowing-what-to-say, but Luke doesn’t let that happen.

He’s talking about the two DVDs he’s brought as we make our way to the front room.

‘Where do you want me to sit?’ he says, eyeballing the couch. It’s a three-seater, so we can share it without me getting weird.

I sit on the left, he flops down on the right, and an immeasurable black hole opens up in the space between us. I’d never really noticed how far away the other side of the sofa was until now. We may need cups and string to communicate.

‘So, what do you wanna watch?’ Luke asks, his voice raised a little because he’s noted the overcautious distance and is having a little fun with it.

‘I don’t want to catch boy cooties,’ I tell him. ‘You could have been anywhere, rolling around in anything, before you showed up here.’

‘This is true. Can I just note, I really admire your level of resistance to my raw animal magnetism,’ he says, all snark.

‘I’m not going to lie.’ I let out an exhausted breath. ‘It’s been tough.’

We settle on a movie called Zombie’s Curse. It’s so loaded with cheese I start craving macaroni. We laugh a lot, don’t talk much, but when we do, I find myself wanting to shuffle closer to him.

His hand rests on his leg. My eyes keep flitting over and finding it. There’s a thick silver ring on his thumb, and his fingers keep tapping nonsensical beats against his jeans. Occasionally, his hand relaxes, flops off his knee, and lands on the couch like an upside-down spider in shock. That’s when I want to grab hold of it. It’s such an unexpected want, it scares me.

I was slipping into unconsciousness the first time Dr Reeves ever touched me. It was a Monday, and I was trying to get across the parking lot to her office, already caught in the steely grip of a panic attack. Limbs like jelly, face melting off, lungs squeezing themselves into nonexistence, the usual. My body was heavy, too heavy for Mom to carry alone. That’s really all I remember. When I came around, Dr Reeves was timing the beat of my heart against the slow-in-comparison second hand of her diamond-encrusted watch. She was pressing two fingers hard against my wrist. Her skin was cold, which surprised me because she has such a warm smile.