âHey, Katharine. Would you rather get married in a church orâŠâ Emily pauses to sip her coffee and get her thoughts together. She spills some on her chin and giggles while using the back of her hand to wipe it off. âOr a beach. Would you rather get married in a church or on a beach?â
I donât answer right away. Disguise my hesitation by taking too big of a gulp of scalding coffee and needing to swallow it.
A church? Well, sure. Raised Catholic, Iâd love that. The same church my parents were married in would be ideal.
But I canât. Because I want to marry her, and those ideals never meshed well with the Catholic organization. Not that itâs legal anyways.
And I canât tell her who I want to marry. Iâm not âoutââis there even an âoutâ to be? Iâm pretty sure Iâm just the clichĂ© girl who keeps falling in love with her girl best friends. Thereâs no reason to talk to anyone about it or say it out loud.
So I shrug and compose myself to the best of my ability. Which isnât a ton because Iâm always a mess around her. âYou say that like marriage is a possibility.â
She smacks my shoulder, her skin still sticky from the sugar-loaded coffee. I donât mind the stickiness because it reminds me that she only drinks the coffee I make her. Though it hardly counts as coffee. Itâs mostly creamer and spoonsful of sugarcane.
âIt is. Youâre a total fox.â
âA lion, actually. Havenât you seen my hair?â
Emily smiles. âYouâre a drama queen, is what you are. But I love you anyways.â She loops her arm around mine and buries her face into my shoulder. Iâm grateful that my hands are full of her books and my cup of coffee, because normally sheâd use a moment like this to interlace our fingers, and my palms are always sweaty. Plus, I know she can feel my blood pumping through the pads of my fingertips and by my thumb.
Sheâs the beginning of the drop in the worldâs most dangerous rollercoaster, and I have a front-row view. I can see where Iâm headedâthe fact that there are no seatbelts, thereâs no handlebar, and no rails in sightâbut the adrenaline holds me in place.
Because she makes me feel alive in a way that Iâve repressed for years. Sheâs an open fire, and Iâve made myself dormant for fear of upsetting those around me. For letting people down.
But suppression isnât the answer for people like me. My doctor says that when people like meâpeople with Borderlineâstifle things, it just makes the inevitable explosion worse.
âYou should really let me straighten your hair sometime,â she says. âOr just play with your hair in general.â She twists one of my curls and lets go; it springs away from her fingertips. âItâs so much softer than it looks.â
âRight.â My vocabulary substantially shrinks every time she is in my close proximity, but it disintegrates into only two or three words when sheâs touching me.
She releases me so she can skip a few steps in front, with all the fluid moves of a girl who took ballet for fifteen years, and the Emily induced fog that hazed my mind is lifted.
Itâs early in the morning for herâabout nineâso her movements are sloppier than they would be around lunchtime. Theyâll get better after she warms up at the dance class weâre heading off toâthe legit dance class that Iâm taking for college credits just because she pouted at me. I move as well as a newborn gazelle, and no one in the class has a problem with laughing at me. They think Iâm laughing, too, because of how much I smile. But they donât know that the smile is to cover the fact that I want to run out of the gym crying, and they donât know that I spend hours every night practicing so that I wonât be laughed at in the next class. My practice never pays off.
Sheâs a thousand times more graceful than I could ever be, and it doesnât matter that I get up four hours earlier to run solo half marathons. I would never be as beautiful as her.
She rubs the bottom hems of one of my shirts between two crimson-polished nails. After our late writing class last night, she didnât feel like going home and crashed at my apartment. It isnât weird anymore. Itâs become our normal Wednesday night to Thursday morning ritual. I always let her sleep in my bed and I sleep on the couch, because one time when I slept over at her apartment, I made the mistake of sleeping in her bed with her, and I stayed up the whole night just because I was afraid our bodies would touch in the middle of the night and sheâd wake up and realize Iâm in love with her.
On our walk to campus, we see the same black cat. Or, at least I think itâs the same black cat. He (or she) is always in the same spot: on top of a bench in a straight line, with its front and back legs dangling off either side.
