Chapter 21 #2
I glance over her minidress, offering, "Perfect choice."
"You think?"
"Definitely!"
She grabs two flutes of champagne from a server and hands me one. "Great. So what's new with you? I feel like I haven't seen you in a long time."
Red's face appears. My throat turns dry. I drink half the flute and open my mouth, then shut it.
I can't tell her.
Not here.
Her eyes flick over my face, sharp and perceptive. Her smile falls. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," I say out of habit, then stop myself. I soften it. "I'll tell you later what's going on."
She nods like that's enough. It's something I appreciate about Demi. She never pushes when I'm fragile. She'll just stay close and keep me safe.
"Come on," she says, slipping her arm through mine. "I'll show you everything before my mother drags me into a speech."
"Sounds good. The restaurant is beautiful, by the way."
"It is, isn't it?" she gushes, with pride spilling over her.
"Yes. It's better than Oceanous and Eros."
"It is, isn't it?" she chirps.
"For sure. Totally represents you," I affirm, happy that her namesake while on brand with her brothers's restaurants has a different flair that screams her style.
"Thanks!" She pulls me through the space, narrating as we go, pointing out the tiles imported from Greece, a custom oven shipped from Italy, and the dessert display she insists looks like art and not pastry propaganda.
I listen, genuinely impressed, with pride settling into my chest and pushing some of the static out. For a few minutes, my mind goes blissfully quiet.
We stop near the bar, where servers in crisp uniforms are pouring wine and sliding plates of mezze toward eager hands. The bartender flashes Demi a grin and hands her a cocktail with her name etched on the glass.
She passes it to me instead. "You need this more than I do."
I take it, grateful. The cool glass anchors me from going crazy thinking about Red. I sip, letting citrus and something herbal bloom across my tongue. It helps. Not enough but some.
"I'm glad you're here," Demi says, softer now. "I kept thinking you might bail."
"I thought about it," I admit.
She smirks. "Of course you did."
A group of cousins approaches, pulling Demi into rapid-fire congratulations and teasing. I hover at her side, smiling when appropriate, nodding when addressed, and staying present enough to pass but distant enough to remain protected.
Eventually, Demi leans in and lowers her voice. "Bathroom break?"
"Please," I say, more desperate than I mean to sound.
We slip away from the crowd and into the hallway leading to the restrooms. The noise dims, and the lighting cools. My shoulders drop, finally relaxing.
Everything gleams. Marble counters, gold-framed mirrors, and soft lighting that forgives fill the space. I move to the sink and brace my hands on the edge, staring at my reflection, and hating how my eyes look too alert.
Demi stands beside me, reapplying lipstick with practiced ease, declaring, "Emergency touch-up ritual."
I mimic her, smoothing gloss over my lips even though they don't need it. My hands are steadier now, but the low hum under my ribs is still there, vibrating quietly, waiting.
My phone buzzes in my clutch.
Hope spikes before I can stop it. My pulse jumps, sharp and stupid. I pull the phone out, and my gut drops.
It's just a spam text.
The screen goes dark again, and something hollow opens in my chest. I swallow and tuck the phone away like it burned me.
Demi's eyes flick to the movement. She shifts closer, her shoulder brushing mine in a silent show of solidarity. She lightly states, "You don't have to be perfect tonight. You can just exist."
I can't decide whether to laugh or cry. I blink hard.
"Hey. Are you okay?" she questions, peering closer.
I close my eyes and shake my head. My voice shakes. "No. I-I think I fucked things up."
"What do you mean?" she softly asks.
"With Red."
"Who's Red?"
My stomach flips, and hairs on my arms rise. No one knows about him, yet if there's anyone I can tell, it's Demi.
I breathe three times, then open my eyes. "My therapist."
Her mouth falls open.
"Don't look at me like that. Please," I beg.
She shakes her head, claiming, "Impressive," and bites her smile.
A laugh flies out of my mouth, then a tear.
"Aw. Hey. It'll be okay," she says, swiping it away before it can stain my cheek, then tugs me into her.
"I love him," I whisper and sniffle.
She pulls back and puts her face in front of mine. She quietly asks, "And does he love you?"
I don't hesitate. I nod, answering, "But it's complicated."
"I'm sure it is." She stares at me.
I try to calm down further.
She wiggles her eyebrows. "About time you got over Brax!"
I choke out a laugh.
The bathroom door opens, and the air changes instantly.
