Page 87 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

The universe didn’t respond. Because the universe doesn’t have a mouth, I suppose. Alex didn’t respond. Because Alex seemed to understand that my statement needed no response.

It’s a funny thing, what our mind will bring forth from the deepest recesses of our subconscious when we’re afforded the luxury of being still. Being quiet. When nothing in the world is weighing heavy on our minds. When we’re having a perfect day. My mind decided that while I was sitting on that hillside, looking down on the remaining partiers still having fun, was a great time to speak up.

Why had I married Peter?

Why had I moved to America?

Why had I not nurtured my marriage?

Why had I not tried harder to nurture a wonderful life?

Why? Why? Why?

Why was I so angry and sad and happy and confused and determined and…I suppose, why was I unsure of my next step?

It was laid out before me. So…why?

“My therapist has told me that I was suffering from depression,” I said softly.

Alex didn’t physically react to my sudden statement, but I could tell he was listening.

“That I didn’t care if my marriage worked out or life was going okay…because I was suffering depression,” I added.

Alex still didn’t speak.

“She thinks I’m starting to come out of it,” I added. “But it will still be a process. I guess that sounds true. I felt depressed. Maybe I didn’t care enough because of it. I don’t know. But that’s what she thinks.”

Talking about what my therapist had said, there on the hillside, after such a perfect day, I wasn’t saddened at the mention of my troubles. I felt safe talking about it. I felt safe with Alex beside me, listening to my deepest thoughts.

“I suppose it makes sense,” I said. “I was depressed before I met Peter. Or…I guess I was really sad. After losing…everyone…I loved, how could I not be?”

The universe continued to blink lazily down at us. Talking about Peter was not something I would have ever tried to do with Alex, but something inside of me was compelling me to take this moment—this perfect day—to find out how good our friendship was. If it would survive the thing that had tied us together being ripped apart, maybe that would be a good sign.

“So,” I sighed, “I suppose that is the answer. I was…I am…depressed. Marrying Peter had been selfish of me. I needed to fix me first.”

“Is that so?” Alex finally asked.

I shrugged. “I suppose.”

Alex and I sat in silence for a few moments, the music from down at the house drifting up the hill like a wave toward us. I rose to sit cross-legged alongside Alex, wondering what else could be said. It was obvious that Peter was a topic I shouldn’t have brought up.

“You know,” Alex said, “I wasn’t invited to your little post-wedding party.”

Slowly, confused, I turned my head to look at him.

“Initially, I mean,” Alex smiled at me.

“Oh?”

“Peter invited me at the last minute when he found out I’d be in Rochester.”

“Why?”

“He said you would be bored around his other friends. He wanted you to have a good time,” Alex said. “He said I’d be good for you.”

I frowned.

“I’m assuming that meant that since I’m such an obnoxious jackass, he felt I might bring you out of your shell a bit.” Alex shrugged, moving to prop himself up with his elbows. “He wanted you to enjoy the party and maybe find someone to be your first American friend. I guess he figured—and he was right—that there wouldn’t be anyone else at the party who would fit the bill.”