Page 23 of On the Way to You

I chuckled, shaking my head. “So, is that your plan, then? Stay single forever?”

Emery was quiet a long moment before he turned toward the road again, flipping his journal open. “Maybe. But forever isn’t always as long as you think it will be.”

He started writing again, reaching forward for the volume dial and cranking it up until an old Tom Petty song filled the space between us. I guessed the conversation was over then, and Kalo licked my arm before settling back into her place behind my seat, leaving just my thoughts to entertain me as we drove toward the Texas border.

We hit a bad storm right after we crossed the state line. I’d pulled over, getting the top up just before it started raining buckets. Traffic was awful, visibility was poor, and Emery and I were both so tense by the time we made it out that we were ready to stop for the day.

So, even though it was less than six hours from where we’d started that morning, we called Houston home for the night, checking into a modest hotel in Midtown. I took Kalo for a long walk, fighting back yawns that started hitting me hard after the storm. When I made it back to our room, Emery was already buried under the covers.

“I’m taking a nap. Want to grab dinner in a bit?”

I finally let myself yawn, unhooking Kalo’s leash and digging through my bag for her food and water bowl. “A nap sounds perfect. Should I set an alarm?”

“I’ve got one set for an hour and a half. The concierge said there’s a concert in the park nearby tonight and there are supposed to be a bunch of food trucks.”

“That sounds fun.”

Emery didn’t respond, rolling over toward the wall and pulling his comforter over his head.

His soft snores were the only sound in the room until the air conditioning kicked on with a hum, and I flopped down onto the other bed, eyelids heavy. Kalo was clearly ready for a nap, too. She finished her food quickly, jumping up onto the foot of my bed and curling up into a ball of fluff before I’d even taken my shoes off. I reached for the lamp on the table between our beds but my hand froze in place when I noticed Emery’s journal laying in front of the phone.

Don’t do it.

But already my hand was reaching for it, my eyes flicking to where Emery was bundled under the sheets, the same leg sticking out like it had that morning.

Slowly, and as quietly as I could, I slipped my hand under the worn leather, wrapping my fingers over the bind and pulling the journal to my lap. My breaths were slow motion, heart in my ears as I glanced at Emery again before opening to a page near the beginning.

Dad thinks depression is a mental excuse, not a mental disorder.

I listened to him and Mom fight about it the entire drive to therapy today. She was playing John Cougar Mellencamp’sUh-huhalbum way too fucking loud, and they yelled over it instead of turning it down. I told them I didn’t want them driving me anyway, I’m twenty-three, for fuck’s sake, but Mom insisted on dropping me off on their way to lunch and picking me up after. Bonding time, or whatever.

Dad and Mom never fight, not unless it’s about me.

Mom is worried about me, and I hate that I upset her, but I’m not sure how not to.

Honestly, I think my dad is right. I don’t have a reason to be depressed.

We have money, we always have. I went to a good school, a good college, all paid for. I have a job with my dad until the day I die — a good job, one I enjoy, one I excel at, one that will mean I’ll have a life of fortune just like he did. I’ve had plenty of friends throughout the years, even if I did drive them all away. Sex isn’t hard to find, neither is a girl to spend time with, if I want that sort of thing. I’m healthy. I’m not the most unfortunate looking dude, either.

All signs point to normalcy.

Most people would kill to have what I do. I think that’s why Dad grumbles under his breath when my therapy comes up, when Mom tries to make him recognize I have issues. I hate the word, too. Depression. It sounds so fucking stupid, and Ifeelstupid. I don’t want to go to therapy, or talk about my feelings, or question every fucking thread of my past looking for answers.

What if there is no answer? What if I am just not a happy person. Period. The end.

I think I could have gotten away with it, with just being a miserable prick, if I hadn’t pulled the stunt that I did. That woke everyone up, most of all Mom, and now I have to pay for it.

I didn’t even want to do it. Maybe the day I tried, I did. It was a bad day. Today, right now, I know it was stupid.

But today is a good day.

Even if I did have to listen to Dad tell me how ungrateful I am for a solid twenty minutes.

I think it’s because he grew up with Grams for a mom. She’s the only one who seems to get me, and it’s because she’s the same kind of crazy. People say I got my nose from her, and I guess I got this, too.

I still hate writing in this thing. And think all of this is pointless. And for the record, I fucking hate John Cougar Mellencamp.

My hand found my mouth, fingertips ice cold on the skin of my lips as I glanced up at Emery. He was still sleeping, his breaths even and steady, his mind at peace — at least I hoped. I didn’t know what he was dreaming, or if he even was at all.