He groaned. “You have no idea. Yes. The neurologist who can’t fix my brain. It’s a pride thing with her, I guess. But trust me, if it’s out there as a possible evidence-based solution, I’ve tried it.”
“That’s rough. But at least she cares, you know?”
“There’s caring and then there’s the third therapist that month and the trip into the city to see yet another specialist and the new medicine that might possibly help or might actually be worse than the old medicine. At a certain point…”
“It’s just all too much.” I got it then, at least a bit of it. “You want to feel like their kid, not a problem to be solved.”
“Exactly.” He shot me a grateful smile.
“My parents—Dad especially—thought they could fix me too. So I kind of get it. It’s hard when it feels like they aren’t seeing you any longer.”
“You being gay is not a problem to fix, medically or otherwise.” Alden’s indignant tone soothed places inside me that I hadn’t even realized were still raw. “My anxiety at least has some actual science behind things that could help. It’s no one’s fault that none of it works for me. Flying and other things are simply going to always be hard.”
“But…” A thought that I’d had ever since Professor Tuttle had said that Alden didn’t like to fly popped out before I could find some tact. “How the heck are you going to cope with the pro tour if you get a space on it? It’s a lot of conventions and travel. You can’t drive to every stop.”
“I can try.” Alden’s chin had a stubborn tilt to it when I glanced over at him, and his voice was full of fake bluster, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as me. “And like you said, there are pharmaceuticals for the trips where plane travel simply isn’t avoidable. They’re not perfect, but they at least can hold off the worst of a panic attack. I want to work on this. I want to get over it. I know logically that flying is safer than driving. Maybe if I do it enough times… And I want to be on the pro tour. I need that win.”
So did I, but this wasn’t the moment to bring that up or to play the I-deserve-it-more game. “Well, if you’ve had the anxiety all these years, it seems silly to think you can white-knuckle the fear into submission.”
“I choose to believe I can.” His voice was firm, back to the haughtiness I was used to. Well, okay then. And maybe he legit didn’t need my sympathy—I sure as hell didn’t need his—but I couldn’t seem to stop the way my mind sped ahead, worrying about other situations that might trigger panic attacks for him. And my body went all floppy, as if it couldn’t decide how it felt about all this talking. This was more talking than we’d done in the three years that we’d been around each other, and getting to know Alden, to have him be a complicated person rather than just an annoying rival, was a development I wasn’t sure I was ready for.
Chapter Twelve
Alden
If there was one thing I was fast learning, it was that a hungry Conrad without access to the continuous stream of sugar and junk he seemed to favor was a cranky Conrad. And as we approached Dayton later than we’d planned, Cranky Conrad kept muttering under his breath about the traffic.
“Why is the game store Professor Tuttle picked clear on the other side of Dayton? And why are all the idiot drivers out here at once? God, I just want to get to the stop.”
“We need food first.” I tried to make my voice sound as no-arguments as it did when I was playing the game. Somehow it was far easier to be bossy there than in real life. But some of my earlier confidence from helping Jasper had carried over to the rest of the day, making me more relaxed. Obsessing less over Conrad’s driving and every little detail beyond my control.
“Guess I could eat lunch. All I’ve had were those mini doughnuts for breakfast.”
“You really need to overhaul your eating. It’s not healthy to live on crap food.” I pulled out my phone and my folders of papers, trying to find some food options.
“At the moment, I’m kind of a freegan.” He laughed. “Doughnuts were free. Therefore, I ate them. But growing up, my mom was a major health nut. Dad, too, really.”
“Ah. So junk food is like your grand rebellion?” I’d never attempted anything resembling rebellion before myself, but I understood on an academic level how it could be appealing.
“No, I think going to a liberal East Coast college instead of the school where my dad is the football coach pretty much handled that. And the whole being-outed thing took care of the rest.” Conrad’s voice was dry and distant, no more laughing.