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His eyes go back to the windshield. “I didn’t want you to look differently at me or my mother. She’s sick, you know? Not everybody would get that.”

“I would.”

His eyes go back to me, confusion in them.

I squirm a little. “I deal with depression.”

His eyes pin me to my seat, making me fidget again.

“It’s not the same,” I reason, “as what your mother is going through, but I understand not wanting people to see you differently. My mother used to be on medication for depression and she used to see a therapist. I deal with it too, but I’ve managed to cope with it without medicine. I went to therapy with her once or twice, but never on my own. I have good days and bad days. I can’t say I’ve ever felt “normal”, whatever that is. But most people wouldn’t expect that from me because I look fine. I act happy. I make jokes. I usually have a smile on my face. The truth is, I’m not always like that. I struggle, and I don’t always know the reason why.”

He continues to study me silently.

“My point is that mental health is really hard to deal with sometimes. Whether it’s your own or somebody you care about.But we all go through it. I don’t think there’s a single person on this planet who’s happy all of the time. We all have battles. We all deal with emotions. I have depression, and it sucks. My mother has depression, and it sucks. Your mother is bipolar, and that sucks too. None of us are alone in that battle. The world is starting to become more aware of it, which can only help people like us.”

The intensity of his stare makes me a little uncomfortable. Does he know I’ve never admitted that to anybody? Not Bodhi. Not Berlin. Skylar barely knows about it. She’s seen me in one of my off moods where I had to shut out the world and feel my feels in the darkness of my room. She’d check on me, know I was okay, and then give me space. She can see the emptiness in my eyes when others can’t. But I never really opened up or tried to explain why I am the way I am.

I’m just…me.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.

“For the same reason you didn’t tell me about what you’ve been through,” I admit. “But now we know, so now we don’t have to be alone. And that’s…I think that’s a good thing. We can be each other’s allies.”

His Adam’s apple bobs. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I think you might be right.”

He flips his hand so he’s able to interweave our fingers, rubbing the pad of his thumb along the back of my hand.

We sit like that for a while until we finally decide to leave.

Give yourself a chance,Skylar had told me.

This is me trying.

*

Alex walks outof the gas station holding a plastic bag, waving at somebody who calls out “Go Penguins” in another car pumping gas beside us. When he slides into the driver’s seat, he reaches into the bag and pulls out a glass bottle of Coca-Cola, and a bag of dark chocolate-covered pretzels.

He passes them to me silently before pulling out a Dr. Pepper for himself and setting it into the cupholder in the center console.

“You remembered,” I say, scanning the bag.

He glances at me briefly before putting the car in drive and heading back onto the road. “You always mix pretzels with chocolate, but you prefer dark chocolate because milk and white are—”

“Too sweet,” we say at the same time.

I nod toward his Dr. Pepper and Cream Soda. “I see you found a way to get both of your favorite drinks in one. I don’t envy your taste buds right now.”

I hated cream soda as a kid and can’t stand Dr. Pepper either. I’ve never tried the combination, but it makes me cringe when I see him drink it.

“Not all of us can have exquisite taste,” he comments, shooting me the first grin he’s given me since I showed up at his door.

I move my head back and forth contemplatively. “That would explain my interest in you,” I say sarcastically, earning a chuckle from him.

The first hour and a half back to his apartment was quiet. I could tell he had a lot on his mind, so I let him simmer in whatever his thoughts were without cutting into them. Then, at the hour and forty-five-minute mark, he turned the radio on, handed me his phone, and told me to play whatever I wanted on the Bluetooth.

The thirty minutes following were less thick thanks to the Pop 100 hits cutting through the silence. As much as I wanted to blast one of my favorite artists, I figured he’d been through enough today. Secretly, I think he appreciated that.

I open the bag of pretzels and hold one out to him. “I know you don’t have a sweet tooth, but since you like black coffee you probably don’t mind bitter chocolate.”