Weather Girl(76)

But Russell shakes his head, not finished yet. “I want to, Ari. Believe me, I do. But I haven’t exactly had a lot of practice. I’m always worried someone will think Elodie is a burden, or baggage, or they won’t want to get to know her at all.”

I reach down, covering his hands with mine. I can do that now—hold him with both hands. “Elodie is not a burden. She’s amazing, and a huge part of that is because of you, and because of Liv. You’re a great dad.”

“Don’t give me too much credit there,” he says, but he seems softer than he did ten minutes ago. There’s pride in his expression, and I love the way it looks on him. “I don’t want you to feel any pressure to spend time with her.”

“Russ. I’d love to spend more time with Elodie.”

He brightens even more. “Yeah? Because she’s been asking about you since last weekend. You must have made quite the impression.”

“It was the show tunes,” I say. “Very few things tie people together like show tunes. And burritos.” Then I turn serious again. “You don’t have to choose—between fatherhood and a relationship. You deserve both. I mean, I know you’re going to be a father regardless of whether I’m here, I’m just—” I break off, drawing in a breath. “This is coming out wrong. What I’m trying to say is, I want to try. We won’t be perfect at it, at least not right away, but if you’re ready, I want to try.”

He links his fingers with mine. “I’m ready,” he says, bringing his other hand to my face, his thumb stroking my cheekbone in this way that makes me feel safe. Cared for.

“I’ve been scared, too,” I admit, our feet still planted in the bark as our swings sway. “I don’t know if I have the best track record with relationships. I’ve never really been . . . myself.”

Russell drops his hand to my shoulder and waits for me to continue. Listening, but not pushing me.

“For the longest time, everyone has gotten me at full brightness. Every light in the studio on. No darkness, no negativity. Every time I feel something like that coming on, I force myself to act the opposite. I give a compliment or an affirmation to restore the balance, I guess. Or tip it the other way completely. I thought I had to be this very specific kind of person for anyone to want to be with me. And it worked for a while, or at least I thought it did. I even thought I was going to get married.”

The defense mechanism won’t make sense without the explanation. I knew there was no way I could invite him here without unlocking that barricaded door of my past, and yet that knowledge doesn’t make forming the words any easier.

“If I’m going to explain it—and I want to, I really do—I have to start back here,” I continue. “In Redmond. My mom and I . . . it hasn’t always been like this with us. Well, I’m not even sure what ‘this’ is, to be honest.”

“I picked up on a little of that, I think.”

“She was different when I was growing up. She’d have these dark days that made it tough for her to be the person I wanted her to be.” I don’t want to divulge too much of my mother’s mental health yet. It doesn’t feel wholly mine to tell, especially when she’s only a couple blocks away. “And we . . . struggled in similar ways.”

I grip the swing tighter, aware I’m about to throw the door wide open. Somehow, though, it doesn’t feel as difficult as I thought it would be. There’s no pressure in my chest, no flashing neon sign in my brain warning me to shut my mouth—only the desire to share something I haven’t been able to articulate with anyone I’ve let come close.

If my mom can change, so can I.

“I have depression,” I say. “I’ve had it for a long time, and I’ll probably have it my whole life, since it’s not something that tends to magically go away.” I watch his face, the way he slowly nods, taking this in. “When I was a teen, every so often I’d have these days that blurred together. I’d go through school on autopilot, barely registering anything anyone was saying. I’d get home exhausted, though I hadn’t done anything to exert myself. Everything hurt, even though there was nothing physically wrong with me. I felt weighed down . . . like some kind of terrible magnet was tugging me to the center of the earth, this heaviness that made it impossible to find joy in any of the things I used to love. I couldn’t even make myself do my science homework—that was how I really knew it was bad.”

I force a laugh at this, and he humors me with a small smile.

“It wasn’t until college that I was diagnosed. I went to the health center on campus because I was so tired all the time, and everyone around me was having the time of their lives. I didn’t know what was wrong with me that was making it impossible to do that. Making it impossible to make friends. Once I had that diagnosis and started learning more about it, started seeing someone, it started to get better. Not instantly, but by the end of my freshman year, I was finally starting to feel like myself again, this person who’d been a stranger for years.

“I still go to therapy,” I continue, “and I’m on antidepressants. And most of the time, I’m okay. But I still have dark days, and I don’t want to hide any of that from you.”

He cups my knee with one hand, stilling my swing. I didn’t realize I’d been twisting back and forth. “Why would you hide it?”