I hated questions. “Yes.”
“Are we . . . okay?”
This was exactly why being with her wasn’t a good idea. I was too damaged not to hurt her. “I’m sorry I haven’t talked to you. I haven’t been in a good place.” I knew I didn’t really answer her question, but it was as much as I could give.
“Why?”
I never in my life wanted to talk about the times when I wasn’t okay, but April made me want to explain. “There are . . . things . . . about me I can’t control. One of them is when I get down about something. It may not make sense to anyone else, but I can’t get out of my head.”
“I understand,” she whispered. “Was it because of us?”
“Sometimes I don’t know what triggers it. Other times, I do. This isn’t your fault, April. I’m just fucked up.”
“No you aren’t. Please don’t talk like that, Beau.”
“I am, April. There’s so much you don’t know. Things I don’t want you to know.”
“Don’t you get it, Beau? I want to know everything. I don’t care if you think it’s going to push me away or pull me closer. I want it all. Don’t hold back from me. I’ve missed you. I want to talk to you when you’re happy and when you’re sad, when you’re hopeful and when you’re down in the dumps. I’m not in this just for the good times. I’m in it for all the times.”
How could I not hold back from her? How could I tell her all the shit that was in my head? She’d run so far I’d never find her, and I wouldn’t blame her one bit. But her words made my resolve crumble a little bit. I felt so much better when I talked to her. Why hadn’t I done it more often?
“I’m sorry, April. This is so hard for me, opening up to someone. Please forgive me for sucking at this.”
“You don’t have to be sorry, Beau. I know how hard this is for you, but I want you to know how I feel. This isn’t conditional on you being happy all the time or shielding me from the bad stuff. I’m in, Beau. Do you hear me? I’m in.”
You are a worthless waste of space. No one will ever love you. No one wants you around.
I shook my head against the thoughts threatening to overtake me. April. Focus on April.
“I . . .” I wanted to tell her. The words were there, but I didn’t know how to say them. She was silent on the other end of the line, waiting patiently. “There are times when I hear voices. Well, mostly my mother’s voice, telling me I’m a worthless piece of shit—among other things.” Did I just say, I hear voices? You’re an idiot, Beau Oliver.
A small gasp came from her end of the phone line, but she said nothing, waiting for me to continue. Could I do this?
“My dad killed himself when I was five years old. He . . . suffered from depression as well as other things his entire life. I thought it was normal, having a dad who locked himself in his room sometimes and other times was the happiest person you ever met. I—I found him the day he killed himself.”
“Beau, can we video chat?”
I froze, my heart pounding like I’d seen a ghost. It was one thing to say it out loud and a whole other to see her beautiful face while I did it. “April . . .”
“Is it too hard?” I loved that she somehow got me.
“I wish it wasn’t, but I can’t right now. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said. “Tell me whatever you want. I’m here. I’m listening.”
“My mom . . . she took it so hard. Then when I started having trouble dealing with it, she took me for help. But a few years later, it was like something snapped. She’d say horrible things to me. It was like suddenly, she hated me. I looked like him and acted like him, so I was poison. This is why it’s hard for me to talk about it. I mean, at some point in her life she loved my dad, right? She loved him enough to see past his issues. But then it became too much for her, and she snapped. I don’t want to be a burden like that to anyone. Not to my sister, to you, or anyone.”
“I can understand why you’d think of it that way, but if you love someone, it’s not conditional. How did you end up in foster care?”
“I started having . . . episodes when I was eight. She couldn’t handle them. When I was twelve, she committed me to a mental institution.”
“This was the time you were sedated.” My heart soared. She remembered.
“Yes. She left me there and never . . .” My throat closed up. I attempted to work around it but I couldn’t. I hadn’t cried in years, probably since the days after Natalie and I realized she wasn’t coming back.