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.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Red
The condo is too quiet after what I did. It presses inward, collapsing space instead of opening it, amplifying thoughts I've spent years training myself to intercept before they take shape.
It's the opposite of what sprawls beyond my floor-to-ceiling glass. Chicago's all-steel ribs, veins of light, and constant motion glare against the contrast of my normal, peaceful home.
I pour another finger of Scotch. It's expensive enough that it should be savored slowly, yet I don't sip it with appreciation. I drink it for the burn, to give my body something concrete to register, and to let it interrupt the static humming beneath my skin.
My thought circles endlessly, like a blade carving a groove into bone. I told her I'd chosen wrong because it was the only thing sharp enough to end the session and stop what was unfoldingin my office before it crossed a line I wouldn't be able to redraw afterward.
I almost crossed it for her.
I almost crossed it for myself.
