Chapter 21 #2
I glance between my legs, and another vision of my Bluebird, with flushed cheeks, wide, glassy eyes, and her swollen mouth over my cock, tempts me. Then another image of Amy sitting across from me, hanging on every word I give her about her work performance, makes my erection hurt.
"Jesus fucking Christ," I mutter, then get up, go into my private bathroom, and splash cold water on my face. I stare at my reflection until my pulse slows.
Get it together.
Instead of obeying my orders, I pick up my phone and text.
Me: Amy just asked for a performance review.
Blue responds with three fire emojis.
Me: Are you doing okay?
Blue: Yes. When is the review?
Me: What are you and Demi doing?
Blue: Your dick is hard as a rock right now, isn't it, Dr. Mercer?
I groan.
Blue: Between now and then, figure out a nonchalant way to keep one hand under the desk so you can keep me at the pace you want.
"Fuck," I mumble.
Blue: Have a good day!
Sessions begin. I listen, respond, and guide. I do my job well because that's what I know how to do when everything else feels unstable. Between appointments, I check my phone, but Blue hasn't sent any other texts.
By midmorning, my chest is tight with restrained energy. I text Demi.
Me: How's she doing?
Demi: Quiet. On the couch. Drinking coffee. Watching something dumb. I'm here.
Relief hits, then my phone buzzes with an unfamiliar number. I answer cautiously. "Dr. Mercer."
"Red," a woman says, voice strained but controlled. "This is Blue's mother."
My spine goes rigid.
"I'm standing outside your office door. I need to speak with you."
Every alarm in my body goes off at once.
"I can't discuss—"
"I'm not asking about treatment. I'm asking about my daughter and you."
I close my eyes briefly, already knowing this conversation was bound to happen at some point. "Come in. But there are boundaries I won't be able to cross."
"I understand."
I rise and open my door as she walks through the front one.
"Hi. Can I help you?" Amy asks.
"Push my schedule back a bit," I state, then motion for Skylar to come into my office.
She brushes past me, looking pale, upset, and exhausted. She sits, folds her hands tight in her lap, and bluntly declares, "She told me she wants to hurt herself. Is that because of you?"
The question lands heavy, but I don't flinch. "Last night?"
Skylar nods, blinking hard.
I push the box of tissue toward her and assert, "I can't go into specifics on Blue's self-harm issues without her permission or presence. However, I will assure you I do everything I can to get her to find other avenues to deal with her emotions."
Her jaw tightens. "Then tell me this—has she been safe?"
I choose my words with surgical care. "Again, I can only tell you that she's working very hard to change harmful behaviors. And she has been safe for the longest sustained period I'm aware of."
She scrunches her face and looks down. A tear falls down her cheek. She asks, "Because of you?"
"No. Because of her own desire to be safer."
Skylar slowly meets my gaze.
Silence stretches between us.
"I wish I could reassure you more. But the most important thing right now is stability. Removing support abruptly can be dangerous."
Her eyes turn to slits. She fires, "You mean you don't want her to leave you?"
I take a deep breath and answer, "Yes, I don't want her to leave me. I love her. But I meant any support. That includes you and Mr. Ivanov in her life."
"Of course we're going to be in her life," Skylar snaps.
I hold my hands in the air. "I didn't mean to insinuate you don't want to be."
Skylar's eyes fall on the hourglass. She absentmindedly asks, "You want us to trust you."
I correct. "That would be nice, but I'm not a fool. I'm asking you to trust Blue, and to not make fear-driven decisions."
She pins her focus on me. "Do you have children?"
"No. Not yet."
"You're how old?"
"Forty."
"My daughter is twenty-five."
"I'm aware."
"Aren't you going to tell me she's more mature for her age?" Skylar questions.
"No. And I'm fully aware how this looks and what you and Mr. Ivanov must think about Blue and my relationship," I add.
She scoffs, then blinks, and more tears fall.
"I'm truly sorry I've caused you pain. And I tried to stay away from your daughter. I really did. But I fell in love with her. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't walk away," I admit.
"You should have," she says.
Her statement lands like grief, flat, exhausted, and edged with something that might be resignation or fury. I can't tell which, and that uncertainty sets my teeth on edge more than anger ever could.
I answer honestly. "Maybe."
Skylar's head snaps up. For a moment, we stare at each other across my desk, the hourglass between us quietly emptying itself grain by grain, an absurd metronome for a conversation that feels too big for any room.
"Then why didn't you?" she asks.
I take my time finding the right answer.
Skylar's a mother trying to decide whether the man in front of her is a threat or a lifeline, and I won't insult her by pretending there's a clean answer.
So I finally state, "Because walking away wouldn't have protected her.
It would have confirmed every fear she already had about being too much.
