Chapter Two
“Do you have enough refills?” I glance up from my laptop after typing session notes as my quarterly appointment with Maxwell ends.
“I’m good.” He nods, his lips hitched in a barely there smile. The oldest of the seven Anderson siblings is a hard nut to crack.
“You sure? You were low on your Ativan last time.” I cock my brow and level my stare at him.
Patients against therapy and medication like to feed me nonsense. Men, powerful men especially, think they’re stronger by not taking medicine.
But the opposite is true. Admitting you need help is the strongest step you can take.
A muscle pulses in his jaw. Then, his dark eyes—the Anderson eyes, since all of them, save Grace, have the same striking slate-gray eyes—soften in clear resignation.
“Fine. You got me. I have five pills left. Damn it, you’d think I could control my social anxiety after three years of therapy. I run a multi-billion-dollar corporation, for God’s sake.”
My lips twitch. “Mr. Anderson, I’ve told you my spiel before. This is body chemistry. It isn’t you. It isn’t personal. You wouldn’t tell a diabetic not to take insulin. Why wouldn’t you take meds for your anxiety?”
He protests, and I know what he’s going to say. I’m the head of an old-money dynasty and responsible for the livelihoods of thousands of people. People rather throw themselves into the fire than piss me off. Yadda, yadda, yadda.
I hold my hand up. “Nope. Not hearing it. You, mister, are a patient in this room. I’m the boss. I’m the queen of this hallowed space.”
Twirling my finger in the air, I motion at the luxurious private room inside the gentlemen’s club at The Orchid, which is a city in and of itself—Michelin starred restaurants, nightclubs, luxury apartments, a place where, if you were lucky enough to be a member, all your wishes could come true.
“Lucky me. Technically, I own this building,” he mutters.
“And technically, I’m good friends with your wife.” I send the refill to the pharmacy and shut my laptop. “I only do house calls this late for your family. So, lucky you.”
Maxwell smirks and stands before buttoning his navy three-piece suit. He, like his siblings, must have some Viking blood, because he towers over me. Then again, that’s not too difficult since I’m only five-foot-four.
After donning a wool coat, which is wise since the February chill in New York City is brutal, he turns to me.
“You know there’s a thing called HIPAA, right? You aren’t supposed to tell Belle what we discuss in our sessions.”
“I don’t need to tell Belle anything. I just need to mention her husband and baby daddy isn’t behaving and she’ll get it out of you.”
Maxwell chuckles. “Ball-buster.”
Someone knocks on the door as I gather my things. I curse myself for leaving my coat in the rideshare earlier when I was running late. This is what I get for ignoring my schedule and squeezing in a few last-minute patients this morning.
Seconds later, another tall man with the same striking good looks as Maxwell—thick dark hair, the same sharp jawline and piercing eyes—pops his head in.
He doles out a sly grin. “Olivia. What’s the verdict? Is the asshole healed?”
“Ryland,” I shake my head at Maxwell’s fraternal twin and hide my smile, “you know that’s not how it works. I’m a psychiatrist, not a magician. I can only help patients keep their symptoms at bay and teach them better ways of managing their conditions.”
Ryland chuckles. “Yes, ma’am.”
“If anything changes before our next appointment, Mr. Anderson,” I turn back to Maxwell, “let me know. I can be flexible.”
I’m always flexible for my patients because they need me. When dealing with mental health issues, one misstep can mean life or death.
He nods. “Why do you call me Mr. Anderson and Ryland by his name?”
My jaw tightens and a lump forms in my throat.
Because it’s safer. It’s a reminder for me to maintain professional distance. That way, I don’t miss the red flags.
And I won’t lose anyone else.
“Slow down, Mia!”
“Olive, live a little. The street’s empty.” She guns the gas and the car lurches forward.
I cling onto the handle for dear life while she laughs and cranks open the windows.
“We’re flying and free!” she hollers over the loud roar of the wind. To my horror, she then yanks open the passenger seat compartment and pulls out a box. “Open it!”
“What? You crazy? Slow down, Mia!”
She giggles and flashes her high beams over the Pacific Coast Highway. “Open the present.”
With my heart lodged firmly in my throat, I pry open the box. Swallowing my gasp, I pull out a pristine camera.
My dream camera.
“Happy eighteenth! Take a picture of me. It’s loaded with film.”
A car honks and reality rushes in. I scream when she swerves to avoid a collision.
“Wooohoo! Lighten up. Don’t be the boring one for once. Embrace your fears!” Mia pumps her fist into the air. “Capture this moment, Olive. Carpe diem!”
Seize the day, my ass. Survive this night is more apt.
“You’re nuts.” But I aim my brand new Leica M6 camera at her and take a shot. The crisp snap of the shutter is the most beautiful sound to my ears, even with the wind blowing in my face.
Time stood still then, and I’ll forever remember Mia that way—raven hair covering her face, a devious glint in her eyes, her sharp laughter slicing through the dark night.
Wild and brave. Happy and alive.
I clear my throat and force out a smile before glancing at my phone. Nine p.m. sharp.
“Session’s over. Now I can call you Maxwell.”
I brush past Ryland and step into the hallway.
“May I call you a car, Olivia?” Ryland asks.
“No, I’m fine. I’m heading to the Ladies’ Lounge to meet with a friend.”
Liar. I barely have time for my close friends, who happen to be his younger sisters Lana, Grace, and Taylor, and by extension, their best friends, Belle, Millie, and Alexis. I could probably even call the Anderson brothers—Maxwell, Ryland, Ethan—my friends.
