Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Red
Asharp, insistent buzz cuts into the silence. I reach over and slap the alarm clock, and blink a few times while taking in the morning light. Sunrays slice through the half-closed blinds in thin, pale strips across the sheets.
I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling fan that turns in slow, lazy circles above me, inhaling the faint trace of perfume that still clings to the sheets.
Blue.
Her name hits me square in the chest, like a fist closing around my ribs. I close my eyes. Her electric-blue, wide, and glassy eyes, and lips parted with shaky breaths, haunt me. The memory carries heat, and then all the others follow.
She's pressing her mouth against mine in the middle of the sidewalk. Her fingers curl into my coat like she could anchor herself there forever. Then the flash of Shirley's terrified expression across the street interrupts it.
I exhale through my nose, long and controlled. My hand moves on its own, reaching for the phone on the charger. The screen lights up stating it's 7:42 a.m.
Disappointment hits me, and I know it's wrong. I should be glad there are no new messages or missed calls. Yet what's good for me and what I want are two different things.
I open my contacts, but Mikhail erased her name. There's no way to tap and hear her voice. A surprising round of anger hits me, mixing with my frustration.
If I could call her, would her voice be trembling, flat, or edged with that dangerous quiet she slips into when the world presses too hard?
A new nightmare tortures me. I picture her curled on the couch in her apartment, knees drawn up, blue hair falling over her face like a curtain.
The razor she keeps in the bathroom drawer, the one she showed me once with a small, careless shrug, is in her hand.
Blood blooms along the inside of her wrist in thin red lines.
My pulse kicks hard against my throat.
I need to make sure she's safe.
All it will take is one sentence.
"I'm checking on you."
Or "Are you okay?"
I should tell her the truth.
"I can't stop thinking about you, and it's tearing me apart."
Stop being an idiot.
She'll answer, and then the conversation will spiral the way it always does. Soft confessions will turn sharp. Promises I can't keep will tangle with the guilt that lives under my skin now.
I drop the phone onto the mattress like it burns, even though I can't contact her right now anyway. It lands face down with a soft thump. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes until colors burst behind the pressure.
Enough.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand. The floorboards are cold under my bare feet. I move through the routine because routine is the only thing solid, so I go for a run, then come back and get in the scalding shower.
Water pounds my shoulders while steam clouds the mirror. I scrub my skin until it pinks, trying to wash away the phantom press of her body against mine, and the way she arched into me like she needed to disappear inside my chest.
It doesn't work. The memory stays, stubborn and hot.
Frustrated, I get out, towel off, and dress in charcoal slacks and a crisp white shirt. I knot my tie with quick, practiced movements, then stare at my reflection.
The man in the mirror looks composed with combed hair, a clean-shaven jaw, and steady eyes.
It's all a lie, but appearances matter when I'm about to walk back into a life I almost torched.
I grab my keys and my wallet. I get to the door and pause. For one stupid second, I half expect Blue to step out of the hallway, barefoot, wearing nothing but one of my old T-shirts, smiling that crooked smile that always makes my stomach drop.
Get a grip, I scold myself.
I fling open the door, step out, and lock the door behind me. The hallway air is cooler, stale with the scent of yesterday's takeout from someone's apartment. I take the stairs instead of the elevator, needing the movement and the small burn in my thighs to ground me.
Outside, the morning is crisp, the kind of morning that pretends it's winter for a few hours before the sun reminds you it's in charge. I find my car, start the engine, and the radio blares a hard rock tune. I turn it off, needing silence.
The drive to the office is muscle memory. I pass the same buildings and stoplights as always, but everything feels off. My hands stay steady on the wheel, but my mind keeps circling back to Blue, and her hitched breath when I had her up against the wall.
I grip the wheel tighter. The building finally comes into view. I park in my usual spot, kill the engine, and sit there for a long moment.
The lot is half empty. Early patients haven't started arriving yet. I can still turn around, drive somewhere else, and disappear for a day. But hiding is what got me here in the first place.
I get out, lock the car, and walk toward the entrance. I push the door open, and the antiseptic, lavender lobby flares in my nostrils.
I take the elevator up, walk down the hall, and step into my personal office. The lights are on, and the magazines fanned neatly on the side tables. Shirley sits behind the reception desk, her silver hair pulled into a low bun, phone pressed to her ear, mid-sentence.
