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The bookstore is dark, and quiet, and when Felicity goes to the mini-café to order an iced coffee, the barista winces in apology and taps an acrylic nail on the sign by the register: WATER AND COLD SNACKS ONLY DURING SENSORY-FRIENDLY HOURS—THANK YOU! But apparently we look so fucking bad that when Felicity opts for two glasses of water instead, they receive a set of pity cupcakes on the house.
“Gluten-free,” Felicity whispers as they claim the mismatched chair across from me. “Not vegan, though. If it matters.”
It does not.
I’m pretty sure I knew there was a queer bookstore halfway between my house and Navy Yard—I’d put money on this being the place Alyssa kept hinting we should visit last year. It’s a long, narrow property with uneven floors, ugly bookshelves, and enough books to constitute a fire safety violation. On the other side of the cramped doorway separating the sections, someone browses the stacks with noise-canceling headphones that remind me of Leah’s.
And here, tucked in the back corner of the café, Felicity and I nurse our waters and cupcakes beside an Indigenous Peoples’ Day book stack, trying to figure out what to say to each other.
We both find the words at the same time.
“So what’s wrong with you,” I mutter as Felicity whispers, “So why were you at school,” and Felicity stutters out an awkward laugh while I slump deeper into my chair.
“I was in the school because I have a door code,” I say, “unlike some people.”
Felicity is in the middle of performing surgery on their cupcake: cutting the cake part in half to put it on top of the icing like a sandwich. I finished mine already, because I’m not over here doing weird shit to it, and also because I inhale sugar whenever Mom’s not around to berate me for it.
“If you want to know what’s wrong with me,” Felicity says, “we’ll be here all day.”
“So simplify it.” My voice is still unsteady from the breakdown half an hour ago. “My money’s on trauma, but. Chemical imbalance, genetics, what.”
“I haven’t been diagnosed with anything, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I frown. “Huh.”
“The freaks running the Montana camp weren’t exactly licensed shrinks, you know? And the guardian units don’t believe in legit psychology. Just tell me to pray about it.” They’re smiling too wide as they smush a crumb into their napkin. “Though I’ve been trying to narrow it down. It’s gotta be somewhere in the DSM.”
“Yeah,” I say, because I have a PDF of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders bookmarked on my phone.
“But for what it’s worth, it’s probably a combination. Of, like, all that.”
They take a bite of their food to stop the conversation in its tracks. Understandable. There’s no real answer to the question. From what I’ve found, one—trauma or the chemical imbalance or the genetics of it all, take your pick—only exacerbates all the rest in a constant cycle. By the time you realize what’s going on, it’s a massive knot of shit you can’t even begin to untangle.
After a moment, I realize I’ve been staring at them.
I dislike Felicity Keating on principle. They’re an unpredictable, blackmailing bitch that has done nothing but get in my way, intrude on my space, and make my adrenaline spike every time they pull out their phone. Of course sticking my hands in the rancid shit of my past was going to come with risks to the fragile remains of my mental health, especially with Hexagon Productions involved, and Felicity is not helping. They have the social media equivalent of a gun pressed to my temple.
But.
But.
I can almost taste something simmering under the surface. It’s bitter, and rotten, and …
It’s nice that they know the worst of it, and it’s a relief to not be the only fucked-up person in the room.
I’ve never gotten that from anyone but Dad.
A text comes in.
Daniel
Hey, wanted to make sure you were doing alright. You left kind of quick after the interview and I wanted to give you some space but thought I’d check up on you
You In one piece?
Morgan
did you know what kind of questions he was going to ask