Itâs the first time I say what I think whenever we walk by it. âI want to just go up and steal that cat one day.â
Emily laughs. âPlease, donât.â
Itâs the way she says it that causes the faltering in my stride. âWhat?â
âWhat?â
âYou just sounded weird saying that,â I say. And itâs unusual for me not to let the subject drop because weâve disagreed. Itâs the norm for me to roll over and stop any time she could toe the line of becoming imperfect in my eyes. Sheâs on a pedestal, and I do everything in my power to keep her there.
Does that make me a psychopath? Or just Borderline?
Emily pauses. She uses the same tactic that I did earlier to buy time: sipping coffee. But then, she abruptly tosses it into the trashcan right beside where the cat is sleeping. It doesnât stir, and for a moment I think sheâs going to reach out and pet the cat, but she doesnât.
âNo offense,â she says, and as she speaks she breaks eye contact so she can study the ends of her hair, âbut you canât adopt a cat. Or any animal. You canât even take care of yourself.â She glances up at me, as if peeking to see how I took her words. I love the way that her bangs cover part of her eyes.
If anyone else had said it to me, I wouldâve taken offense. I would have flown off the handle. Thrown my coffee, thrown her books, possibly thrown her. What made Emily so different for me? I guess it didnât matter.
âThatâs why I have you to take care of me.â I smile. It cracks the corners of my lips and stretches my skin over my cheekbones. Does the skin bunch up and pouch out there like I imagine?
Emilyâs shoulders relax. âSpeaking of taking care of you, lovely.â She places her purse on the benchâthe cat still doesnât stir from where it lay on the other sideâand rifles through it. âHave you eaten today?â
âYes.â Itâs automatic.
âLiar.â She shoves a pack of Pop-Tarts at me. Two in each of those aluminum sleeves. âYou donât even have to eat both. One. Iâll have the other.â
âIâm fine, Emily. I ate.â I jiggle the coffee cup. âAnd Iâm drinking coffee. Iâm good. But thank you.â Itâs added as an afterthought because I know she must have thought way in advance for bringing the Pop-Tarts.
âHow far did you run this morning?â Her hands are on her hips. âThatâs what I thought,â she says when I donât answer. âJust eat one. Please. Theyâre the Brown Sugar Cinnamon kind. Arenât they your favorite? I know you like Sâmores, too, so it was a toss-up.â
It makes me nauseous, what sheâs doing. How much she cares. But she doesnât understand. I canât eat them. I balance her books in my arms so that I have a free finger to pick at my cuticles: a nervous habit that has only gotten worse with age. And I never smoke in front of her because she hates the smell of cigarettes, so my cuticles are destroyed.
I canât eat the Pop-Tart. But I also canât let her down.
She notices me picking and clears her throat a little. âPlease. Do it for me?â
Itâs just over 200 calories. I can do that. Itâll be my meal of the day. I wonât have the celery and fat-free Ranch later. I can make that sacrifice to see her smile. She bought these for me. She was thinking about me.
So I step toward her and take one of the Pop-Tarts. âAnything for you,â I say.
I donât enjoy the taste as much as I enjoy seeing her smile. The Pop-Tart is sugary and tastes like people making fun of me for being too fat, like guys telling me they donât want to date me because Iâm ugly, and girls excluding me from friend groups because Iâm not pretty enough. It tastes like panic because in sixty minutes Iâll still be in a gymnasium dancing and I wonât be able to throw this up in the meantime, and everyone knows that thereâs no point in purging after an hour because your body has already absorbed the calories.
I eat slowly, chewing each piece over twenty-six times before swallowing and taking another bite. Every piece I break off and pop into my mouth is smaller than the last because if this is going to be my only meal of the day, I need to make the most out of each calorie. Some might call it savoring, but thatâs the last thing I would consider doing.
âSo is that guy still bothering you?â Emily isnât looking at me when she asks. Sheâs staring off at the new apartment complex theyâre in the process of building on Fifth Avenue. I think itâs going to be some ridiculously priced complex for graduate students only, but Iâm not sure. The metal barring on the roof is mismatched neon between each section, varying from orange to lime green to yellow.
