Page 93 of The Oath We Give

Her nose does the exact same thing when she’s about to come.

Fuck.

Do not think of that right now. Think of literally anything else, you idiot.Out of reflex, I look down at my crotch. The last thing I need is to pop a boner before my mother storms into my house.

“Finding love after the house of horrors? You think they ever get tired of the kidnapping angle?”

“Do you?” I ask. “Ever get tired of the way they still talk about what happened to you?”

“Yes,” she breathes, pressing her thumb and pointer finger into the corner of her eyes, “But I have a thick skin, so it doesn’t bother me anymore. I’ll only ever be one thing in this town, to these people. Nothing I do will ever change that. It’s just—”

“Exhausting.” I finish the sentence for her, watching her remove her hand and nod at me. As if just for this instant, she realizes we are more similar than different.

When the news stations recycled her story nationally over and over again, showing the same video footage of her fleeing the basement only to throw herself into the arms of her captor, I remember a deep sense of understanding passing through me.

I understood how she felt.

Having to listen to the narrative people made up about you because you never spoke the truth publicly. As if you owed the world your story, or they’d just make one up for you.

To this town, she may forever be the girl who was kidnapped.

But that’s not all she is, not all she’ll become.

I just wonder if she knows that.

“Was it difficult for you?” Coraline asks. “Growing up with schizophrenia and having everyone know about it?”

It hits me this is the first time she’s asked me about it. The first time the topic of my mental health has been brought up between the two of us.

“Sometimes.”

Which isn’t a lie.

It was extremely difficult knowing the truth about my own mind but still having to let people believe differently. Constantly asking myself how could they not see it? How could they not believe me? Then always finding the answer to be, why would they?

“I didn’t wanna ask about it.” She pauses, flicking her gaze across my face, scanning for any sign of emotion, “I figured if you wanted to talk about it, you would.”

I lift an eyebrow. “And if I decided never to talk about it with you?”

She lifts one shoulder, pushing a piece of white hair behind her ear, unbothered. “I wouldn’t care. It’s not my business.”

Her straightforwardness, the brash, unwavering tone, makes my lips twitch. I know her words are sincere, harsh but true. They aren’t flowery, not fake sympathy bullshit trying to make me feel better.

“You don’t care I’m schizophrenic?”

“I care that you get the support and medical care you need.” She shakes her head, reaching down and tearing off a piece of Levi’s half-eaten muffin, speaking around the treat. “I am not completely heartless. But no, I don’t care. It’s a mental illness, not the plague.”

Her voice is like a breeze of honesty blowing away all the fake sympathy and advice I’d heard over the years. I feel her eyes on me, studying me like I’ve been with her.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t.” Coraline lets out a scoff, frowning. “Don’t thank me. It’s the bare minimum. It irritates me that you feel the need to thank someone for treating you like a human being.”

How this woman thinks she’s cruel is beyond me.

“I—”

“Silas Edward Hawthorne!”