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“Anything else?”
Michael took a deep drink of iced tea before speaking, appearing to choose his words carefully. “He mentioned that you had a pretty rough road.”
I stared at my plate, too self-conscious to look at him. “Did he tell you I was hospitalized for a while?”
“He did. But he didn’t tell me why. I asked him to leave it up to you.” His voice was quiet, comforting.
“It was for depression. Mostly.” Keeping my eyes down, I picked up what was left of my dinner roll and began to tear it into small pieces. “I started seeing rips. Not too long after that, my mom and dad … died. I kind of went over the edge. It wasn’t pretty. I was committed and medicated. Heavily medicated. Everything went away. Not just what I could see—the rips—but my personality, my desires, all of it. I was like a shell.”
Less than a shell.
“It was good for a while, being empty. I didn’t hurt anymore. But as time went on, it was like I could hear myself from far away, begging for permission to come back.” I tore the small pieces of dinner roll into smaller pieces. “Once I was released from the hospital and away at school, I found a counselor, Alicia. It helped to be able to talk to someone, tell her everything.”
Almost everything, anyway.
“I stopped taking the meds last Christmas.” I couldn’t believe I was telling him so much, but the words kept spilling out. Something about his eyes and the way he seemed to look right into me without judgment made me talk. “Thomas and Dru don’t know. I don’t want them to worry about me, and they will if they know I’ve gone ‘all natural.’”
“Unless you’re trying to make a pile of bread crumbs to find your way home, you should probably give that roll a break.” Michael’s voice barely hid his concern. My heart stumbled a little, but the tenderness in his voice kept me from falling.
I dropped the remains of the bread, crossed my arms over my chest, and continued. “As the chemicals left my system, I started seeing things again. It only happened a couple of times last semester. I saw a rip at my friend Lily’s place earlier this summer. Then yesterday I saw a Southern belle in a hoopskirt and a guy in my living room, and then last night, there was the …”
“Jazz trio, yeah.” He twisted the silver ring on his thumb. “Are you glad you aren’t taking the medication anymore?”
“I hated it. I never felt like I was in control, although crazy people don’t generally get to claim self-control as a personality trait.”
“Stop.” Michael’s voice wasn’t loud, but the word was a command. “You are not crazy. What you see is real, Emerson. It’s valid; you’re valid. What you went through was horrible—losing your parents.”
Losing my mind.
“All I’m saying is … please don’t be so hard on yourself.” He reached as if he were going to touch my hand but pulled back. “Cut yourself some slack.”
His words sent a wave of relief through me. Not just what he said, but the way he said it, as if he wouldn’t accept any other alternative. Some of the anxiety broke loose and flowed away, and the release was sweet. Tears filled my eyes.
“Oh, damn. I’m not a crier, I swear. I never cry. I hate to cry.” I wiped my eyes on my napkin before any of the tears fell. He flagged down the waitress and asked for the bill, giving me some time to regain my composure.
“It’s on the house,” she said brightly, her eyes flicking briefly to me before giving Michael a tentative smile.
“Thanks.” He smiled back. When she walked away, he dropped a twenty on the table.
Nice tipper. Always a good character trait.
After a few seconds I looked up at him. “Thank you.” He nodded. I knew he understood I wasn’t thanking him for dinner.
“You want to get out of here, go to your place?”
Chapter 8
It took a few seconds before I remembered to blink.
He didn’t bother hiding his grin. “So you can show me the lofts?”
“Oh, right, yes, lofts. Good. Lofts. You ready to go?” I stood, knowing my cheeks sported a ridiculous shade of red.
We walked through the restaurant to the bar area, and his hand accidentally brushed the small of my back, the heat so focused where he touched me that the rest of my body felt chilled. I looked up at him from the corner of my eye. He put his hand in his pocket.
Behind the bar, Dru counted bottles of red wine while the bartender loaded them into a teakwood rack. “Dru? Michael wants to see the lofts. Can I use the master?”
“Sure.” She pulled a set of keys from her pocket and removed one from the ring, giving it to me. Her gaze darted back and forth between the two of us as her face registered surprise, or maybe concern.