âWhat guy?â I ask, because when sheâs talking to me, there isnât anyone else that could possibly take up any of my mental space. A gnat flies around the Pop-Tart in my hand and I canât help but think that it would enjoy it so much more than I am.
âThe one whoâs like four years older than us. Harry?â She stops in front of me and places her coffee on a bench by the sidewalk. She pops her hip out and pulls her hair up into a messy bun on the top of her head. I wait for her to guess again because Iâm pretty sure the only Harry I know is Potter, and heâs never been the harassing type. âNo wait. Howie.â
Oh.
âCharlie?â
âThatâs the one.â
Iâm not sure how to answer at first because thereâs a flicker of hope in me. Her guesses on his name were so incredibly off that it had to have been done on purpose. It makes my mind wander, and I have to believe that she likes me as much as I like her.
And Charlie has never bothered me. Heâs sweet. He always texts me in the morning and at night, and asks about my family. Iâve never talked to a guy who cared that much.
She takes one of her books from me and turns it over in her hands. âIf you guys do get together, are youâŠ?â
âWhat?â
âIt doesnât take a genius. Fill in the blank with literally anything, Katharine,â she snaps. And itâs moments like these where her mood suddenly sours for no reason that I wonder if my intuition is that incredibly off. Anytime thereâs a mention of someone else giving me attention, she goes into full protection mode and tries to convince me that theyâre awful and sheâs amazing. Which she doesnât really need to do because Iâm already in that mindset every moment Iâm awakeâand probably while Iâm asleepâbut itâs still interesting.
Itâs all I can say to repeat, âWhat?â
I think I hear Emily say, âGod, sometimes youâre so clueless.â But I canât be sure because she isnât facing me, and I canât see whether her lips are moving. I often think people are saying things about and to me that they arenât actuallyâmy doctor says itâs part of my personality disorder, and the paranoia will get better as the medication flows stronger through my bloodstream.
She says everything will get better once my medication kicks in. Iâll have less meltdowns. The urge to harm myself will go away. Iâll slowly stop cutting, and Iâll stop purging.
It all sounds like Iâll be a completely different person. Who am I without these things? Who am I without depression? Who am I without paper towels stifling open wounds and three fingers down my throat?
âHeâs totally only talking to you, so he can get in your pants,â Emily says as we cross the street to get onto campus. Sheâs speed-walking so fast that sometimes I have to jog after her to keep up with her stride. âCome on, Katharine.â She whirls on me, and in her movement, knocks my coffee onto the ground. It spills all over the concrete and my running shoes. âYou think the best of people all the time, and itâs going to get you hurt.â
âThatâs not true.â
âIt is true.â She picks up my coffee cup and winces in an unspoken apology. âYouâre way too nice and naĂŻve, and you expect other people to be, too. But weâre not. We want whatâs best for us, and we could give a damn about you.â
âDonât lump yourself in there,â I say. âAnd Charlie is nice. Heâs a few years older and heâs had a bit of trouble in life, but everyone has.â
âTrouble in life? You donât need someone who has trouble in their life. You have enough for the both of you.â
My face turns redder than her nails. âThatâsâhey. Not cool. And again not true. IâmâI can handle dating him if I wanted to.â Which I donât, but she doesnât have to be mean about him. I already get that she doesnât like him. I donât need to hear why.
âFine.â She turns and starts the trek to the gym again as I weave through people to keep up. Everyone parts for her to walk through, but the gaps close when I try to follow. âDate him. Let him take advantage of you. Be Psycho and Psycho-er. See if I care.â
âHold on!â Iâm trying to follow her and her thought patterns, but theyâre as sporadic as mine tend to be. Someoneâs shoulder bludgeons mine, and I barely manage to not drop all my things. Thatâs what we get for walking through the busiest part of campus at the busiest part of the day.
Thankfully, Emily stops, and when she turns to face me, it isnât as violent as it has been. âWhat?â
I hate the way she spits that at me.
âWhy are you so mad all of the sudden?â I sound like a pathetic high schooler. Are you mad at me? But thatâs what she reduces me to. Pathetic.