She looks over, and her eyes widen, then narrow. She says, "I'll call you right back, darling." She hangs up and furrows her forehead.
I stand just inside the doorway, the soft click of the latch behind me sounding louder than it should.
She keeps her fingers curled around the phone like she's not sure whether to pick it up again or throw it. She dryly greets, "Dr. Mercer."
Three steps bring me to the edge of the reception desk. I use my authoritative voice. "Morning, Shirley."
She doesn't answer right away. Her eyes flick over me like she's looking for cracks in my armor. And she finds them. I can tell by the way her mouth tightens.
She finally asks, "Why are you here?"
I stand taller. "Because this is my practice and I have patients to help."
She lets out a short breath that isn't quite a laugh. "You think you can just walk back in as if nothing happened? Like I didn't watch you kiss that girl—your patient—in broad daylight?"
My pulse ticks up. "I know what you saw. I'm not denying it."
"Then why are you acting like it doesn't matter?" Her voice rises half an octave, the maternal edge sharpening into something closer to hurt. "You're a psychologist, Red. You know better. She's a patient. Was a patient. And you let her—"
"I didn't let her do anything." The words come out harder than I mean them to. I lower my voice. "It was mutual. It was wrong. I know that. But I'm here to fix what I can."
Shirley leans forward, elbows on the desk.
"Fix it how? By pretending the last month didn't happen?
I spent all day yesterday calling people, explaining that Dr. Mercer is on personal leave and that they need to find another therapist. I've had mothers crying on the phone because their teenage daughter was finally opening up, and now she's lost her safe place. And you want me to just undo it?"
Her words sting, but I remind myself I need to get my life back. So I nod. "Yes. Get the appointments back on the books. Today. Tell them I'm back and I'm seeing patients as scheduled."
She stares at me like I've asked her to set the building on fire. "You can't be serious."
"I'm completely serious."
For a long moment, the only sound is the low hum of the air-conditioning. Shirley's fingers drum against the desk blotter for a moment while tension builds. Then she slowly rolls back her chair and rises. She states, "I can't do that."
"You can. You will," I order.
She shakes her head. "No. I won't help you pretend this is normal. I won't lie to your patients. I won't pretend I didn't see what I saw, or that I didn't spend the last twenty-four hours wondering if Blue is okay and how she's going to get the help she deserves!"
Guilt hits me hard. I argue through clenched teeth, "I have helped Blue."
Shirley scoffs, "What you did isn't help."
"You don't know how I helped her."
"The board isn't going to look the other way on this," she threatens.
Something dark unveils inside me. I warn, "Be careful what you say, Shirley."
Her eyes turn to slits. "Meaning what?"
"Meaning that Blue's family is making this go away. And I'm sure you understand that you don't want to piss off the Ivanovs. You do know what happens when they don't get their way, correct?"
Her eyes widen, and her face pales.
For the first time in too long, satisfaction hits me. Scaring Shirley is wrong and something I never thought I'd do, but the look on her face—the quick flicker of real fear—cuts through the hollow ache in my chest like a clean blade and steadies me.
I don't blink. I let the silence stretch until it presses against her.
She swallows hard. Her hand tightens on the strap of her purse until her knuckles bleach white. She mutters, "You are threatening me."
My voice stays level. "I'm stating facts.
The Ivanovs have spoken. Charges are dropped.
Blue's time with us is erased. The complaint you were so eager to file?
It's buried. Deep. And if you push, if you talk, if you so much as breathe a word to anyone outside this room, they won't come after me. They'll come after you. Understand?"
She stares at me like she's seeing a stranger. Her breath comes in short, shallow pulls. I watch the color drain from her cheeks until she looks almost gray.
The woman who organized my schedule for seven years, who brought me soup when I had the flu, who once stayed late to help me rewrite a report after a sixteen-hour day, shrinks right in front of me.
Part of me hates this. It's the part of me who remembers her birthday card every year, and the way she always kept my coffee mug washed and waiting. But the bigger part, the one that's been bleeding since Blue walked out of my life, doesn't care.
I add, "So start calling clients and get them back on the schedule."
Her voice wavers, "It's not ethical."