Page 28 of The Striker
“You talk to your parents about it?”
Well, no. “Not really.”
“Friends?”
I shake my head. Kinda hard when you don’t have any of those.
“So, who do you talk to about it?”
Nobody.
My vision blurs. Urgh. Do not cry. Do. Not. Cry. I blink hard to clear my gaze and find a point on the wall across the room and stare at it. Hard.
“I guess I don’t really talk to anyone about it,” I admit. “But it’s fine. I prefer it that way.”
“Therapist?”
“No.” I have one. Dr. Walker. But I don’t talk to her about that. I sorta just sit there and wait for our hour to be over. I’ve been better these past few weeks about talking. I opened up a little about the suicide attempt. Meaning I’ve acknowledged it happened. But that’s as far as I get. Seeing her every week checks a box. It’s a step in the right direction, and I like leaving it at that.
“I get it,” she tells me. “My parents made me see a shrink for years when I was a kid. I wouldn’t tell any of them my secrets either.”
I snap my attention back to her, but she isn’t looking at me. Instead, she takes another bite of her burger, her expression blank, like admitting you had a therapist isn’t a big deal, except that it is. College students don’t walk around admitting things like that out loud. Mostly because our peers can be assholes, and no one wants to be ridiculed for needing a little help. ButAdriana drops that bomb like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
“Why did they make you see a therapist?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me. It’s none of my business, and if she says as much I’ll leave the subject alone, but I don’t think I’ve offended her by prying. Granted, it’s hard to tell with her. Adriana keeps her emotions locked up tight. It might just be because we don’t know one another, but she’s incredibly difficult to get a read on.
Adriana sets her burger down and grabs her napkin before wiping her mouth. “Do I seem different to you?” she asks.
My brows furrow. “Different in what way?” I mean, her bluntness is different, sure. But I don’t think that’s what she’s asking.
She shrugs. “Like, am I abnormal to you?”
“I’m not sure any of us can really be considered normal,” I tell her. “We all have shit and we all handle it in different ways.”
The corners of her mouth curl into the ghost of a smile. “I like you, Cecilia Russo. You’re different from most people.”
“Uh, thanks.”
“It’s a compliment.”
Alright. I’ll take it as one.
“My parents made me see a shrink when I was younger because they thought there was something wrong with me.”
Oh. I don’t really know what to say to that. “I imagine that had to hurt.”
She makes a face. “Not really. I knew where they were coming from. Like I said, my parents love me. It’s just … hard for them. Having a kid they think is different. I’m not what they expected.”
“I don’t get it.” I feel like Adriana is trying to tell me something without coming out and saying it, but I’m having a hard time reading between the lines.
“I like you,” she says again.
Okay. “I like you, too,” I tell her.
“I would like us to be friends.”
I mean, I was sort of hoping for that as well, so that’s good. We’re moving in the right direction.
“Alright. Let’s be friends.” It will take some time, getting to know one another to be real friends, the ride-or-die kind, but I’m game to try if she is.
