Weather Girl

Eventually, you deal with something for long enough that it becomes such an intrinsic part of you, and you can't imagine yourself without it. You accept it, maybe because you think you deserve it but also because you're scared that if you tried to change it, it wouldn't work. It feels easier to live in that somber place because you don't know who you are otherwise, and you're worried about putting in all that effort without a guaranteed outcome.

The people who love us the most have the power to hurt us the most, too.

I meant it when I told you before: I want every version of you.” A fingertip lands in the center of my lower lip. “I love every version of you.

Sometimes I think parenting is a combination of doing things the opposite of how you were raised mixed with doing things exactly how you were raised and worrying that you’re becoming your parents.

What I’m realizing,” I continue, “is that I like myself the most when I’m around you. And I think it’s because I’m the most honest version of myself. I don’t have to try as hard, and I don’t have to hide. I can just . . . be.

Being a person is hard,” I say simply. “The hardest,” she agrees.

It’s still scary as fuck, though,” Alex continues. “Putting your heart out there and not knowing whether the other person will be careful with it.

If anything could confirm that weather isn’t small talk, it’s this. Weather connects us. A shared experience, even when we aren’t in the same place.

No one else will want you, depression brain says. At least he already knows about all your issues.

It [depression] lives with you, an invisible roommate, up until the time you start sinking, and then it sprawls itself across your couch and kicks its feet up on your coffee table and uses up all the hot water. Never pays its half of the rent, either. You can be ok for months, for years before it creeps back in, telling you lies like 'you will always feel this way' and 'no one will love you because of it' and 'why bother'. Once, you could tell they were lies, but now they wheigh down your shoulders and take up space in your lungs. Sometimes they come out of nowhere. Other times, some grim event helps yank you back to that dark place. And, you are so fucking exhausted, so you let it happen.

Most of the time I don't want to be around anyone, because forcing a smile on a dark day is a little like trying to turn concrete into gold.

And I wanted a hero who’d love her through her dark days, not despite them—because to me, that is the most romantic thing of all.

But if there’s anything I’ve learned about depression, it’s that it is an intensely personal journey, one that never really ends.

We could talk about anything- that was the first sign. I loved the person I was when I was with him, and we had the same values. Of course, that didn't mean there weren't things that annoyed me about him. No one's perfect, obviously. But those things didn't matter when I considered everything that made me love him.

The first fifteen minutes of our drive are silent, except for a few seconds when the audiobook I was listening to starts up, and I have to smack the power button because I'm fairly certain my romance novel was heading toward a sex scene.

Ah, but that’s the great thing about sports. We love an underdog story.

More than anything, I wanted this book to highlight a neurodiverse heroine who happens to be on medication and in therapy falling in love and thriving. I wanted to show the messy, heavy parts of her life alongside the moments that sweep her off her feet. And I wanted a hero who'd love her through her dark days, not despite them, because to me, that is the most romantic thing of all.

It the worst when family isn't there for you the way they're supposed to be," he says. "When Liv got pregnant, it felt like I'd shattered some unspoken bond of trust.

When you spend so long imagining your life with someone, after they leave, you don’t just lament the loss of that person. You have to grieve every piece of your life they touched that they don’t anymore. Every image of your future that you planned together.

What if he can't handle you on your dark days? 'You haven't seen me at my worst yet... it's not pretty... it's can't-even-do-basic-tasks levels of not pretty, and I rarely know when one of them is coming. Is that something you're ready for?'... 'I-I think so', he says, stumbling over his words. That uncertainty - it will turn into frustration. Anger. Dismissal... 'It's just going to be you and me and my fucking brain conspiring against me.' That troublesome organ I've never been able to fully trust. The thing that distorts reality and cloaks it in the grayest fog. 'I think we should take a few steps back, we'll have clearer heads if we come back to this in a few hours or tomorrow.' He doesn't get it. He can't simply take a few steps back from my mental illness. 'That's what I'm trying to tell you... I may not have a clearer head tomorrow. I can't control it... it doesn't matter how many steps back we take - I'm still going to be this way... and sometimes it manifests in ugly ways. No matter how content I am at any given time, it always comes back. And I've learned to accept that.' 'What? You don't like me like this?' 'That wasn't what I was going to say... i really don't want to say the wrong thing here, ok? I want to tell you we'll get through it together because we care about each other, and because we want to make this work. But I've never done this before either... you're' - he breaks off, trying to hold himself back from saying it, but then goes for it anyway. 'You're not acting like yourself right now. You can't blame me for being a little taken aback.' ...'this is me, Russel. And this is exactly why I don't show that person to anyone.' 'That wasn't what I meant,' he says, and there it is - a thread of irritation in his voice. There's a limit to how far I can push him, because there always is. I'm already spiraling, my mind taking me down a familiar path. He can't handle me. 'I don't think i can do this.' The words claw up my throat, but it has to be done... i hate that I say it. Worse, I hate the way I believe it.

Even when we've passed each other... I've tried my best not to get a good look at him. He's been a blur, a sketch, a blueprint of a person. But here in front of me, all those details thag make him Russel fill my senses to the point where my knees go weak... I have to be over him. At the very least, i have to be on my way there. Otherwise, it would mean he could have my darkness and my sunshine... I want a guarantee he won't run when it gets hard. I want something I know he cannot give me: certainty.

I'm not trying to make you feel sorry for me. I'm trying to give you an explanation - not an excuse.' 'Being a person is hard,' I say simply. 'The hardest,' she agrees

Russel Barringer is a gentle, impossibly kind man, and I don't know how I felt anything other than lucky to have him in my life. Even if he remains past tense.

His eyes on me are warmth and sweetness and a thousand other good things. It's ridiculous that I ever wondered whether I was in love with him

The sheer magic of finding that person who gets you the way no one else does

That night: when my feelings for him became impossible to ignore. When I let him in for the first time... gentle nudges - ok. Except something significant happened each time they meddled... it should be comforting that we were all conspiring together. But something about this wild truth had melted away all the magic... 'I'm just trying to imagine what might have happened. If she hadn't 'gentle nudged' you to take me, would we have started dating?

And yet every ounce of desire is underscored with something else: a sense of comfort I've never known in a relationship. Safety.

I shouldn't be wondering where I fit. They're already a family - they've been one for years... they'll be one long after I've left his life.

He looks both lovely and exhausted... especially now that I've seen the scrapbook photos, I can tell where the age hangs on him: in the soft creases at the corners of his eyes, the few threads of gray woven into his hair. The slump to his shoulders, like he carried too much weight too soon, but he's doing his best.