Depression's End, Young Love's Start

Chapter 3

The rest of the crew joined in, hooting and teasing them both.

My chest seized up. I stopped dead in my tracks.

I watched as Brandon casually lifted a hand to shield Gloria from the sun. Gloria dabbed sweat off his brow, then held her personal fan up to cool him down.

Someone nearby joked. "Why even film the show? We could just shoot a documentary. This is way cuter than the script."

Laughter filled the air all around them.

The assistant director who'd brought me to the set looked over, mortified. He could see I was seconds from falling apart.

He looked like he wanted to vanish into thin air. "Abigail, they're just messing around. It's all jokes."

"I know." I tugged my hat further down my face, waved him off, and turned to walk away without a sound.

I didn't feel like I could breathe properly again until I was off the set.

The homemade snack box in my hand felt heavy and pointless. I dropped it straight into a nearby trash can.

I went home alone.

The huge living room was totally empty. The heavy, quiet air pressed down on my chest, tight and anxious.

On the coffee table by the couch sat a photo of Brandon and me.

We were wrapped in each other's arms, grinning brighter than the summer sun.

I lay on the couch, scrolling back through our old text messages over and over.

Brandon: Babe, what'd you eat today?

Brandon: What're you wearing? I'll pick something in the same shade.

Brandon: What're you up to? Miss me?

They were the same tiny, repetitive little lines, day after day. But neither of us ever got tired of them.

I scrolled from morning until the sky went dark outside.

Our messages dwindled from hundreds a day down to just a handful—then finally, just one text every few days.

Brandon's last message had come five days earlier.

Brandon: I'm busy. Get some rest.

That night, I'd gotten off the phone with Fiona and lain awake for hours. I'd texted Brandon to ask what he was doing, and that cold line was all I'd gotten back.

A tear slipped down my cheek. My chest ached again, sharp and impossible to ignore.

Sometime in between, heavy rain started pouring outside.

The silence in the house made my heart race. I buried my face in the couch cushion and mumbled, "I'm fine. There's nothing wrong with me..."

I don't know how long I lay there. Then the front door clicked open. I lifted my head in a daze, my eyes still red and puffy.

I stared at the person in the doorway, stunned. "Brandon, what are you doing home?"

Brandon flipped on the light. He looked at me on the couch, his tone flat and unreadable. "I heard you stopped by the set today."

His accusatory tone irked me. I said, "I was just trying to surprise you."

Brandon saw how tense and flinching I was. A flicker of annoyance crossed his face. "Don't do that ever again."

It was a straight order. He added, after a pause, "The movie wraps soon anyway."

I froze. After a long beat, I dropped my gaze and answered hoarsely, "Okay."

I stood up, ready to drop the conversation. "I'll run you a bath."

In the bathroom, I stared at my red-rimmed eyes in the mirror. I took a long, steadying breath.

I stayed there for a minute before walking back out. "The bath's ready. You can..."

I never finished the sentence. Brandon turned around, his face cold and hard.

The first words out of his mouth were icy. "Why did you lie to me?"

I stared at him, confused.

Then I spotted it—my pill bottle, the one I kept with me at all times, sitting open on the coffee table. Brandon had found it.

I froze right where I stood.

Brandon picked up the bottle labeled paroxetine and flipped it upside down over the table.

Pills spilled out onto the coffee table, then rolled one by one onto the floor.

Every single pill was marked—"multivitamin."

Brandon's voice was sharp and cutting. "Is it fun? Faking depression to trick me?"