Chapter 20 #2
I laugh at the right places, nod along, feeling utterly at ease. I keep waiting for the right opening, but I'm not in a rush. I want this to be perfect.
The first course arrives. It's a delicate composition arranged like a sculpture rather than food. Raw oysters are balanced on stoneware, and a thin mist of smoke escapes as the server lifts a glass dome.
"Wow," Mom gushes.
"Amazing," I agree, then take a bite, closing my eyes and letting the clean yet complex flavors bloom.
Everything about this night feels aligned, like I chose correctly simply by showing up. The universe is winking at me and I can feel it!
As the courses progress, I grow more animated. I talk faster, gesture more, laugh more freely.
Mom's gaze lingers on me a little longer than usual, her head tilting slightly, like she's trying to read between lines I haven't said out loud yet.
She eventually smiles bigger and says, "You seem really happy, Blue."
I grin. "I am."
Dad studies me over the rim of his wineglass but doesn't comment.
"That's great, sweetie. It's nice to see you doing so well," Mom adds.
"I am. Best I've ever been," I confirm.
The server arrives and refills our wineglasses. My heart gives a small, excited jump.
This is my moment.
I straighten in my chair, take another sip, and let the words settle into place. I keep my tone casual and light, like I've rehearsed a hundred times. "I wanted to tell you something amazing!"
Mom arches her eyebrows, still smiling.
Dad sets his glass down. "Well, we love good news."
I nod. "It is. The best news!"
"What is it?" Mom asks, leaning closer.
I blurt out, "I'm seeing someone."
Surprise flickers across Mom's face before she recovers. "Oh?"
Dad's jaw ticks, and the air shifts just a little, like pressure building.
To be expected. He's always going to want to protect me, I remind myself.
"Yes," I continue, buoyed by how easy this feels. "It's…good. Really good."
Mom leans forward slightly. "How long have you been seeing this person?"
"Not long," I admit, still smiling. "But it feels right."
Her smile recalibrates. "And who is he?"
My heart pounds harder. "Red." I smile so big, it hurts.
The buzz of the dining room collapses to nothing but Mom, Dad, and me.
Mom blinks, once, then again. "Red…as in—"
"Yes," I say, nodding, letting them get over the initial surprise. "The brilliant Dr. Red Mercer."
Dad grinds his molars. His eyes harden, something sharp and unreadable flashing through them.
"I know you're overprotective of me, but I'm not a little girl anymore, Dad. It's okay. I love him, and he loves me," I admit, putting my hand on Dad's.
He glances at my hand. When he looks up, his cheeks are maroon. He snarls, "Are you serious?"
My butterflies die, and my stomach twists. Still, I try to bring the mood back to light, so I laugh softly. "Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"
Mom's questions overlap, as if she's trying to regain her footing on unstable ground. "How did this happen? When? Does anyone else know? Blue, this is very sudden—"
"It's not sudden. It just…well, it wasn't public."
Dad leans back in his chair, crossing his arms and curling his fists. He seethes, "This is inappropriate."
The word lands like a slap.
"Inappropriate?" I echo, confusion creeping in at the edges of my excitement. "Dad—"
"No! He's your therapist!"
"So what? Get over it! Things aren't black and white, and you of all people should know that!" I accuse.
"What does that mean?" he hisses.
I scoff. "Do you still think I'm naive and don't know what you do? You definitely color between the lines!"
Mom looks between us, clearly rattled, her earlier warmth replaced with concern. "Honey, we're just trying to understand—"
"There's nothing to understand," I say, my smile faltering despite my efforts. "I'm happy. He makes me happy."
Dad's gaze pins me in place. "That doesn't make it acceptable."
The next course arrives, absurdly beautiful, set down between us as if nothing had changed, and the world hasn't tilted.
I stare at the plate, my appetite evaporating, my earlier certainty cracking for the first time. The restaurant hums register again, growing louder. The other diners laugh and silverware clink. Everyone around us is unaware that my perfect night is unraveling in real time.
This isn't how it's supposed to go.
Dad's words— that doesn’t make it acceptable—hang like a verdict already stamped and sealed.
I swallow, my heart pounding now for an entirely different reason, and I realize it's too late. I walked into this dinner believing love would be enough. For the first time all day, I feel the edge of something cold and unfamiliar creeping in.
For a second, I think Dad's going to laugh, or soften, or at least realize he's overreacting and recalibrate the way Mom did. Yet it's only wishful thinking.
The server begins describing the next course.
He says something about aged duck, fermented cherry reduction, and a texture contrast designed to evoke late autumn.
But his voice sounds distant, distorted, like I'm underwater.
He sets the plate down in front of me with surgical precision, and it's another incredible piece of art.
All I want to do is flip it and slam the plate down. My voice cracks, and I lie, "He's not my therapist anymore. I stopped seeing him."
"When?" Dad fires back immediately.
I hesitate.
His eyes narrow. He demands, "When, Blue?"
"A while ago," I say, hating that it sounds defensive. "But it doesn't even matter. The point is—"
He snaps, "It matters! It matters a great deal."
Mom presses her napkin into her lap. Her voice trembles. "Sweetheart, there are ethics involved here. Professional boundaries. This isn't like meeting someone at a dinner party."
I feel heat crawl up my neck. "I know that."
"Do you?" Dad asks, lowering his voice.
The humiliation hits me like I'm fifteen again and being scolded for something reckless. Except I'm not reckless. I'm in love.
Through gritted teeth, I reply, "Yes. I understand, and I'll remind you that I'm an adult."
