Red notes everything, his eyes cataloging posture, tone, micro-expressions. He's pretending this is just another session, and nothing more between us, but I know differently.
Red asks my father, "And you? How are you feeling about being here?"
The question lands harder than the last one.
My father shifts in his seat. He admits, "I don't know. This seems…sudden."
Red replies evenly, "That makes sense. Sudden changes often bring discomfort."
Tingles race down my spine. I love everything about his professional cadence and the structure everyone else expects.
My mother nods eagerly. "We just want to make sure we're doing the right thing."
Red glances at me, then back at Mom. "Blue asked for this session. Which tells me she wants you involved."
My mother's hand finds my knee, squeezes gently. She murmurs, "We're here."
If only she knew what kind of stage she'd stepped onto.
The pressure builds as the minutes pass. Everyone carries a different truth into this room, and they're starting to bump into each other, awkward and misaligned.
My father watches Red too closely, his unease sharpening. My mother overcompensates with reassurance and smiles. Red remains an island of control, steady and unreadable.
And me?
I sit in the center of it all, humming with secrets, my bag at my feet heavy with silk and intention. The session hasn't even started yet, and it's already off-balance. It's a psychological mess wrapped in polite conversation and clinical language.
The weight of it settles into my chest, tight and electric.
Five o'clock.
This is what I set in motion.
And now we all have to sit with it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Red
Silence settles in the room, stretching thin, the kind that invites mistakes if you rush to fill it. So I let it breathe. I've learned the value of pauses and how people rush to expose themselves when they think they're being given space. But this silence is different. It presses inward, creating a wall of tension growing thicker by the minute.
I catalog the room the way I always do when something goes wrong. Three clients, one clinician, and four separate agendas strain the space between us.
Mr. Ivanov's rigid on the couch, his knees apart, and hands clasped like he's bracing for impact. Mrs. Ivanov's angled toward her daughter, protective to the point of erasure. Then there's my Bluebird. She sits opposite them, spine straight, legs crossed with deliberate economy, her gaze fixed on me as if I'm the only stable object in the room.
I play my part, staying composed and controlled, happy the mask fits like it always does. I rest my forearms on my thighs and incline my head slightly, a posture meant to communicate engagement without intimacy. I start, "Before we begin, I want to clarify expectations. This is a collaborative session. We'll move slowly, and we'll stay grounded in observable behavior."
Blue's mouth curves. It's subtle. Anyone else might miss it. But I don't miss things with her. Not anymore.
"Of course," she says, her tone light and agreeable.
Adrian exhales sharply through his nose, not quite a scoff, more of a release of pressure.
I note it without reacting and turn to him. "Mr. Ivanov, how are you feeling right now?"
He shifts, shoulders drawing back as if he's just noticed his own body. "I don't know. I'm here."
A non-answer which is defensive and territorial, but I didn't expect any different from him.
