I hope that Rich orders me coffee so it’s waiting for me when I return. But I need something right now to take the edge off. Something to dispel the gloom creeping in. I get my phone from my handbag and check to see if Finn ever posted the second photo—and to my delight, he has. I’m on the screen, sucking coffee off my two fingers, and it has forty-seven likes—even more than the one before it and in much less time.
I still can’t believe he captured that. And took the time to edit it. And post it. With a caption of mine thathepicked out. Is he looking at the photo right now too? Does it excite him? Is he thinking of me like I am him?
I smile all the way back to the table and through dinner as well—or, at least until Rich makes me switch to decaf.
* * *
In the town car on the way home, Rich is quiet. That’s not unusual, but tonight he’s not volleying e-mails or checking on an international client or tracking his beloved stocks.
“I’m sorry your dad went ballistic about the wine,” he says finally.
An apology isn’t what I expected, so it takes me a moment to respond. To an onlooker, it would’ve sounded like a normal exchange, but the three of us know it wasn’t. Taking the wine list from me was a reminder that he still doesn’t trust me.
“It’s all right,” I say. “I’m used to it.”
“It’s been over a year, and you haven’t had more than a glass since. I’ve noticed, Halston, even though you think I give you a hard time. It isn’t fair that your dad hasn’t let it go yet—and that I haven’t, either.”
I’m not sure it isn’t fair. Ididfuck up. I disappointed them both. But a reminder isn’t helpful. It puts me on edge, and the edge is what I’ve been trying—what I’ve beenfirmly suggested—to dull.
“I mean, we should be grateful for coffee, right?” he asks. “It’s harmless. Unless you start doing that enema thing.” He chuckles. “Have you heard of those? Coffee enemas? I wouldn’t be surprised if I caught you hooked up to an espresso IV one day.”
It’s dark enough that I can’t see the nuances of his face. Why is he talking about coffee enemas? “Sure. I guess.”
“I’m just a little worried, Halston. If you’ve changed your dosage without consulting a doctor, well . . .” He blows out a breath and shifts to face me in the seat. “You can’t just do that.”
I look out the window at all the people having fun on a Thursday night—most of them around my age. I’d like to be out there with them, not trapped in here for a Rich lecture. “I told you, I’m an adult. I can do what I want.”
“That doesn’t mean you should. I don’t think you’re ready to go off them—neither does your dad, or Doctor Lumby.”
“Doctor Lumby does what he thinks is easiest for all of us, and that’s keeping me agreeable.”
“What’s wrong with easy? Why do you want to make things hard?”
I lace my hands in my lap, squeezing them together. “You’re right. Feeling things is hard. Being moody, having PMS, and voicing my opinions, it’s a burden for everyone.”
“That’s not fair.”
“If I stop taking meds, I won’t be nice, easygoing, doormat Halston.”
“I didn’t say you have to stay on them, but if you really, honestly feel you need to stop, then at least get professional help.”
“I don’t trust Doctor Lumby.” I never really have, but until my recent perspective shift, it didn’t seem to matter. My dad footed the bill, I got to talk to someone candidly a couple times a month, and in exchange, everyone left me alone. Until Finn. He hasn’t left me alone. He’s dug a little deeper without making me feel like I’m under interrogation. “I missed my appointment last week on purpose,” I admit. “It wasn’t because of work like I told you.”
“Why? He’s been your doctor a long time.”
“Maybe it’s time for a change.”
“Then we’ll find you someone else.” The leather seat groans when Rich moves. “I’m not the bad guy, Halston. I love you, and I want you to be happy.”
“How do you know you love me?” I glare at him. “You don’t evenknowme.”
He blinks a few times, stunned. I don’t say things like that. I don’t even think them. But it’s true that Rich has only ever known this version of me, so how can he actually love me? This is what Finn hinted at this afternoon. It’s not healthy to pretend to be someone else to make others happy. And that’s exactly what I’ve been doing since Mom’s death. I wear a mask. I keep thoughts and desires and opinions to myself more often than I express them. Rich doesn’t get me. If he read what I wrote, if he heard some of my thoughts, he’d think I was sex-crazed. My dad understands me to a certain point. He’d have accepted the quirky tights outside of a work setting. He won’t accept, from an employee or a daughter, posting sexy things online for the world to see.
My mom was different. She appreciated art and encouraged me to be creative. Unfortunately, I’ve ensured I’ll never get to share that understanding with her again.
“How can you say I don’t know or love you?” Rich finally asks. “We’ve been dating almost two years, and I’ve been a great boyfriend to you.”
“I’ve only ever known you while I was taking antidepressants—”
