Page 129 of Play For Me

“No, of course not.”

“Do you think less of me?”

“Jay—”

“Am I pussy?” he asks, relentless. “Am I a loser because I need some help sorting out what’s in my head?”

“No. I can’t believe you would even think that I’d?—”

“Why would I believe you’d think anythingelse?” He asks, leaning across the table. “I hear the way you talk about therapists and labels and mental health.”

My stomach drops, but he’s not done. “I know that all of that shit comes from your parents. I know they’re the ones who put that in your head. But I also know you’ve let those ideas in so deep that you actually believe them. So why wouldn’t I assume you’d believe them about me?”

“Because you’re my best friend,” I somehow manage to get out around the lump in my throat.

Jay closes his eyes. “Solomon. How are you not getting this?” He looks at me then and there’s no hint of the easy-going, laid-back, life-of-the-party guy that the rest of the world sees. “You’re my best friend, too, you idiot. And you deserve to get help without judgement just as much as I do.”

Logically, I know that he’s right. I know there’s nothing wrong with seeking out help. I know it doesn’t make a person weak or lesser, and if someone ever said anything remotely like that to Jay about him seeing a therapist, I would kick their ass.

So why can’t I feel anything except for panic when I think about sitting down with someone to talk about this shit?

It’s quiet for a long moment before Em says my name. I look up at her and realize that her eyes are wet. “You’re letting them win,” she murmurs, and a chill goes down my back.

“What are you talking about?”

“Your asshole father. And your horrible mother. You’re letting them win. You’re believing the bullshit they’ve told you all these years. They want you to feel like this—like you’re less than. They want you to believe that they were right about you, that your condition means you can’t be happy or have a good life.”

I suck in a breath. We never use words likecondition. We never talk about any of this shit in an honest way, and suddenly,I’m so fucking tired. Tired of talking around my issues, of always trying to hide myself or change. Tired of being the way I am.

I put my forehead in my hand, slumping against the table.

“I don’t want them to be right,” I manage to grit out. “I don’t want them to win.”

She puts her hand on my shoulder, nice and firm, exactly the kind of pressure that feels comforting to me. “Then you need to do something about it, Sol. We’ve been ignoring this long enough. It’s my fault, too. And Jay, and Red. We never pushed you.”

“In our defense,” Jay says drily. “Pushing you isn’t the easiest thing in the world, you stubborn asshole.”

I meet his eyes. “I’m sorry,” I rasp out. “I’m so fucking sorry that I made you feel like you couldn’t tell me.”

He waves his hand, like it’s nothing, and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. It’s so quintessentially Jay, to forgive me so easily.

“Has it been… you know. Okay? The therapy I mean.”

He brightens. “I actually kind of like it. Dr. Trevyn is cool, and crazy smart. Asks a lot of questions, which I don’t mind.” He grins. “You know how much I love being the center of attention.”

I groan. “That does not make me more inclined to follow your lead.”

“But I really think you need to, Sol,” Em cuts in. “Because I can’t stand this.” Her voice breaks and I feel even more shitty. I hate how much I’m upsetting her. “I can’t stand to see you push away someone who makes you happy because somewhere along the way you started believing the shit your parents had to say to you.”

She squeezes my shoulder again and holds my gaze. “Those bastards are wrong, Sol. I promise you that they’re wrong.”

THIRTY-FOUR

CECELIA

It’s a beautiful day to play soccer. The sun is out, the sky is blue, and the breeze is just strong enough to help keep me cool out on the field.

But no amount of perfect weather can do a thing to touch the turmoil coursing through me.