I recognize Aunt Kora's voice before I see her. "How's therapy going?"
I tug Demi into the accessible stall and quietly close the door.
My mother's soft, concerned voice fills the air. It's the tone she uses when she thinks she's being careful. She replies, "I'm not sure. She won't talk to me about it."
"Dr. Mercer is the best," Kora insists.
My stomach drops like the floor vanished beneath me.
Demi stiffens beside me, her gaze snapping to my face, eyes wide.
"I just wish I'd get some insight so I know if he's helping her or not," Mom states.
Something hot and sharp slices through me. My therapy isn't their business. And Red's name doesn't belong on their lips.
I push the door open and lunge out of the stall. My voice cuts through the room, echoing against the marble. "Stop talking about my therapy."
Kora winces. "Blue, I didn't mean to pry."
Her apology barely registers. "Sure you weren't," I mutter, my pulse banging between my ears, a steady thud that makes everything else feel delayed, like the room is a half-second behind me.
My mother turns slowly, her expression already shifting into something careful, something meant to soothe and contain.
I hate that look and how practiced it is.
She softly claims, "We weren't prying. We were just—"
"Talking about me," I cut in. My voice comes out as if it belongs to someone whose insides are still vibrating, whose ribs feel too small for everything trying to live inside them. I add, "About something that has nothing to do with you."
Demi moves closer, her presence a quiet shield at my side.
I don't look at her. If I do, I might crack.
Mom exhales. "Blue, we worry. You've been…distant."
I let out a short laugh that tastes bitter. "You mean private."
Kora lifts her hands, tosses Mom a look, and retreats. "I'll give you space. Again, I didn't mean to insult or hurt you," she says, and slips out of the bathroom, heels clicking fast like she's relieved to escape the tension.
The door swings shut behind her, leaving just the three of us and the hum of the lights.
My mother studies me, eyes sharp now, no longer pretending it's casual. "You don't have to shut us out."
"I'm not. I'm setting a boundary."
Her lips press together. "Dr. Mercer—"
I possessively claim, "Is my doctor. And he's not up for discussion."
There's a beat where she clearly wants to push. Her fingers curl around her clutch, and she inhales like she's bracing for impact.
"He asked for a session with us," I blurt out.
The words land exactly the way I want them to. Her eyes widen. "He did?"
I tilt my head and toss her a condescending look. "Yes. You, Dad, and me. Just the three of us in therapy."
Demi's head snaps toward me, but she doesn't say a word. She knows better than to interrupt when I sound like this.
Mom's surprise steadies and grounds me. It's priceless, and I high-five myself. She asks, "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because it came up today, and tonight isn't about me. It's about Demi."
As if summoned, Selena steps into the bathroom and chirps, "There you are! Dinner is about to be served." She glances between us, and her face falls. "What's going on?"
"Nothing. Come on, Blue," Demi replies, links her arm around mine, and steers me out of the bathroom.
Embarrassment hits me, and heat fills my cheeks, but it's mixed with anger.
What did I just do?
I can take back control.
Red won't be able to resist this session. He'll have to keep me as a patient.
Demi guides us through the restaurant, has me sit next to her, and dinner passes in fragments. Plates arrive and leave. Conversations blur. I laugh when expected, compliment the food, and raise my glass in the right moments.
Inside, I'm counting minutes and waiting for what's sure to come. When we finally slip back into the SUV, the door closes with a solid, sealing sound, and I don't wait for pleasantries. I turn toward Dad. "Did Mom tell you that you're coming to my next therapy session?"
Confusion fills Dad's expression. He looks at Mom, then me.
"It's nonnegotiable," I add.
His face pales, and his Russian accent thickens, a byproduct of vodka and his careful effort to navigate the current situation he's not familiar with. "What do you mean we're going to your next therapy session?"
"Dr. Mercer thought it would be a good idea," Mom offers, locking eyes with Dad.
Helplessness fills his expression. His gaze darts between Mom and me.
"You both want to know my business, so fine. You will."
Silence stretches.
My father asks quietly, "Is this what you want?"
I swallow. The answer lodges somewhere sharp and complicated in my chest. "Dr. Mercer thinks it's what I need."
The SUV pulls away from the curb, and Demi's glowing sign shrinks in the distance. My purse rests heavily in my lap.
I pull my phone out and text.
Me: My parents will be at our next session.
I put my phone away, not needing a response.
I've already made my next move.