Frost Bite

Chapter 34

Josie

"Are you depressed?"

I stare at my father over my bowl of cereal, amazed that he actually scraped together the courage to speak words to my face.

"No, I am not depressed." I'm not. This isn't something that drugs or a therapist will fix. I haven't given up on my dream of being a doctor, I haven't stopped talking to Ryan. I am not depressed.

I am, however, heartbroken.

"You just seem so... Dejected. You don't talk about what happened."

At least I can be honest in this entire conversation. "There's nothing to talk about."

My father frowns at me. "I don't believe that. Even Ryan won't say anything — which makes me think that you made him promise not to."

"I did no such thing," I assure him. "I told you what happened. You don't have to believe me but it's the truth either way."

"I want you to go see a therapist."

I let out an indignant noise. "I'm not going to see a therapist." What good would it do me? A therapist would never believe me about what happened — about the existence of Jack.

"I'm not giving you a choice."

I narrow my eyes at him. "I'm eighteen in less than a month. Good luck trying to force me because it's not going to work."

"You need therapy."

"No, I don't. And there are people out there who actually do need therapy so how self-serving of you and your public image to force me to go when I don't need to when someone else could be going."

"Josephine —"

"No! I am not going and you cannot make me. You think I need therapy? Why don't you go ask Ryan, since you don't believe me. You know he'll tell you the truth and guess what, it'll be the same damn thing I just told you." I slam my spoon down on the counter and stand up.

"Where do you think you're going?" he demands.

"School!" I yell over my shoulder. "Where well adjusted people go instead of therapy."

I slam the door behind me. Ryan — as always — is waiting for me at the curb. He makes a face as soon as he sees me. I slam his car door a little too hard and his sedan shakes with the effort of my fury.

"Why are you pissed off?"

"The parental unit wants me to go to therapy."

Ryan lets out a choked noise. "Dear God, who would a therapist do when they hear you talk about —" he stops, looking at me with concern.

"You can say his name," I inform him, folding my arms across my chest. "I won't go psycho on you."

Ryan instead focuses very intently on his turn signal. "A therapist would call you crazy. Would actually have you committed."

"I'm aware. He thinks I'm depressed."

Ryan makes another choking sound. "Aren't you?"

It takes everything in me to resist the urge to slap him. "No, I'm not depressed."

"You're not happy."

"That's not the same thing as being depressed. Are you happy?" I demand.

Ryan's so, so quiet that we're already to school by the time he answers. "No, I guess I'm not."

I don't tell Ryan this, but on weekends I can't sleep. There are too many unoccupied hours, too many hours where I have to figure out what to do with myself. I'm in the process of being vetted to work at a food bank, but in the mean time, I fidget and pace. I no longer know how to let myself sit still. I can't watch movies, can't read books. I run and I go to the gym to box where my father can't see but mostly I don't sleep. And so it's four in the morning — cold and foggy as Alaska clings to winter — when I find myself outside because outside, where it's cold, I can always pretend I haven't made it home yet. "I am a hundred percent talking to no one," I announce to the quiet wood behind my house, "but Jack, you are a rat bastard." There's no answer. For one moment, the world around is completely still and silent. A frozen diorama of the perfect aloneness of me.