There’s one more brother—Rex—but I won’t think about him. We’re definitely not friends.
Either way, I’m married to my work, and patient case files and medical research papers are my confidants.
And in precisely forty-five minutes, I’ll be in my usual spot, curled up safely under the covers in my Upper West Side studio apartment, wearing a face mask, a glass of Petit Syrah and a plate of Mom’s almond cookies that taste like cardboard on the nightstand.
I’ll reread the session notes from my appointments today and prepare a new pitch for investors to fund the Anxiety and Depression Awareness Society, otherwise known as ADAS, for the next year.
The organization does important work—education, outreach, providing mental health help to people without access.
My lungs constrict when I think about the email I got earlier today.
Our biggest investor pulled out, citing financial difficulties.
But it doesn’t matter, I’ll just work harder to get the money somewhere else.
I’ll heal them all, one patient at a time.
It doesn’t have to be this way. It’s not your responsibility to save everyone, and are you really living? My chest hardens and I shake the thought away. Sure, it’s lonely and tiring, but someone’s got to do the work.
Yes. Working is more meaningful than going out and wasting life. It’s what’s expected of me—the good doctor, the perfect daughter. I’m happy. I should be happy. I nod to myself. That’s right.
But the tightness doesn’t go away.
“If you need a car later, just tell the concierge,” Maxwell says as he walks to my side.
He levels his unnerving gaze at me. “You sure everything’s okay, Olivia?”
“Playing doctor on the doctor, Maxwell?” I strain my smile wider, knowing I’m failing. Mia could lie without batting an eyelash. Not me.
Maxwell frowns, and soon Ryland’s brows form a concerned pinch.
They look so similar now, even though they aren’t identical twins.
Not like me and Mia. A dull ache throbs to life behind my rib cage.
I glance away. “Say hi to Belle and Millie for me. Too bad they aren’t coming to the girls’ meetup next week.”
A misdirection. Maxwell loves his wife, Belle, and Ryland, likewise, is utterly devoted to his fiancée, Millie.
Without waiting for their response, I hurry to the elevator bay, my heart squeezing, a faint echo of the sensation I felt whenever Mia was in trouble—the time Dan Larkin, Pasadena High’s resident bad boy and heartthrob cheated on her and she keyed his car, or when she got her rejection letter from Harvard, her dream school.
What’s the use of having a twin-sense when your twin is gone?
My breathing is thready when I press the elevator call button. I reach into my tote and pull out my phone, finding a voicemail notification.
“Olivia, it’s Ma. When are you coming to visit?
Your birthday is in a few months. Your ba says he hasn’t heard from you in a while.
Are you taking care of yourself? Have you eaten yet?
You young people think you’re invincible, but before you know it, life will catch up and those health issues will start… ”
The hollow ache in my chest recedes as I listen to Mom’s rambling message and Dad clearing his throat in the background.
Have you eaten yet? It’s her way of saying she loves me without telling me she loves me—the classic love language of Chinese immigrants.
“I saw a quality cut of pork belly at the market this morning. Come visit, and I’ll make your favorite hong shao rou.
We can go to a new restaurant together. You like to try different places out.
You and your sis—” She falls silent. She still can’t say Mia’s name.
“Anyway, make sure you eat on time. Call me.”
Tears suddenly well in my eyes and I press my hand to my chest, trying to soothe the ache.
I want to call her back and tell her to say Mia’s name.
I want to scream into the receiver that hong shao rou, braised pork belly, has never been my favorite dish, that pappardelle al cinghiale, handmade pasta with wild boar ragu is.
I want to remind her it was Mia who enjoyed trying out new places, not me.
I want to ask her to stop sending me tins of almond cookies—cookies I force myself to eat because I was raised not to waste food—even though I never liked them. Mia did. Not me.
But does any of it matter now?
I can’t bring myself to visit Los Angeles or to call her back. Especially not for this birthday. Our thirtieth—the year of the promise.
But then I remind myself my parents lost a daughter. That’s devastating. No child should leave this earth before her parents.
Guilt seizes me as I remember I’m the only one they have left. I should be better than this.
I’m the good, obedient daughter. The oldest. The one they never had to worry about.
“Mystique is so lit tonight. The music and the deejay. It’s the party of the month.” The elevator door opens, and two bejeweled women in short skirts and slinky dresses chatter inside.
Not looking at them, I step in, my heart rate kicking up the way it usually does when I’m in tight spaces. But I can do it, not let my claustrophobia, among other fears, rule my life.
Focusing on my breathing, I think about my upcoming birthday, Maxwell and Ryland’s concern, my parents, and the pile of work I have waiting for me at home.
And Mia.
“Carpe diem! That’s the saying, right? I can’t wait to get plastered.”
My head snaps up, pulse rickety inside my ears. The promise I made to Mia floats to the surface. The one I haven’t fulfilled yet because she wanted me to complete it when I turn thirty.
“Live for me. Promise me, Olive. When you’re thirty, do it for me. Go to Valencia. Experience Las Fallas for me. Burn our regrets. Don’t stop living because of me.”
Carpe diem.
My chest seizes. The hairs on my forearms stand, and I brace myself for the chaos inside the club.
The elevator doors open, and loud, pulsing music and jovial laughter filter inside the small compartment. The women exit, clearly excited about their night ahead.
Carpe diem.
The twin-sense, which has been absent or faint in the past twelve years, flares to life for the very first time since Mia’s death.
My to-do list vaporizes. I stick my hand out to keep the doors from shutting.
My lungs constrict and I step into the raucous environment of Mystique.
I’m needed inside.