The rest of the week brings all the wonders of new relationships—great conversations, great sex—greatness all around. I love this part. Even when I’m sick I can still enjoy the beginnings. I’ve been feeling better, though. I haven’t had a single nightmare since that night, and I’ve been backing off my pills as much as I can. The anxiety is still there, ready to make me shake when I least expect it. That’s really the only thing I’ve taken pills for. I don’t like taking them, so not needing to has been a relief. The truth is that even though pills help some people come back from the edge, they’re fraught with terrible side effects that take their toll. The fewer I have to swallow the better.

But I haven’t needed them, but not because my brain went through some radical transformation, but because I actually have things to be happy about now. Work has been good, I’ve mostly avoided my family—except for Carla—and most of all I met a man I’m really falling for. He’s hot as fuck, sensitive, and he makes me feel like the me that I want to be. It’s been a magical week, but tonight we’re going to my parent’s house for dinner, and I’m terrified of what’s going to happen there. I called Carla to warn her last night, and, as usual, somehow, I became the bad guy.

“What do you mean, you haven’t told him you have depression?” she asked. “Are you serious? How does he not realize?”

“First off, I’ve been feeling better, so he hasn’t really seen any of it. But, even if I was having a spell, I’m really good at hiding it from people. You know all about that, right?” That last comment was a dig, but I didn’t mean it in a way that was going to start a fight. It was more of a warning shot to say, don’t go down the judgmental road, sis, ’cause we all have our secrets, don’t we?

Unbeknownst to anyone but me, I’m not the only sick one in my family. Mental illnesses are as genetic as they are environmental, and my sister and I got it from both ends—we just manifested it differently. I’m the depressed one that everyone knows about, but for years she had the eating disorder that only I knew of. So, whenever she starts to climb up that high horse I always feel the need to knock her off of it. She didn’t respond to the last part, just went back to the topic of me and Brandon.

“Even if he hasn’t directly seen, I think you should tell him. At least if it’s serious between you two. If he’s just another guy, then who cares, but . . .”

“It’s serious,” I told her. “And he’s definitely not just another guy, but that’s got nothing to do with it. I was with Joel for a year, and as shitty as this is to admit, I never felt the way about him that I’m feeling towards Brandon. It’s not about the amount of time, Brandon and I just fit together.” I do feel horrible saying what I did about Joel, because why stay with him and make him think things were okay when they weren’t? I guess I have to just stop thinking about him. It’s over, after all. I still have the reverse Dear John letter in my drawer.

“If that’s the case, then you should tell him. He has a right to know who he’s getting serious with, Lia. And the last thing you want is for him to figure it out himself based on how you’re acting.”

I got mad when she said that. First of all, the word ‘disclose’ sounds like I’m making him sign a contract to be my boyfriend. Second, what the hell did she mean by that? She said it like I have some alter ego that might cause such harm that I have a responsibility to tell him up front, just in case he wants to jump ship now and save me the trouble of being the cold bitch we all know I can be later on. “I probably could,” I said, choosing not to get into it with Carla. “His sister has the same issues. Kind of how we met—long story.”

“Oh, well then what are you afraid of?”

A lot, Carla. I’m embarrassed to be myself. You should know that as well as I do. I remember lying to mom and dad for you when you’d excuse yourself for the fourth and fifth times at dinner, so you could go purge, ‘cause that’s what sisters do—we cover for each other. I decide to pivot the conversation. “In the immediate sense, I’m afraid of mom, actually.”

“Well, that’s hardly breaking news.”

“No,” I explain. “Not just the usual stuff. Because Brandon doesn’t know, I’m afraid that mom’s going to let it out somehow, in that passive-aggressive way mom says and does things. You know how she can get.”

“So why not just tell her about this whole situation? Just get in front of it so that it doesn’t come out the wrong way from someone who isn’t you?”

“Maybe you’re right. I’ll reach out. Thanks.” I don’t have any intention of doing that, I just wanted to get off the phone so bad that I said anything. She wasn’t being helpful at all, but I’m used to that when it comes to our mom. She’s good at telling me what she would do, but that’s easier said than done. She’s got a different relationship with the one who birthed us, so I always take her advice with a grain of salt.

“No problem. See you tomorrow. Don’t be nervous.”

“I won’t.” Lie. “Goodnight.”

That was how the conversation ended last night, but now it’s game day. I reconsider calling mom for about a minute, but then I get too wrapped up in a case for one of my kids that I forget to call. I hope that doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass later on. It’s four o’clock, and Brandon is on his way to my place. I want to drive together so I can debrief him on mom without sounding too crazy. No one should meet her unprepared. He knocks on the door at exactly 4:15 p.m., and when I answer his face lights up. I look down to see what he has in his hand. “What’s that?”

“You said your mom loves rosé wine, right? Did I get the wrong thing?”

