"I can't not be." She touches my shoulder.
I shrug out of it. "I'm fine, Mom." I grab a new spool and return to my sewing machine.
"Talk to me," Mom demands.
The words cracks out of me. "No. There's nothing to talk about."
"Is everything okay in therapy?" she cautiously asks.
My stomach drops and spikes at the same time.
Of course, she'd bring him up. It's just like her to pick the one subject I cannot and will not let her contaminate. Plus, it's her fault I'm in therapy. She didn't believe me and took Brax's side. She even turned Dad against me.
"Therapy is private," I remind her, yank the fabric away from the machine, and place it on the table, smoothing it with shaking fingers. "You don't get to know my business."
"I'm not trying to intrude," she claims.
I huff, "Sure you aren't." I try to weave the thread through the needle, but my hands aren't cooperating.
"Honey, you're obsessing and shaking. Your mind is somewhere else entirely."
I press my nails into the fabric. "Maybe that's because I'm finally making something that matters."
She insists, "All your work matters. But this isn't part of your duties this week. So why has this dress become your fixation?"
"Don't call it that."
"What would you call it?"
"Clarity. Focus," I declare, spinning my chair and lunging toward the fabrics. I grab the bolt of white, rose lace, and hold it up. It's delicate, feminine, and see-through.
"Perfect," I mutter, imagining it barely hiding my skin and Red's eyes when he sees me in it.
Mom tries again. "Blue…sweetheart…please slow down. I'm not trying to attack you. I'm trying to understand what's happening."
"Nothing is happening," I mumble, grabbing the edge of the skirt to inspect it again. My eyes blur, but I refuse to blink. If I blink, she'll think she's getting through to me.She isn't.
"This dress isn't on your schedule. Deadlines are piling up. You're pushing everything aside, including sleep, to work on something you won't even explain."
I snap, "Iamexplaining. You're just not listening."
Her gaze sweeps over my face. She claims, "Iamlistening. And what I see is my daughter obsessing over a dress she's redesigned five times in forty-eight hours."
"Because it matters."
"Why?" she questions.
My insides quiver. I reply, "Because it does." I move to the fabric table and unroll the lace. I accuse, "Why does everything need a reason with you? Why can't I just want something?"
She pins her eyebrows together. "You can."
"Then let me do what I need to do," I assert.
"You need sleep. Why don't you go home?—"
"Sleep is irrelevant right now," I say too loudly.
Her eyes widen.