Dad leans forward, pressing his forearms on the table. "An adult who entered into a relationship with a man who was responsible for her mental health."
"He didn't manipulate me!" I burst out, louder than I mean to.
A couple at the neighboring table glances over.
Mom's eyes widen. "Let's try to stay calm."
"I'm not being manipulated," I say, quieter but no less fierce. "You don't know him the way I do."
Dad gives a humorless laugh. "I know enough."
The wine in my glass suddenly tastes sour. My chest tightens, and I realize I'm gripping the stem too hard. I accuse, "You think I'm fragile. You think I'm incapable of making my own decisions."
Dad replies, "This has nothing to do with fragility. It has to do with power."
I insist, "There is no power imbalance. Not like that."
"He has authority over you."
"He respects me."
"He should have terminated therapy the moment feelings entered the equation."
I shoot back, "He did! He created distance. He protected me."
Dad's face darkens. "Protected you from what? Himself?"
The implication hits like a punch. My throat burns. "You're twisting this."
Mom's strained voice interjects, "Blue, how long were you seeing him before this became…something else?"
I open my mouth, then close it. The timeline sounds worse when spoken aloud.
It sounds like exactly what they're accusing him of.
"That's not the point," I say.
"It is the point," Dad counters.
The restaurant suddenly feels too small. The lighting that felt intimate now suffocates me. Emotions fill my voice. "You don't get to judge something you haven't even tried to understand. You haven't met him in a nonprofessional capacity."
"I don't need to," Dad says flatly.
That's when it truly sinks in. He's already decided. There's no room for persuasion. No curiosity. No benefit of the doubt. Just a wall.
Mom reaches across the table and gently touches my hand. "Honey, we love you. That's why this is so concerning."
It slices deeper than inappropriate.
"I'm happy," I repeat, but it sounds weaker now, like I'm trying to convince myself as much as them.
Dad shakes his head slowly. "You're infatuated."
"I'm not. I love him," I repeat, eyes welling with tears.
Mom takes deep breaths.
Dad's jaw flexes so hard, I think he might crack a tooth.
He claims, "You don't know what love is in this situation."
Something inside me snaps. I push back, "You don't get to define my feelings. You don't get to rewrite my reality because it makes you uncomfortable."
Dad's voice drops to a cold whisper. "If this becomes public, it will destroy him. Do you want that? Because if you love him like you say you do, you wouldn't want that."
My stomach flips. "It's not going public."
"You're his patient."
"Was. And there's no trace of it, so it's never going public," I inform them.
Dad's eyes turn to slits.
"Blue, what do you mean by that?" Mom asks.
My pulse skyrockets. Ice floods my veins. I don't think and relay, "Mikhail and Aunt Kora took care of it."
Dad's head jerks backward.
Mom's mouth hangs open, and her face turns pale.
"What in hell does that mean, Blue?" Dad pushes.
I don't answer, breathing how Red taught me.
"Answer me," he orders, nostrils flaring.
"Ask them. But your reputations are safe, so don't worry," I answer.
Dad leans closer. "This has nothing to do with our reputations and everything to do with yours. He's exploited you!"
"He didn't exploit me!"
Dad slams his palm lightly on the table, not enough to make a scene but enough to make the wine tremble in our glasses. "You're his patient."
The finality in his tone makes my ears ring. I look to Mom for something. Maybe support. Perhaps neutrality. Anything that shows she's partly on my side, but she only looks hurt and betrayed.
Crap. I threw Aunt Kora under the bus.
"I need air." I jump up too quickly. The room tilts slightly as I grab my clutch and step away from the table. I make it through the dining room, past couples laughing, and servers gliding gracefully with trays of edible art.
By the time I push through the doors and into the cool night air, my hands are shaking. This was supposed to be the beginning. Instead, it feels like a declaration of war.
I press my palm to my chest, trying to steady my breathing and racing heart. Sharp pains stab me. I bend over and dig my nails into my upper thigh, trying to get that pain to overtake the ones in my chest.
The city hums around me, indifferent. Cars pass. Someone laughs down the block. Life continues as if mine hasn't just fractured.
I pull out my phone.
Red's last message stares back at me.
Red: Call me after dinner. Better yet, bring your sexy ass over.
My thumb hovers.
What am I supposed to say?
Everything I walked in believing was reality has been dismantled in less time than it took for one meal.
The cold edge I felt earlier sharpens into something more chilling. This isn't a simple disagreement. It's a line drawn. And for the first time all day, doubt creeps in about how far this is going to go.
Behind me, the restaurant doors open slightly. I know it's one of my parents coming to find me.
I close my eyes for half a second, inhaling the night air, bracing myself.
Mom puts her hand on my back. "Blue, are you okay?"
I slowly rise, and I might as well be inside a tunnel. I shake my head, and tears fall. I blurt out, "No. I'm not. I want to hurt myself until I bleed, and there's no way to clean it up."
Mom gasps. Her lip shakes, and she tries to pull me closer. "Blue!"
I shake away from her and step a few feet back, admitting, "Red's the only one who helps me, Mom. Not you or Dad. Not my siblings or friends. No one but him. And all you want to do is try to eliminate him from my life."
"Sweetie, it's not like—"
"Save the lie for someone else," I cry out, then rush down the street with Mom calling after me. And I don't stop moving. Not until I'm standing in front of Red, sobbing, with him trying to figure out what's wrong.
Love might be enough for me.
But I'm starting to understand it might cost more than I ever anticipated.