Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
NAOMI
“ H ow are you sleeping?” Dr. Patel sits across from me, one slim leg crossed over the other, radiating that effortless poise I’ve always envied.
I shrug. “Fine.”
“Ms. Smith. Please.” There’s that tone, the subtle pissed one. “We talked about one-word answers.”
“I sleep.” I pick at a loose thread on my skirt. “Sometimes.”
She makes a note. “And eating?”
The thread comes loose, and I wind it around my finger until the tip turns purple. “When I can.”
“Define ‘when you can.’”
The clock ticks through the suffocating stillness.
Breakfast food is like my love for you. Available 24/7.
“When it feels safe,” I finally admit.
“And when does it feel safe?”
Images flicker unbidden. Brandon watching me over a syrup-drenched plate of pancakes, his chestnut hair catching the morning light, his gaze warm, his hand resting on my knee, tracing slow, soothing circles. Him ordering appetizers under the guise of curiosity—when really, he chose them for both of us, quietly lifting the crippling weight of decision, of expectation.
But that didn’t happen for 3 months now. Except for the last one. Kind of.
“I don’t know.”
“What about your best friend?” She leans forward slightly. “You’ve mentioned before that having someone present helps.”
“It helps.” I twist the thread tighter. “But Blake can’t be there all the time.”
“And your boyfriend?”
“He—” My throat closes up, choking on words I can’t say. “That’s different.”
“How so?”
The thread snaps. Because he actually gave a damn. Because he saw through my practiced smiles and pretty lies. Because he refused to let me self-destruct in peace. Because he didn’t let me run, even when I wanted to. Because he made me feel safe in a way I haven’t since I was eight years old, crouched behind a rusty bicycle in my parent’s garage. Because…
“It just is,” I say.
“You don’t feel safe with him?”
“I do. It’s—” I stand abruptly, pacing to her window. The city sprawls below, all sharp angles and glass towers piercing an overcast sky. Bleak and beautiful and untouchable, just like the man I can’t stop thinking about. “Can we talk about something else?”
“What would you like to talk about?”
“Anything.” Except how much I miss him. “Work. Gym. The weather.”
“Interesting choices.” Her pen scratches. “All things you can control, or at least predict.”
I press my forehead against the cool glass, watching my breath fog the pristine surface. “What’s wrong with wanting control?”
“Nothing inherently.” She sets her pad down. “But sometimes what we think keeps us safe is actually keeping us trapped.”
“I’m not trapped.” But my reflection in the window tells a different story with dark circles under my eyes and collar bones too sharp. At least this way, I’m not hurting anyone. I’m not hurting him.
“Aren’t you?” Her voice softens, and I hate the pity I hear there. “We push away what we need most because we’re afraid of what happens if we let it in.”
“I don’t push people away.” The lie tastes bitter. “I just—I have standards.”
“Like maintaining strict control over what you eat? Or keeping emotional distance through contractual relationships?”
“Fine.” I spin away from the window. “Maybe I do. But it’s better than letting them close enough to see?—”
“See what?”
“How fucked up I really am.” My laugh comes out harsh. “I mean, my mother killed herself. My father barely acknowledges my existence. And I can’t even eat a fucking sandwich without?—”
“Those are circumstances, not who you are.” She gestures to the chair I abandoned.
“Right.” I drop back onto the sofa, crossing my legs tight. “Tell that to Brandon.”
“Have you?”
My fingers find the hem of my skirt again. “He’s got his own shit to deal with.”
“Most people do.” She writes something down. “That doesn’t mean they can’t handle yours too.”
“Yeah, well.” I force a smile that feels like broken glass. “Maybe I can’t handle theirs.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
“What’s the difference?” I can’t help either way.
“Let’s circle back to having control.” Dr. Patel glances at her notepad. “You mentioned feeling safe when someone else makes food choices for you. Yet you pushed Brandon away when he tried to help.”
“It’s different.” I shift in the chair, uncomfortable with how close she’s getting to truths I’d rather not face. “Brandon was, is… He made everything about fixing me.”
“Is that what you think he was doing?”
The memory of his hands steadying mine as I flipped pancakes appears in my mind. The way he’d stand behind me, not touching, just present. How he’d casually slide the appetizers my way.
“He pushed too hard.” But even as I say it, I know it’s not true. He never pushed harder than I could handle until that night in the bathroom. And even then, he stopped the moment I said red.
“Did he?” Dr. Patel’s pen pauses. “Or did you pull away because he was getting too close?”
“Does it matter? He’s better off without?—”
“Without you?”
All I know is that every time I close my eyes, I see Mom’s body on the floor, blood pooling around her head like some twisted halo. And somewhere between the police questions and funeral arrangements, I realized I couldn’t drag Brandon down with me.
“Without having to deal with this.” I gesture vaguely at myself. “Yes. With me.”
“That sounds like a decision you made for him.”
I… I did make that decision. Just like I made the decision to keep my mother’s secret all those years ago. Just like I make the decision every day about what to eat, what to purge, and how to maintain control.
