that to me all the time. Get over it! Pierce. What if I can’t get over it? It’s not something I can just get over. It’s who I am it’s—”
“Wait, let me explain.” He places a hand on my chest, and I suck in my stomach, trying in vain to harden my core. “I didn’t say to get over it. I don’t think you can. I know Americans are touchy with mental health, but let me say this. You could talk to someone, you could try one of those apps, or something. Just start there. This summer’s going to be a big change for you. I don’t want you to … Never mind. Maybe I’m out of bounds.”
“Gotcha,” I say.
“Does your best friend really say that?” His tone is almost pitying, and an icky feeling takes over.
I don’t know how to describe our friendship to others, because the more honest I am, the worse it sounds. She does say that to me, all the time. But she also brings me out of my shell.
“Without her,” I say, “I don’t know if I’d have even left my room over the last year.”
He laughs. “That’s good. Doesn’t mean she gets a pass if she’s saying things like that. It’s an anxiety thing, right? Does she know that it’s more than you being bashful? Have you told her how it feels?”
There’s a vulnerability in his voice, and it resonates with the same vulnerable chord thrumming in my own chest.
“I have told her,” I say, tentatively. “It hasn’t always gone well.”
“Clearly.” His cheeks puff out as he releases a long sigh. “Marty, mate, just know it’s okay. We’ve all got weird friendships, and I’m not trying to step in, but whatever you feel is valid. Anxiety is a beast, especially for those of us silly enough to pursue a career where we have to put ourselves out there every single day.”
“Good point. For the record, I do like being pushed out of my comfort zone. Sometimes. But I hate when I feel bad for feeling bad, you know? Like, I can’t help it sometimes.” I flash him a smile. “Thanks, Pierce.”
I’ve just gotten here, but I’m filled with a warmth that I so rarely get to feel. Progress. Something real.
He pulls me in for a cautious hug, and for a moment I think my mind will go blank. I feel his stubble brush my cheek as he puts his arm around me. I grip his denim jacket, and breathe. And breathe.
I want this to be some sweet fairy-tale moment so badly, but I’m very aware we’re in public.
Per usual, things change almost immediately in my brain. Back and forth. There are so many people around. Pierce holds me close, but I’ve lost the will to participate.
I pull away. “Sorry.”
He just smiles. “Nothing to be sorry about, love.”
I blush, hard. If that’s even possible. My cheeks actually hurt from being so tense—and I play oboe. Strong cheeks are kind of my thing. He’s so charming, and relentlessly British, and more importantly, he already seems to care about me as a friend. All I know is I am definitely not ready to deal with any of this. But for the first time, I really want to deal with this.
And that makes me feel like I could.
SIX
My pre-Megan days were a blur. I’m not the protagonist of anyone’s story, and I’d accepted that from an early age. But when we became best friends, I became something else. I was something, I guess. Something was better than nothing.
Unfortunately, I’m still one-hundred-percent dependent on her to sort out my life. Make my decisions, force me to take chances. By “taking chances” I don’t mean, like, shoplifting—which she still does even though she has the money and isn’t a twelve-year-old thrill seeker anymore—but forcing me to stand up to my parents and tell them I wanted to go live in London. Helping me craft the lie and practice it.
She didn’t just help me find my voice; she also made me use it.
I keep feeling my jeans pocket, instinctively looking for and failing to find a phone on which I could text or call her. I’m alone here and I can’t handle it. Maybe Pierce was right about learning to manage my issues. But I wouldn’t even know where to start.
“So this is Sondheim Theatre,” I say to Pierce. A billboard for Les Misérables wraps around the corner of the building, and the charming buildings that line the street curve around