He’s so considerate. It’s things like this that make me question why I’m so nervous. He’s every mom’s dream—handsome, considerate, strong, a good job, he has it all. I think we’ll be fine, but for some reason I can’t kick this thought in the back of my mind that the whole thing is going to be a complete disaster. “No,” I tell him, taking the wine from his hand and kissing him right there in the doorway. “You got exactly the right thing. I’ll put in the fridge to chill, just remind me to grab it when we leave.”

“You got it. What are you up to?”

He looks over at the paper I have all over my coffee table. It looks like a scene from one of those detective shows, where a grizzly detective just can’t solve the twenty year old murder case. “One of my kids. I’m trying to decide if they’re in an abusive situation or not. This one’s been haunting me.”

We walk over to the couch and sit, my papers still all over the table. “You wanna tell me about it?” he asks. “If you’re allowed to, I mean. I know there are privacy issues with things like this, involving minors.”

“I can tell you about it in general without disclosing any personal information, then we’ll be in the clear.” Disclose. There’s that word again. “It’s an eight-year-old boy. Poor. I suspect he’s being neglected. His case came across my desk and I’m not sure what to do. These things are trickier than they seem. He has a lot of signs of neglect, but signs don’t necessarily mean anything’s happening. I honestly think the family can’t afford to take care of him properly.”

“That’s terrible,” he says. He sounds genuinely concerned about the little boy. I love that about him. Whenever you tell him something he has this weird type of focus on what you’re saying, even if it’s the first time he’s hearing about it. He could never do this job. It would break his heart into a million pieces. “Assuming that your instincts are right, what do you even do in that situation?”

“That’s a great question,” I answer. “And I wish that I had a clear-cut answer. That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out for hours now. The cases with little kids are the worst ones. Anything where minors are suffering in some way—those cases stick with me long after the paperwork gets filed.”

“I think it’s great that you care about them so much. More than their own parents in some cases, I’m sure.” He looks down at the picture of the little boy. I should put it away, but he’s looking at it with such focus that I let him do it. “I could never do what you do, Lia. I’d be like that animal activist at the shelter—I’d want to save them all.”

“You can’t,” I say. I sound like a hardened veteran, but it’s the truth. “You learn that the hard way when you’re around this stuff for a long time. This job would break your heart.”

“It would. I can’t be around too much pain or drama.”

I wish he would have said almost anything but that. It freaks me out, because I’m nothing but pain and drama, and I feel a rush of anxiety course through my body. “Why?” I ask.

“I’m an empath,” he explains.

“You’re a what?” I feel stupid asking. It sounds like the kind of thing I should know, but I’m not sure what the word means.

“I’m an empath—like the word ‘empathy’. Some people—I’m one of them—have a fine-tuned ability to put themselves in the place of almost anyone, emotionally. I’m like that.”

“Isn’t that a good thing? I mean, most people I know can’t empathize at all.”

“It can be, sure, but mostly it causes me pain. Empaths have to be really careful who they surround themselves with, and what kind of people they have in their lives.”

“Why’s that?” I ask, horrified by where this is going.

“Imagine it for a second. Imagine being able to basically mirror the emotional state of almost anyone you meet, good or bad. Not just sympathizing with them or being nice to them, but actually being able to feel what they feel. That can be dangerous. I learned really early in life to be careful.” Awesome, Brandon. Good thing you’re with me now. I never cause drama and I’m never troubled.

“I can’t imagine that.” I really can’t. Here’s the harsh truth about being depressed. It’s like the opposite of being an empath—it can make you the most self-centered person in the world, because all you feel or know is your own pain and sadness. You feel some guilt about how you’re treating other people and what they have to deal with when they’re around you, but mostly we become the centers of our own fucked up little universes.

“I’m glad you don’t have to,” he says, sounding sad again. He stares back down at the photo, and I put my finger under his chin and pull his face up to mine.

“Don’t look. It’s okay, this is my trouble to deal with.” I pull my hand away and he smiles. I decide to put some feelers out again to see just how he’d feel if I told him the truth about me. “So, going through what you went through with your sister must have been really hard, then.”

His whole face changes when I say that. It’s like I drained the life out of him for a second. I guess he didn’t expect me to go there. He looks at me with sad eyes again. “It was the worst time of my entire life.” Then he looks away. I have my answer. He can’t know about me, at least not yet. I’d lose him. That must have been a terrible time for him. Every time I bring it up he looks like that; his whole demeanor just changes into something I’d look like if he saw the real me.

“But we don’t have to talk about that.” I change the subject fast. I want his happy face back. “But if you want to worry about something, worry about this meal we’re about to eat in a few hours. That’ll be the real tragedy.”

“Oh, come on,” he jokes. “She can’t be that bad.”

My eyebrow shoots up. I don’t even need words. “Okay, maybe she is, but she’s not my mom, I doubt it’ll be weird for me. I’ll be good, don’t worry. I’ll say all the right things.”

“It’s not you that I’m worried about, trust me.”

He scoots over to me so that we’re touching. “Now, what could I do to make you relax, so you’re not so tense at this dinner?”

“Hmmm,” I say, staring back into his sexy eyes. “I can think of one thing.”

Maybe this night won’t be such a tragedy after all.