not in the room anymore.
Alone again, I sit at the island and shove handfuls of the still hot, moist bread into my mouth, barely chewing. The heat ravages my tongue and lips, but I don’t stop until the whole loaf is gone. It turns out a dash of sorrow and a teaspoon of bitterness really will ruin even the best recipe.
Gabe’s right. It doesn’t taste the same.
“I’m sorry for what I said earlier.”
I have the worst stomachache, likely from the loaf of banana bread I gorged on; I’ve been nauseous ever since. But it may also be the argument that’s turning my guts. As much as I hate to admit it, my mom is right when it comes to my stomach. It’s sensitive to nerves and anything too spicy, as well as angry words I wish I could take back.
Gabe sighs at my apology, but doesn’t seem too angry. Though he really should be, after what I said. “It’s okay,” he says. “I know you didn’t mean it.”
I bite my tongue, because words I don’t want to say are trying to get out.
I did mean it. But that doesn’t change that I probably shouldn’t have said it.
We’re on the couch, watching television. Feeling guilty, and getting no relief from nearly an entire bottle of pink bismuth—the same bottle left over from our wedding day, coincidentally—I flip on a nature show Gabe loves and try to come up with the right words to convey my regret.
The television is muted, but on it a lion stalks a sick antelope that has been separated from its herd. At least I can’t hear the antelope’s screams when it realizes what’s happening, left alone to try and fight off the too fast, too strong lion. I understand how the antelope feels.
“I know Dr. Rakesh thinks I’m depressed,” I say, keeping my eyes on the antelope’s final moments. Solidarity with the abandoned, weak animal. “But I don’t feel depressed exactly. I feel...angry.” I take another swill of the thick, pink liquid and grimace as it coats my throat. “Doesn’t depression come after anger?”
“I can’t remember,” Gabe says. “Isn’t depression at the beginning?”
“No, anger comes before depression. I think. Or is it depression, anger and then acceptance?” I sigh. “I have no fucking idea. But no matter what order they come in, Dr. Rakesh was pretty clear there are no shortcuts.”
“I don’t know about that.” Gabe smiles at me. “You’re one smart cookie. I think if anyone can find a shortcut it would be you.”
“I don’t think I’m that special.”
“That’s your opinion,” Gabe says. “But I know you can do whatever you put your mind to, Teg. I’ve seen you in action, and it’s pretty freakin’ scary when you’re committed. Like that lion.” I look back at the screen, where the lion is tearing apart its prey, and grimace.
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”
Gabe smiles wider, one side of his mouth resting higher than the other, where a faint white line is the only remnant from a childhood dog bite that required two-dozen stitches inside his cheek. It’s adorably quirky, his smile.
“The old me might have agreed with you,” I say, tucking my knees up to my chest. I feel cold, but on the inside. No blanket or hot cup of tea can help with that. “But I don’t recognize myself anymore. I’m...lost.” I dip my head and let the tears fall onto my pajama bottoms. “And I’m afraid I’m never coming back.”
I close my eyes and feel Gabe’s hand. His fingers intertwine with mine, and his thumb gently tickles my palm. I stay very still so as not to disturb the moment.
“You will make it back, Teg,” Gabe says, his tone gentle. “And I’m going to be here every step of the way. Promise.”
I nod and stay as I am, the sensation of Gabe’s hand pushing away some of the sadness and leaving something in its place. Something I haven’t felt in months—possibility.
“Is this all you’re bringing?” My brother Jason stands in the doorway of the master bedroom holding my backpack. I glance up from the customs forms I’m filling out at the kitchen island.
“Yup,” I say, flipping the page over and working on the back side. “I don’t need much.”
“But it’s like, six weeks. You used to pack a bag bigger than this for an afternoon at the beach.” He chuckles, and I roll my eyes. “Looks like I’m rubbing off on you. Jase style. Nice.”
“Jase style?” Connor says. “You mean a pair of boxers and a T-shirt for a week?” Connor, the youngest of the three of us, sits beside me, looking over my to-do list. “Let’s hope nothing about you is rubbing off on Tegan.”
I nudge Connor with my knee. “Be nice.”
“Whatever,” Connor mumbles, before pointing at items five through twelve, which are unchecked and range from acetaminophen to travel-sized bottles of shampoo. “Did you get all this stuff from the pharmacy?”
Connor is cautious, analytical, thoughtful and headed toward a successful career in engineering, whereas Jason, though brimming with enthusiasm and that hard to qualify “joie de vivre,” seems allergic to regular employment, rules and generally being an adult. Though opposite in personality, they look so similar they’re often mistaken for twins. Unlike my brothers, with their well-muscled height, eyes the color of fresh-cut grass and sunshiny good looks, I’m dark-haired and brown-eyed. I’ve also been blessed—as my perpetually dieting mother likes to remind me—with string-bean legs, narrow hips and small boobs.
“Mom came over earlier with all that stuff, including six freaking bottles of Pepto-Bismol.” I give Connor a wry glance. “She’s very committed to this weak stomach of mine.”
“Can I have a bottle?” Jase asks, bringing my backpack to the front door. “Last night was a rough one.” Gabe, who is a last-minute kind of packer, laughs from the couch, where he’s reading a magazine. If there’s one thing Jason excels at, it’s being the life of a party.
“Take two bottles, Jase,” Gabe says. “I think you’re going to need them more than Teg will.”
I push the bottles of bismuth to the edge of the island. “Here you go.”
“Thanks!” Jase tucks a bottle in each back pocket of his jeans.
“Did you get all your shots?” Connor asks me, ignoring Jase, as usual.
“You make me sound like a dog at the vet!” He doesn’t smile. “Yes, I got my shots.”
“Some of them anyway.” Gabe looks up from the magazine. I shoot him a warning glare and he shrugs. Connor isn’t exactly flexible when it comes to things like this, and the last thing I feel like doing is arguing with my baby brother. He always wins. Even though he’s the youngest, he’s the cleverest.
“Most of them,” I clarify. Connor’s expression tells me “most” isn’t going to cut it. “Don’t worry, okay? My doctor said as long as I’m careful about what I eat and do, I’m young, healthy and sure to be just fine.”
“What about the other medication?” Connor asks, carefully avoiding eye contact this time. “From Dr. Rakesh.” I don’t like to talk about the antidepressants, and everyone knows it. It makes me feel more depressed for some reason. Like, you feel totally fine, then someone comments on how flushed your cheeks are and asks if you’re okay, and suddenly you’re convinced you have a raging fever.
“In her bag already,” Gabe says. “I made sure.” I narrow my eyes and wish Gabe would let me handle this.
“I’m all set, Connor. Don’t