Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Lily
Song - Fear, NF
If I keep myself busy, I can stop my mind from dragging me under. I can hold back the panic. The fear that tears through me like it wants to hollow me out from the inside.
I keep trying to convince myself that if I bury it deep enough, maybe it will fade. It never does. It lingers, clamped around my ribs like a vice, waiting for the moment I finally crack.
Therapy has kept it quieter and given me ways to ground myself and feel safe enough to exist.
Yet in the silence, it’s all I hear.
I blend the light gold glitter into my eyeshadow, stare at my reflection, and smile—my armor. On the surface, no one can see what’s clawing at me beneath my skin.
How scared I am of the memories that stalk me.
“Shit.” I hiss when my hand smacks against the curling iron on the dressing table.
I suck the sting out of my finger and breathe through it.
I have one hour until I need to be at The Midnight Gallery. My one pride. My sanctuary. Yes, I opened it with my corrupt father’s money, but I made it thrive by being myself. It’s everything my mother despises.
It’s beauty carved out of darkness. My own mom is one of the reasons I learned to live inside it.
My resentment toward her comes from years of her pushing me to one side.
She ripped me away from my father, and instead of being a parent who loved me twice as much, she became more distant.
I was second to the men in her life. And then the final blow was the husband.
She brought him into my life. She didn’t protect me.
I run my hands through my hair nervously, trying to get hold of my spiraling thoughts before they dive too deep.
Tonight is a huge showing. Months of work and the kind of pressure that explains the tremble in my fingers as I curl my hair, and the way my heartbeat thunders in my ears.
Maybe I’m getting sick. Maybe I didn’t eat enough today, and my blood sugar is dipping.
I drop the hairbrush and brace myself on the dresser.
Breathe, Lily. Breathe.
I close my eyes and try to follow the rise and fall of my lungs, yet nothing in my head loosens. The black cloud settles over me and fills every inch of me.
I grab my phone and call my best friend, Hallie. I just need her voice—something to pull me out of the drowning sensation.
She answers, and the relief hits so hard I exhale like I’ve been underwater.
“Lily. Shouldn’t you be getting ready?” Hallie laughs.
Since she’s become a mom, I swear she’s started using that tone on me more.
I force a laugh. “Yeah. Calling to make sure you’re on time.”
There’s a pause. In four years, I’ve phoned her at the start of countless panic attacks, and I’m not sure she’s ever realized.
I don’t want her to know, or to see me at my worst. The thought of having to explain why I’m like this makes my hands tremble.
I’m not sure I can even find the words to voice it. I am not her burden to deal with.
What makes Hallie’s friendship so beautiful is that I know, without a doubt, I can rely on her to help me. Even when she doesn’t know what’s going on in my head, she’s always there. A constant for me. If she knew, she’d drop everything to be by my side.
And that isn’t what she needs. She has a family, a little baby boy relying on her. They need her. I just need to get stronger on my own.
“I am. Conan is feeding Liam. We’ll be on time, I promise. You sound stressed. Are you okay?” she asks softly.
Tears slip down my cheeks. My eyes go red in the mirror. “Yeah. I’m nervous. This showing is big.”
“You’ll smash it, Lily. You always do. You’re a superstar.”
I wipe my tears before they fall again.
“You really think so?” I say, I can’t help letting out some of my insecurities.
“You know I do. You’re a powerhouse in the art world, and you built that yourself.”
I swallow hard, pushing down the ache in my throat. “I guess.”
But it isn’t my dream. That one shattered a long time ago. To be on stage, performing to crowds. Going around the world, seeing all the different sights and cultures, while doing the one thing I’ve loved since I first stepped foot in a studio aged three.
Still, the longer Hallie talks, the steadier my breathing becomes. The room stops spinning, and my shoulders release their tension.
“Right. I need to get my dress on. I love you, Hallie.” I say before we hang up.
And like that, that simple distraction of a phone call, I’m back to feeling somewhat myself again. That logical part of my brain is working again, my body remembering that I’m not about to fight a damn lion. I’m safe. I’m home. I am excited for my showing.
After fixing my makeup and blasting my music, I pull out my custom-made metallic silver slip dress. I chose the cut and color, then added the fancy chain details along the straps for that naughty edge I wanted.
I want to feel sexy and be the bubble of fun I pretend to be in a crowd. I want to become the woman I turn into when I’m showcasing art. She’s my mask—the one who protects me.
I hate the version of myself I am when I’m alone.
The little girl who’s scared to leave her dad.
The one who had to fight for her mother's attention against her string of boyfriends. The one who was dragged from her home to a new country. The little girl inside of me is begging to be heard… yet, I just can’t do it. I don’t know how to heal her.
I shake my head and all the thoughts away. When I step into the dress, I feel incredible. Like the panic gripping me moments ago has vanished.
That’s what makes it worse. The relief comes fast, but the fallout lasts for hours.
As gorgeous as I look in this dress, I can see the part of me that panic drained, the dull light in my eyes.
This is exactly why I keep a bottle of that aftershave in my purse.
Just in case I need the nuclear option. Something to stop me from going over the edge in public.
I make my way to the closet to grab my shoes, but when I reach for the black box with my heels, my gaze snags on the little pink box in the corner, and my heart stutters.
I thought I hid that better. Seeing it now brings back a memory that cuts deeper than anything else. The last time my father was truly my father. My last day in Moscow and his parting gift when I was ten years old—a box of memories.
I can still see his dark eyes filled with tears that he was trying to blink away as he snuck into my room while Mom was packing up their bedroom. I remember the way his voice broke when he said my name. How his rough hands brushed my hair away from my face, his thumb wiped away my tears.
He handed me the box, but he wouldn’t let me open it in front of him. He told me to keep it safe. To keep it with me, no matter where I go in life. And then he helped me pack it into my own rucksack. Not the suitcases Mom was packing. My rucksack. Hidden right at the bottom.
“You don’t give this to anyone, not even your mother, solnyshko,” he whispered.
The last thing he said to me was how much he loved me. With one last reminder…
“Be brave for me, solynshko.”
I sit cross-legged on the floor and pick it up, my breath catching as I lift the lid.
The first thing inside is a photo of me sitting on his shoulders. My smile is real. His is too.
We’re playing in the snow. I was free then before the world changed. Before America became my future.
With shaking hands, I sift through the printed photos. The birthday cards where he wrote how much he loved me. As I go to get the last picture, my nail catches on something beneath.
I frown, yanking out the paper and feeling around the edge of the box. A false bottom. I’ve never come across this before. Not that I spend much time trying to relive my past.
I hook my finger underneath and lift.
My eyes go wide when I see just one item. A necklace, a diamond-encrusted lock, with a tiny key on a fine silver chain.
“Wow,” I whisper.
I lift it out, and the diamond facets catch and scatter the light through the room. The white gold gleams like new. My father was rich enough to make sure it wasn't an imitation.
Something inside me whispers to me to wear it. That perhaps this is me being brave for him. Tonight I need to be, this is a big moment in my career. I need to find part of the Lily that felt loved and safe. The girl who would shoot at a target for fun.
Maybe this necklace represents that. A piece of the old me I tried to bury. A part of me that I need back.
And it’s perfect with my dress. A statement piece. A fragment of a past that still has claws in me. At least this time, it looks beautiful.