“Sometimes,” Dr. Patel says into my silence, “the mess is where the healing starts. We don’t have to be perfect.”
I think of Brandon’s face when I pushed him away that last time. The hurt. The resignation. The acceptance. He knew I was running, and he let me go anyway.
“What if—” My voice breaks, raw with emotion. “I don’t need?—”
“Help? Or him?”
“Either.”
“Yet you’re here.”
“That’s—” I brace my hands on the couch. “This is professional. Clinical. There are boundaries.”
“And boundaries make you feel safe?”
“Yes.” The word comes out too fast, too sharp.
“Our time is up for today.” She closes her notepad with a soft snap. “I’d like you to think about something before our next session.”
I grab my purse, already half out of my seat. “What?”
“Control.” She adjusts her glasses. “Try to reflect on the moments you’re using control to feel safe. When you decide for others instead of asking them.”
“Can I go now?” I hate these sessions. But I have no choice, or she will inform dear Daddy, and I will be sent on another unwanted hiatus. “I have dinner plans.”
Dr. Patel’s voice follows me to the door. “With Brandon?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t forget what we talked about.”
I get out, her words chasing me down to the elevator, down the street, all the way to Elliot’s like a ghost.
Brandon sits at our usual table, eyes fixed on the leather-bound menu in his hands as I approach. “I thought you wouldn’t come.” No ‘cupcake’. No smirk. Just a polite observation that somehow hurts worse than any barb.
“Traffic.” I slide into my seat. “Sorry.”
He hums noncommittally, still not meeting my gaze, his attention on the menu he surely knows by heart. I fidget with my napkin, the linen rasping against my fingertips.
Marcus appears, saving us from the awkward void. “Good evening, Ms. Smith. The usual tonight?”
I open my mouth to agree, the words ‘house salad, dressing on the side’ balanced on the tip of my tongue. Why won’t the words come out?
Brandon shifts in his seat, the menu lowering enough for me to catch a glimpse of his icy blue eyes as they finally, finally meet mine.
But he doesn’t push. No suggestions. No gentle prodding. Nothing. No, what about the burger?
“Actually.” Control. Be brave. I scan the specials.
The first item is pan-seared salmon with asparagus. Easy to digest. Light. Safe. But the lemon butter sauce…
I skip past the beef tenderloin and grilled chicken, too rich and heavy.
Last on the list: seafood risotto. Creamy. Heavy. Dangerous. But… I remember the way Brandon made it in college. His hands moving as he described what’s important, stirring the pot, adding stock one ladle at a time. The patience it takes. The care. How you had to trust the process.
My fingers trace the words on the menu, remembering Dr. Patel’s voice. Sometimes, the mess is where the healing starts.
The salmon would be safer. The chicken, safer still. But maybe safe isn’t what I need right now.
I look up, finding Brandon’s eyes still on me, waiting. Patient. Like stirring risotto, one careful movement at a time.
“I’ll have the seafood risotto,” I say.
Marcus’s pen freezes above his notepad, and his eyebrows climb toward his hairline as he glances between Brandon and me. “The… risotto?”
I nod, fingers clenching the edge of the table under the pristine white tablecloth. “Yes.”
“With the cream sauce?” Marcus’s voice carries a note of uncertainty I’ve never heard before. Of course he’s surprised. I’ve ordered nothing but salads since we started eating here.
“Yes.” My voice doesn’t shake. “And… a glass of the house white.”
Brandon’s menu hits the table with a soft thud.
“Very good, Ms. Smith,” Marcus says. “And for you, Mr. Milton?”
“The same.” Brandon’s voice is carefully neutral. “Both the risotto and the wine.”
Marcus nods and retreats, leaving us in a silence that feels different from the strained quiet of moments ago. I force myself to release my death grip on the table, smoothing my napkin across my lap instead.
“Risotto,” Brandon says.
“You’re not the only one who knows how to make it.” I chance a look up, finding his expression unreadable.
“I remember.” His fingers drum once against the stem of his water glass. “You were my taste tester in college.”
2 AM, both of us in sweats, the steady rhythm of wooden spoon against pot.
With Brandon, food always seemed like art that you want to watch for hours instead of pouring it down the drain.
“How’s work?” I ask.
“Fine. Yours?”
“Good.” This must be how Dr. Patel feels. One-word answers.
Brandon’s phone buzzes, and he checks it without hesitation, typing a response.
My stomach twists. Three months ago, he would have ignored any message during our dinners. Now, his attention drifts everywhere but to me.
Marcus returns with our wine, and Brandon barely registers as his glass is set before him, still focused on his phone.
“The risotto will be out shortly,” Marcus says, hovering uncertainly.
I force a smile. “Thank you.”
Another message lights up his screen, and he hunches over it, the blue glow softening his features, smoothing away the sharp edges I’ve grown used to these past months. He looks… lighter.
