Opposite Force

Chapter Sixteen

Mikaela Martin | Present

The only thing worse than walking into class with a swollen lip and bruised cheek Tuesday morning would be not coming to school in the first place, so I force my unwilling legs to carry me to first period English.

For the first time ever, I can barely pay attention to what Peyton is saying as we walk to the language wing together. He's telling me about some crazy workout he had to do at practice last night—not burpees, but its name is equally ridiculous—and I'm incapable of following. I'm trapped in my own head, suffocating under a blanket of anxiety.

I should have brought one of my pills to school. On top of the Lexapro anxiety medication I take every night, I have a prescription for a kind so strong it's practically a sedative. I rarely use it because it's only for emergencies, but every once in a while I cut one in half and swallow it before school if I know it's going to be a really bad day.

"Mikaela?"

Heart pounding, I turn to Peyton. "Sorry!" I squeak. "Sorry. What?"

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah." I swallow. "Yeah, I'm fine. I took Advil this morning, so my nose doesn't hurt that much, and the cut on my lip isn't as bad as I thought yesterday."

"Mikaela."

"Yeah?" I whimper.

"I mean, are you okay?"

I open my mouth to continue denying that I'm anything but fine, but Annalise is too quick. "She'll be alright," she says, patting me on the shoulder. "Her anxiety will probably be bad for a—" She stops mid-sentence, eyes bulging. "You haven't told him?" she exclaims, her voice quiet for once.

"Not yet," I whisper.

"Shit! Micky, I'm sorry."

I just shake my head. I can't believe Annalise just told Peyton I have anxiety. I guess our relationship was nice while it lasted. Dating me requires enduring the wrath of Gigi's evil friends, which has to be taking its toll on Peyton already. No way is it worth that and dealing with my disorder. Wrath is one thing, but a crazy girlfriend... No one wants that. It was literally one of the first ever memes.

"Your what?" Peyton asks softly.

"I'll..." I swallow and squeeze my eyes shut. "I'll tell you at lunch."

"I'm so sor—" Annalise starts.

"It's fine," I interrupt. "I'm going to class. See you later, Peyton."

When he says, "Bye, Mikaela," his words are accompanied by sorrow in his eyes. I wonder if he pities me or if he's sad that he's going to have to break up with me later. Not sad about ending our relationship, obviously. That will be a relief. He's probably just dreading it because I'm emotionally damaged, and he's had to deal with a whole lot of my tears recently.

"Micky, I'm—"

I cut Annalise off with a glare. If I weren't so heartbroken, I'd be furious. She's my best friend. How could she blab about my anxiety so easily? She knows I don't like telling people about it. Even worse than that, how could she speak about the bane of my existence as if it's something I'll get over in a couple days? Like it's no big deal, just a tiny bump in the road for the poor people who have to be around emotional little Micky this week?

Annalise doesn't have anxiety, but she's been through her fair share of tough times. Her mom passed away when we were ten. Over the course of the year after Mrs. Davis died, her dad went from having a couple beers a week to drinking vodka straight from the bottle all day. Watching her father descend into and suffer from addiction is really hard on her, so while Annalise might not have an anxiety diagnosis—or any diagnosis for that matter—she knows what it's like to be in emotional pain. How could she dismiss mine so easily?