Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
“I will.” Her gaze shifts back to the screen. “Just lemme get this one last—”
“Vee, now,” I say, my tone firmer. “You told me not sleeping can trigger an episode.”
“An episode?” She snatches her hand from mine and narrows her eyes on my face. “Is that what this is about? We have one conversation about my diagnosis and all of a sudden you’re my doctor? You gonna get scared every time I do something you think isn’t normal?”
“I’m not scared. Baby, I’m concerned.”
“Don’t be.” She stands, pushing the wet hair out of her eyes. “I told you I have bipolar because you deserved the truth about what happened at Finley, and because I hoped it would give us a second chance.”
“It has. I’m not leaving if you have an episode.” I look up at her, wrap my hand around her calf and stroke the smooth skin. “I just want you to be okay.”
“That’s what I’m telling you. I am okay.” She steps out of reach. “You need to trust me when I tell you I have this under control.”
I let my hand fall to my lap and shake my head. “It just felt like déjà vu, finding you up working, knowing bad sleep can trigger stuff, and some of what you did tonight.”
“Tonight? You mean the sex?” She runs a trembling hand through the curls rioting around her beautiful face. “You think I’m gonna peg you every time I have an episode or something? If you didn’t want it, then—”
“This isn’t about that and I think you know it. It’s this nonstop energy, cooking like four meals in one, diving in the pool in the middle of the night.”
“Nothing about any of that is bipolar. It’s just me. I get enough of this paranoia and coddling from my aunts. I don’t need it from the guy I’m fucking.”
“The guy you’re fucking?” My brows lower and snap together. “That’s all I am? All this is for you?”
She presses her palms to her eyes. “You know I didn’t mean it like that, but you can’t assume every time I have a deadline and need to work a little harder, stay up later, that I’m on the verge of mania.”
“Look, I remember you said your best work came when you were hypomanic and manic, and that you’ve been struggling with this script, but all of a sudden, it comes together.”
“So you just assume I’m manic because I finally found the right angle?”
“No, but I haven’t seen you do your morning yoga in a long time. Your sleep has been shit. You said yourself you haven’t had time for pottery lately, and you told me hobbies help. Are there other routines you’ve been missing? You were drinking wine tonight. I never see you drink alcohol.”
“One glass of wine! What are you? My warden?” She sputters a disbelieving laugh. “I didn’t realize you’d been watching my every move in case I lose it.”
“I’m not.” I squeeze the bridge of my nose and blow out a frustrated breath. “If you say you’re okay, I believe you. I missed it before, and it cost us a lot. I don’t want—”
“Me to fuck someone else?”
In the thick silence following her comment, my jaw clenches, frustration grinding my teeth. “I don’t want to lose you again.”
“I lost you, too.” Her eyes swim with tears. “But if you can’t trust me, what are we even doing?”
“Never mind.” I scrape my hands over my face and shake my head. “Never mind. If you say you’re okay, then I’ll let it go. I don’t want to be paranoid or to smother you the way you think your aunts do, but don’t ask me not to care. Not to check on you, even if you get defensive.”
“I’m not defensive,” she snaps.
I rise to my feet, lifting my brows because she must hear that shrill note in her voice like I do.
“Okay.” She releases a half laugh. “Maybe I am sometimes, but I get tired of constantly being babysat and watched for signs of a mental break.”
“I don’t want to do that, but I also don’t care if we fight about it.”
She narrows her eyes and cants her head, assessing. “What does that mean?”
“I’d rather fight with you than miss something because I wanted to avoid a confrontation.” I rest my hands at the curve of her hips, pulling her into me. “I trust you. I don’t trust it. I don’t trust the condition not to sneak up on you or to trick you into thinking you’re okay when you’re not.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“And what if your judgment is impaired?”
“Don’t say that shit to me.” She steps out of my hold and turns away. “Not when you have no idea what it’s like being the unreliable narrator in your own story. What it’s like not to trust your own mind. Afraid to even trust joy in case it teeters into mania. Afraid to express disappointment because people wonder if it’s the beginning of a depressive episode.”