I was halfway through a riveting article speculating about whether Hera was still cursing mortals when my dear stepmother, Psyche, flew out of Hestia’s office—her wings flared, her expression murderous. My father called after her, yelling his oft-repeated words: “You said we were on a break!”
It appeared once again that my mom and I were the subjects of their weekly marriage counseling session.
Let’s just say, Psyche had beennone too pleasedto learn about my existence—or that my father had fallen in love with my mother. Never mind thatshewas the one who suggested they take a break and explore other relationships. That was fifty years ago. I guess after several millennia together, she got bored. According to my father, it had shattered him.But he’d granted her wish. He spent those first years apart painting masterpieces that now hung in the most exclusive art galleries around the world and pining for her in a way that would put tragic Greek ballads to shame.
He wrote songs about it—achy, twangy odes to lost love—and somehow a couple of country artists got ahold of them. You’ve probably heard some of his songs. “Love’s Broken Arrow” and “When the Heart’s Grounded”? Yeah. Those are my father’s. Both were number one hits several years ago.
But then . . . he met my mother. At an art gallery here in California, admiring one of his paintings.
Apparently, it was love at first sight. Which was totally against my rules—not that they were in force back then. But even if they had been, my parents would have broken every last one of them, and it wouldn’t have mattered. No one can regulate whomy kindcan fall in love with. They are free to make their own mistakes. And believe me, they do.
Psyche stopped to narrow her sparkling sapphire eyes at me, her golden-blonde hair ruffling from her flapping butterfly wings, which she normally kept hidden, though they totally worked for her. Her pose was reminiscent of an eighties poster girl. Her favorite decade. She loved big hair and Jordache jeans.
She always made me feel small and as if it were my fault she and my father were still separated. Sure, they wereworkingon their relationship, but she couldn’t get past my mom and me. And my father couldn’t get past that.
For all Eros’s faults—namely that he’d ignored me for the first sixteen years of my life, even though he claimed he had a good excuse (which he still refused to tell me)—I think he trulyloved me.
After she finished sneering at me, Psyche yelled back into the office, “It’s like you don’t even remember all the trials your mother made me go through to win you back the first time!”
P.S. My grandmother, a.k.a. Aphrodite, a.k.a. Goddess Divine, still hated her.
My father replied, calm as ever, “If you’d just trusted me in the first place and not looked at my face, that never would’ve happened. And by the way—Persephone told me all she gave you was some beauty cream. I know you were faking death.”
To be fair, it was weird my father had asked her at the beginning of their marriage never to look at him. According to him, he’d wanted someone to fall in love with him for who he was and not his looks.
Psyche threw her hands in the air. “Ugh.”
“See you next week, darling,” Father called out.
She stomped off, blew open the elevator doors with a gust of divine irritation, and stepped inside, trying to compose herself.
Hestia floated out, serene as ever, wrapped in a soft pink cardigan over a flowy white gown, with fuzzy slippers to match. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight bun, and her soulful brown eyes warmed me. “Welcome, Demi,” she said, her voice whispering ethereally through the air. “Remember—you are safe here.”
I stood, not buying that for a second. Cassie’s warning from earlier about Roman’s visit not boding well for me was living rent-free in my head, and it was the most annoying tenant ever. This emergency therapy session, I knew, would be anything but safe. Yet, I tiptoed toward Hestia’s office. Mostly because she baked the most amazing butter almondcookies with a hint of ambrosia and nectar, and I’d hardly eaten all day. Roman’s visit had me too wound up. He just had this effect on me.
He always had.
Hestia smiled serenely at me, trying to blanket me in her brand of divination that would have me spilling my guts in no time.
I shook my head at her with a tiny smirk to let her know I was onto her.
“I had to try, dearest,” she said, her voice smooth as velvet.
With a small chuckle, I stepped into her office.
Her crackling fireplace glowed in the corner, burning in hues of pink and gold that never went out. Mismatched, cozy armchairs—enchanted to change based on her clients—sat in front of her oversized beanbag chair. My father had claimed the stately leather one, of course. The vacant chair next to him was usually black, no frills. Just like my life had become.
But today? It reflected the old me. Cutesy. Plush. The color of orange sherbet. I hated how much I wanted to sit in it.
For a moment I stalled, choosing to stare at the tea cart with blends labeledClosure,Boundaries, andFor the Love, Let That Go. I’d tasted them all, and that last one always lingered bittersweet. Which meant I was still hanging on to things I shouldn’t be.
“Take a seat, dearest,” Hestia invited, gesturing to the suspiciously happy chair.
I knew then I was in trouble.
My father nodded his head toward the chair. “Please, Demi.”
I just wanted to get this over with, so I plopped into the seat beside him, and it giggled, and then I did too before I could stop myself. I hadn’t giggled in so long. It’s different from laughing, not that I did a lot of that either. But giggling is lighter, happier, sillier, better. My mom and I used to giggle all the time.