And about being unlovable when things get hard. "
"Blue's not unlovable."
"You and I both agree on that."
Her lips press together. A fresh round of anger appears. "You don't get to decide what protects my daughter."
I disagree. "I get to help her decide what harms her when I see the craving popping up."
Her face pales further. She snaps, "What does that mean?"
"It means some people need to physically feel things, and it's hard for others to understand. So I steer her away from sharp objects and things that leave permanent marks," I relay.
That earns me a sharp look. "And you don't think this situation is harmful?"
"I think fear-driven reactions are harmful. So are ultimatums, as well as tearing down the place a person feels safe."
Skylar exhales, shaky. She looks older in this moment, her facial lines deeper, and her posture heavier. She glances at the hourglass, reaches for it, and flips it. Then she softly claims, "She told me you're the only one who helps her."
My chest tightens. "She shouldn't have to feel that way."
"But she does," Skylar snaps, pain flaring. "And that scares the hell out of me."
I admit. "It scares me too. That's why I've been careful and insisted on other supports. It's why Demi is with her today."
Skylar's eyes widen. "Demi?"
"Yes. She's her closest friend and trusts her. And Demi knows how to distract Blue and when to sit quietly. But it's another support in Blue's life that isn't me."
Skylar studies my face, as if searching for cracks. Then she deadpans, "You're very controlled."
"I have to be."
"For her? Or for you?"
The question is sharp, but fair. So I confess, "For both. If I lose control, everyone loses."
Her gaze drops back to the hourglass. She murmurs, "You keep time for her."
"Yes."
"Does she know that?" Skylar asks quietly.
I hesitate. "She knows I stay."
Skylar leans back in her chair, eyes closing for a long second. When she opens them, they're glossy but resolute. "My husband wants this ended. Immediately."
I don't react. It's not a surprise, so I let the statement exist. Then I ask, "And you?"
Her mouth opens, then closes. She looks away toward the window, out at the city.
She clears her throat. "I don't know. I'm torn.
I see my daughter sleeping again. Eating.
Laughing." Her voice breaks, and she looks back at me.
"And then I hear the words self-harm come out of her mouth, and I feel like I'm failing her. "
"You're not," I say gently.
"You don't get to reassure me," she snarls.
"That's fair. But I get to be honest. You didn't cause this. And neither did I."
She shortly laughs. "That's convenient."
"Truth often is."
Skylar stands abruptly, the chair legs scraping softly against the floor. She picks up her purse, then hesitates, turning back to me.
Her voice tightens. "If she gets worse...if she hurts herself—"
"I won't disappear, hide, or deflect responsibility. And I will do everything in my power to keep her alive and safe at all times," I vow.
Her eyes search mine again, desperate for certainty, before asking, "And if we demand you step away?"
My stomach knots. "I can't."
She looks at the ceiling, taking shaky breaths. "You're playing with fire, Dr. Mercer. My husband isn't happy."
"But your daughter is," I blurt out.
She closes her eyes and grips the back of her chair.
"I don't want to be enemies. For all of our sakes, but especially Blue's," I add.
Skylar swallows hard and meets my gaze. "I can't promise you anything. Not acceptance, or silence, or any sort of cooperation."
"I'm not asking for promises. I'm asking for time and more conversations between the four of us, so Blue's included, and we can all put her needs first."
She considers that. Then, unexpectedly, she reaches into her purse and pulls out her phone. "If she texts you, and she's not okay, you tell me. Immediately."
I blink. "You want to be included."
"I want to know what's going on with my daughter. Even if I hate what I'm hearing."
"I can do that, but only with Blue's consent," I offer.
Her jaw tightens again, but she nods. "Then get her to consent. Show me you really do want what's best for her." She moves toward the door, then stops with her hand on the handle.
"What else do you want to say?" I ask.
She spins. "You love her?"
"Yes."
"Truly love her?"
"Yes."
"And you believe that makes this right?"
"I believe it makes this worth handling carefully," I answer.
Skylar opens the door, then pauses once more. She doesn't look back when she speaks. "I don't know if I can forgive you."
"That's fair. Hopefully, someday you'll see the good in our relationship," I reply.
She takes a deep inhale and steps past the door. It shuts behind her.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the empty doorway, my pulse loud in my ears. I don't know if that was a warning or a crack in the wall. Maybe Skylar walked out more resolved to end this. Or she might be more afraid of what ending it would do. Either way, I hate the pain I've caused her.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Blue: Green. Demi made me eat toast. Miss you.
Blue: Okay, not a true green, but I really miss you.
Blue: Aren't you proud of me for not manipulating you into coming home?
I smile and sink back into my chair, watching the hourglass. The sand falls steadily, but I'm unable to tell whether time is on our side or simply running out.