Paperboy. (h.s. au)

39.

Harry and I have cried together too many times, I've noticed. Even if that's only two or three times.

But, I suppose, we've laughed many more.

You never really know everything about a person. For example, a (seemingly)perfectly happy, boisterous boy who ventured his way overseas for the fun of it has a whole other side that he almost never shows. It makes me wonder how many other people I've met or talked to who've been sad on the inside. Just pretending to be okay so nobody asks any questions that don't want to be answered.

Now, I can realize that I'm that person.

And I no longer care to be.

This doesn't mean that I have ever wanted to be sad on the inside. It simply means I've tolerated it for such a long time, it's just become a part of me. Which might be sadder. I hate being the person with a mental illness. I hate knowing that that is now my identifier. I wish it would just go away. With the medication I'm on and maybe a talk with the doctor, it would go. But it hasn't, and it scares me. What if it never goes away? What if I can't get it under control?

I shake my head as I come out of my mind for a moment. I'm sitting across the table from Stacy, who I haven't seen since the day of my accident. After she apologized about a hundred and four-no, a hundred and five-times, we sat down and she asked me to help her pick out a dress. If this is her way of fixing things, she's mistaken. But I've decided to try harder, so I accept the offer.

Turns out, picking a dress means looking at her candidates. She's already gone and tried on a few, so the only job I have is helping her pick between two. Personally, I think they're both gaudy and young for her. But you just can't say that to a person, let alone your father's brand-spanking-new fiancé. So, I lie. I pick the less complicated one.

I slowly come to the quick realization that the wedding is in just three weeks. Three weeks. And she's just now picking a dress. Stacy informs me that almost everything is planned "down to a science," and I hope she's right. My mother told me once that she went to a wedding where she couldn't see her shoes, there was so much rain and mud. I think that might be the worst way to spend the best day of your life. You try to be happy; its your wedding day. But your shoes are destroyed and so is your hope of keeping your wedding dress clean and having nice pictures to look back on. I suppose that it's easier to understand something like that when you're in the situation.

Three weeks.

I don't know if I ever will marry.

Harry sits in the wooden chair by my side. Stacy has fawned over him the entire time, sending very(not)discreet winks and smirks my way every now and then. My dad has yet to emerge from his bedroom, and I'm miraculously not too nervous for when he does.

I've never brought a guy to meet my dad, but I always imagined that it would be traumatic and awkward. But Harry has a way with words and people older than he and I, so I think that this might not be so bad. Plus, look at him.

After what feels like ages of pointless small talk with Stacy and Harry, my father comes shuffling down the hallway and into the kitchen where we sit. "Afternoon," he greets with his lawyer voice and a dad-meeting-the-boy-smile.

Harry immediately rises to greet him, a hand outstretched in his direction. "Good afternoon, sir." The look on Harry's face is serious, friendly, and just the slightest bit determined. It makes my heart flutter. I will never understand.

My dad eyes his hand, but shakes it firmly. "You are...Harry? Is it?" It's quiet in the room. Stacy shoots me a reassuring look across the table. It wasn't necessary, but I smile back. Being positive is some tough shit.