âWeâre going to be late, and clearly you donât care what I think.â
âOf course I care, but I donât think it matters.â I cringeâIâve never had a way with words. I say things that offend people and then I hate myself afterwards because itâs not what I meant. Itâs neverwhat I meant. âI donât think it matters because I donât want to date him.â
Her face has hardened, and she sucks her lips in; it looks like sheâs doing everything she can not to slap me or hit me upside the head with the book sheâs holding. âYou donât want to date him.â
âNo,â I say. Everything is happening too fast for me. I havenât a second to slow downâmy heartrate is rising with every breath, and my fingernails are picking my thumbâs nailbed. And I canât help it when itâs the adrenaline that makes me blurt out, âI want to date you. Unless, I mean, are we dating? Already?â
Everything stops at once. The protestors in Turlington Plaza stop, the student tour by The Potato stop, the frat bros who keep knocking into me stop, the man throwing Bibles at people stops, the health club handing out free condoms stops.
Emily stops.
Her lips unfurl, and she drops her book. Someone picks it up and hands it to her; it reminds me that weâre not the only two people on campus. That things are happening around us. People studying for exams, rushing to get to class, getting together and breaking up, making and cancelling lunch plans.
Life is going on, and weâre at a standstill.
Her reaction makes me immediately want to take my words back. Sheâs not on the same page as me. Clearly. I want to eat my words and all the calories that come with them. All the couple-y things weâve ever done donât constitute a relationship. Are we dating? What kind of idiot asks that question? Clearly we arenât.
Her mouth has formed a perfect âOâ shape, and her eyes have widened. The angled bangs arenât covering her eyes at all, and I see everything behind them. The panic. The confusion.
The disgust.
Breathing is getting harder. My lungs arenât intaking oxygen completely. Theyâre halting halfway, and each breath comes and goes in short spurts. It feels like the asthma attacks I used to have when I was in grade school. Or maybe like the panic attacks I started to get in high school.
âOh my God.â She drops her book again. I can see the thoughts zipping through her mind. Sheâs replaying every conversation weâve ever had.
For some reason, I still think that thereâs a possibility everything might be okay. Or maybe she hasnât heard me. Maybe itâs all a dream and my alarm will go off in a minute to remind me that I have to go run fourteen miles.
âWeâre not dating.â
âOkay.â It stings, but what else is there to say?
She pulls her hair out of its messy bun and runs her fingers through it at an alarming pace that makes me worry sheâll rip it all out. She yanks it back into a ponytail.
âYou think weâre dating?â
âWe do couple-ish things,â I say, and I hate how much of a reprimanded child I feel like right now.
âThat doesnât meanâthat doesnât make meâIâm notââ
Prior to this moment, seeing Emily flustered would be like seeing me graceful. And even then, I thought Iâd be graceful before she ever became flustered.
âI canât believe you thinkââ
âI donât.â I have to cut her off because I think itâd be too painful to hear her say out loud how much of an idiot she thinks I am.
âKatharine.â She covers her face, her book falling to her feet again. Her red fingernails stand out from the tanned skin that she lightens with coverup. âI canât believe youâreââ Her hands drop to her sides.
âItâs okay. We donât haveâIâm sorry I brought it up. We can just forget it.â
âForget it?â The light, disbelieving voice has faded away into a shriller tone that catches the peopleâs attention from the crowd around us. âKatharine, youâre a dyke, and you never said anything.â
From the corner of my eye, I see the man who throws Bibles and preaches about Hell cross himself. Several sorority girls stop to gawk. Two girls I went to high school with stop, and one says to the other, âI knew it.â
I want to die.
I try to swallow but her words have carved a hole in my throat. My mouth is dry, and my heart feels like something is constricting it. It doesnât feel like blood is being pumped to my fingertips and toes, and those digits are tingling and losing feeling. Is everyone laughing at me? I think I hear people laughing.
I canât breathe.
âIâm a⊠no, Iâm not.â The feeble words are directed to the people whose stares I canât escape. I canât even look at Emily.
