“Yeah, maybe.” He shrugs. “I don’t know, it got better when he started focusing on the art. And I really feel for the guy. He’s trying to get better, which I totally get. He and Chloe have started going to this art therapy thing and it sounds kinda cool.”

“Have you thought about joining them?” Caleb gets a bit cagey anytime I ask him about therapy but I can tell that it’s important to him. He’s so terrified of repeating the mistakes he made with Tyler and Henry.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs again.

“Sure you do.” I smile. “You’ve talked about using your ability to help people before. Maybe volunteering in a group thing could be a way to get into that.”

“Yeah.” He smiles back. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

I want to tell him how group therapy helped me. About how music is one of those things that makes me want to hurt myself less. But then I’d have to tell him about the cutting and the rehab and the open doors and I don’t think I’m ready for that.

But guilt hangs heavy in my stomach. Caleb has opened up about everything. He’s told me his biggest secret, takes the time to describe it to me; he shares what he’s learning about Atypicals, and he’s the one who was brave enough to make the first move. I haven’t even mustered up the courage to have a real conversation about my depression. Here he is, telling me about mind readers and experiments and I can’t tell him I’ve been diagnosed with a fairly common mental illness. Instead, I try to act like I’m the normal one in this relationship—ask him more questions about Chloe and Frank and using his ability for something good and hope that’s enough.

“So I hear you had an interesting talk with your father the other day,” my mom says, coming up behind me as I wash the dishes. I really should just avoid the kitchen entirely. Then maybe I wouldn’t keep finding myself in these situations.

“Uh, yeah, we did.” I aim for casual and fall somewhere along the lines of “No, Mom, I didn’t drink at the party, smell my breath” levels of suspicious.

“And how was that?” she leads, crossing her arms and leaning against the counter to face me. I turn off the sink and tilt my head to look at her. She’s smiling warmly at me, but there’s the steely flint in her eye that I usually only see directed toward her sister.

“It was … frustrating,” I say honestly, knowing the direct approach can be the most effective. “I just wish you and Dad would talk to me about what you do.”

“Why the sudden interest?” she asks. “You never seemed to care before. What’s changed?”