I look up to see Nate carrying a full cup of soda in each hand, his eyes flicking from my face to the blood on my shirt. I’ve never told him what nosebleeds mean for me, but from the look on his face, Bronwyn did. Something breaks inside me, and before I can get hold of myself, I start crying again.
Nate tosses both sodas into a nearby trash can without another word. He puts an arm around me and leads me out of the main concourse to a side area with a few scattered picnic tables. It’s not private, exactly, but we’re the only ones there. He sits us both down, his arm still wrapped around my shoulders. I collapse into him, sobbing against his chest for I don’t know how long. Nate keeps pulling crumpled napkins out of his pocket until he runs out and I have to press them together in a damp, bloodstained mess. All I can think, while I clutch Nate’s jacket and he keeps a steady hand on my arm, is that I’m finally not alone with this.
When I sit up at last, wiping my eyes, he says, “Bronwyn didn’t tell me.”
I dig a tissue out of my purse and blow my nose. “She doesn’t know.”
“Maeve. What the fuck,” he says again. It doesn’t seem like the sort of comment that needs a reply, so I don’t. “But doesn’t this…I mean, just to make sure I’m understanding things here. This is something that happens when you relapse, right?” I nod. “So you can’t…You have to…Why? Why would you keep something like this to yourself?”
My voice is low and hoarse. “You don’t know what it’s like.”
“What what’s like?” Nate asks.
“Relapsing.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s just—everything changes. Everyone is sad. Normal life stops and we all climb on this miserable treatment roller coaster that only goes down. It’s horrible and it hurts in every way possible, and the worst thing is, it doesn’t work.” I’d start crying again if I weren’t completely spent. I sag against Nate’s shoulder instead, and his arm tightens around me. “It never works for long. Four years is the longest ever. I thought maybe I’d never have to do it again and I…I don’t know if I can.”
Nate is quiet for a few seconds. “Okay,” he says finally. “I get that. But this is your life, Maeve. You have to try. Don’t you think?”
I’m so unbelievably tired. If I closed my eyes now, I’d sleep for days. It’s not a comforting thought. “I don’t know.”
“If you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for your family, okay?” Nate’s voice gets urgent. “Think about your mom and dad. And Bronwyn. How would they feel if you…If something happens, they’ll drive themselves crazy wondering whether things could have been different if you’d trusted them enough to tell them.”
I stiffen. “It’s not about trust.”
“But that’s what they’ll think.” I don’t reply, and he presses. “You know it’s what Bronwyn will think. She’ll blame herself for not being here, or not guessing. And it will eat at her for the rest of her life.”
Damn him. He just poked my Achilles’ heel, and he knows it. When I sit up, he already looks relieved. “Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll talk to my parents.”
As soon as I say it, a wave of relief crashes over me, washing away some of the dread that’s been building for weeks. It hits me, then, how badly I’ve wanted to tell them, but I’d let myself get frozen with fear and indecision. I needed a push.
Nate exhales a long breath. “Thank Christ.”
“You need to do something for me in return, though,” I warn. He raises his eyebrows, quizzical. “Get your head out of your ass when it comes to my sister.”
Nate’s surprised laugh breaks the tension enough that I smile, too. “Listen, Maeve. You don’t have to worry about Bronwyn and me. We’re endgame.”
I wipe a stray tear from the corner of my eye. “What does that mean?”
“It means we’ll wind up together eventually. It might take a year for us to sort everything out, or two, or ten. Whatever. But it’ll happen.”
“Maybe you should tell her that,” I suggest.
He gives me that famous Nate Macauley grin that always turns my sister into a puddle. “She knows. She might not admit it yet, but she knows.”