âYou said you wanted to date me. You thought we weredating.â Why is she shouting this for all of Turlington to hear?
âThat doesnât make me aâaââ I canât even say the word, but I donât have to.
âDyke.â Emily pushes her bangs from her forehead. âGod. This whole time.â Sheâs still mentally calculating everything. âWe shared a bed.â  Â
âIâm not aâŠIâm not that.â Why was the word so hard for me to say?
The crowd thickens around us and makes it harder to breathe. The humid air suffocates me, and I would kill for a cigarette or a shot of flavored vodka. Something to take the edge off.
And then Iâm thinking about how nice it would be to find a sharp edge and press it into my torso. A place no one can see because no one can know how much Iâm falling apart. I canât afford for anyone to see how many cuts and scars pepper my upper thighs and stomach.
For people to see how unperfect I am, and how much I struggle on a day-to-day basis.
âI canât believe you never told me. And that you would think that I would ever be interested in you like that. Weâre girls. I like boys. I thought you did, too.â
âI do like boys.â Do I? Right now I just want to get away. I need to escape. I need to find a sad song and play it on repeat while I whittle away at myself.
Maybe the bottle of Tylenol will work this time.
âWell, Iâm not a boy, Katharine, so clearly you donât.â
I want her to stop saying my name. I donât want to be Katharine right now.
âIâm not gay.â Gay is a lot safer of a word, and I can say it out loud with only a little bit of a splutter. I do my best to ignore the commentary from the people behind me.
âDo you like me? Or are you in love with me or whatever?â She doesnât wait for my answer. âThen youâre a dyke.â
And I wish sheâd stop saying that word.
Emily wipes her forehead. âYou are,â she hesitates, picking up her book. âDisgusting.â
The comedic voice in the back of my head that has kept me alive for the last nineteen years laughs at me while repeating: This is the worst proposal in the world. Can it ever get worse than this?
Will I ever survive this?
Emily is in the middle of saying something, but my ears are ringing, and I canât quite make everything out. I keep thinking about the razor in my hand and silencing that comedic voice forever. Cutting it from its vocal cord and watching the blood trickle out onto my fuzzy blue bathmat.
âYou really are psychotic,â she says, and itâs those words that bring me back because I have no idea where sheâs gotten them from. âYou could go kill yourself, and I doubt anyone would notice.â Or maybe itâs because sheâs up in my space for this, and itâs back to being just us two on campus. No one else whispering around me or staring.
I have no words. Thereâs no way to stand up for myself, and even though I feel the pain from everything sheâs saying, I also feel numb in areas, just not the right ones. The numbing doesnât cover the pain, and the pain gives way to anger. Anger from embarrassment and the mortification of rejection.
The realization that my best friend just not only rejected me, but outed me to the whole University of Florida campus. Or, at least the people in this section of campus.
Maybe there is an âoutâ for me to be.
âWow. Most people would take a compliment, but you have to make everything dramatic, donât you?â And itâs not me speaking, but itâs coming out of my mouth. Itâs in my voice. But itâs not me, I promise. Itâs this person who lives inside my mind and is more chaotic than that stupid comedic voice. Whomever it is, sheâs made my life a living hell. She takes over whenever I feel an overwhelming sense of anger. Sheâs the one who controls the razors that slice into me. Sheâs the one staring back at me in the mirror who says I need to lose one more pound before Iâll be pretty.
 Sheâs the one who wonât be happy until I kill myself.
It comes full circle, since that side of me had always been suppressed around Emily. Now, I think Emily will be the final one to see her.
âOh really? Mature,â Emily says. âYou knowâyou know what? You can go fuck yourself because Iâm the best friend youâve ever had.â
âGrow up, Emily. I have other friends.â Itâs still that nameless entity that sabotages every attempt of happinessâor complacency, ratherâthat I go after.
âDonât sit next to me at dance class.â
And itâs such a stupid and unnecessary thing for Emily to say because I donât plan on sitting next to her at class. I donât plan on doing anything again.
The Suicide Hotline doesnât pick up on my first call, but Charlie does.
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