Maybe he’s better off without trying to fix me.
I sip my wine, letting the crisp bite ground me. “How’s Bash?”
“Good.” He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t ask about Blake.
I got what I wanted. We sit here like strangers performing a play neither of us wants to be in anymore.
“The board meeting went well?” I try again.
“Mm.” He finally sets his phone down, but his eyes are fixed somewhere over my left shoulder. “Everything’s proceeding as planned.”
The formal tone cuts deeper than outright hostility would. This polite stranger wearing Brandon’s face is somehow worse than anger or disappointment.
I take another, bigger, sip of wine. “That’s… good.”
I want to scream. Want to throw my wine in his stupidly perfect face. Want him to show any sign that this is affecting him like it’s affecting me. That he feels this gaping chasm between us as acutely as I do.
“I miss—” I miss you. I miss us. I miss how you used to drive me crazy with your overprotective bullshit. I miss feeling safe. I miss feeling anything at all. “I?—”
“Yes?”
Marcus appears with two steaming bowls, setting them down with practiced grace and saving me from disaster. The aroma hits me first, rich and creamy with hints of garlic and white wine. My mouth waters even as my stomach protests.
What a contradiction I am.
“Enjoy,” Marcus says, disappearing as silently as he arrived.
The risotto gleams under the soft lighting, studded with perfectly cooked shrimp and scallops. Brandon picks up his spoon, and I mirror him, trying to ignore how my hand trembles.
The first bite sits on my spoon.
“It’s not going to bite,” he says, his voice softer than it’s been all evening.
“You don’t know that.”
He chuckles, and it makes me smile myself.
I bring it to my lips, letting the warmth flood my mouth. The rice is perfectly al dente, the seafood tender, the sauce rich without being overwhelming. It tastes like…
“Good?” He watches me.
I nod, taking another bite before I can overthink it. “Almost as good as yours.”
Surprise or pride flickers in his eyes before his mask slides back into place.
Suddenly, the risotto turns to lead in my stomach, each bite sitting heavy on my tongue. My stomach churns, that familiar urge rising like a tide I can’t control. I need to get out of here. Need to feel something, anything, even if it’s the burn of acid in my throat.
“Excuse me.” I push my chair back, placing the napkin on the table.
His head snaps up, reaching for my wrist. “You’re doing it again?”
My heart stutters.
“Sorry.” His hand drops to his lap like a puppet with cut strings. “Not my place anymore.”
And it’s my fault. What did I expect? I did this.
I turn away before he can see the tears pricking at my eyes, my feet carrying me toward the sanctuary of the bathroom on autopilot.
Control.
The first wave hits before I can even properly position myself over the toilet, my body rebelling against the meager sustenance I’ve given it.
Stupid. Stupid girl, thinking you could handle this. Thinking you could sit across from him and pretend like everything was fine, like the sight of him, doesn’t make you want to claw your own skin off every time because of what you did.
The bathroom door creaks open, and I freeze, acid burning my throat as I listen to the approaching footsteps.
“Naomi?” Brandon’s voice is flat. “Open up.”
I wipe my mouth with trembling fingers. “Get out.”
“Here.” Something clinks against the marble counter. “Baking soda and water. It’ll help with the acid.”
Of course. Of course he still knows exactly what I need, even now. Even when we’re nothing to each other.
I emerge from the stall on shaky legs. He stands there, hands in his pockets, a glass next to him on the counter.
“Rinse.” He nods at it. “Don’t swallow.”
I do as instructed, avoiding his reflection in the mirror.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says as I rinse a third time. “About our arrangement.”
The glass nearly slips from my grip. “What about it?”
“It’s served its purpose, hasn’t it?” His voice is so carefully neutral it stings. “Your mother’s gone. My father, too. There’s no reason to keep up appearances anymore.”
I set the glass down before I drop it, my hands shaking too badly to maintain the grip. “I suppose not.”
“I’ll handle the press if something comes up. Make sure the story spins favorably for both of us.” He straightens his already perfect tie. “A mutual, amicable parting. No drama.”
No drama. Like the past year meant nothing? Like we’re just closing a business deal instead of ripping my heart out and stomping on it?
My voice sounds distant, hollow. “If that’s what you want.”
“Want has nothing to do with it.” He moves toward the door. “It’s just practical.”
Practical. God, I hate how reasonable he sounds. How easily he can write us off like a failed investment. Like I’m nothing more than a line item in his ledger, easily erased and forgotten. To be rid of me and all the mess I bring.
“I’ll…” His hand rests on the door handle. “See you around.”
“Sure.” The words taste like the baking soda, bitter and medicinal. “Thank you. For everything.”
“Take care of yourself, cupcake.”
The door clicks shut behind him with devastating finality.
A knife to my heart would be the same.
I stare at the glass on the counter, half-empty and cloudy with dissolved baking soda. Such a small thing to represent everything I’m losing.
Everything I’ve already lost.
That’s what I wanted, right?
Space. Distance. Control.