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."
