Good.
Once she’s done cooing over Peanut, lavishing him with attention and baby talk, I pull her close, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m so sorry,” I murmur, and the words feel inadequate, but I need her to know. “I never fail, and it kills me that I’m failing when it comes to you.”
Amelia looks up at me, her stormy blue eyes filled with warmth. “You could never fail in my eyes, Grey. I’m just a little raw with everything that’s happened. It’s not your fault.” She leans into me, and I wrap my arms around her, the tension slowly ebbing from her body.
“It’s going to be okay,” I whisper into her hair, trying to inject as much conviction into my voice as possible. “We’ll figure this out, I promise. Come on.”
We make our way to the piano, Peanut trotting alongside us, and Amelia sits, but she doesn’t make a move to play, just strokes Peanut’s head.
I stand beside the piano, arms crossed over my chest, watching her closely. “What’s wrong?”
“Somehow, the urge to play is gone. I thought it would help when I left Elysium. That’s why I went to Denny Park, but even there, I don’t really feel it.” She shrugs, looking lost.
A pang of guilt hits me.
I mean, I knew having her work taken from her bothered her.
It bothers me plenty.
I have been so occupied with solving the problem for her that I forgot to properly comfort her. My mind races with potential solutions, analyzing the situation from every angle when what she really needs is emotional support.
“Why do you think that is?” I probe gently, trying to shift gears and focus on her feelings rather than the technical aspects of the issue.
Amelia just shrugs again, her shoulders slumping. “I probably just need a break,” she says, her voice tinged with exhaustion and a hint of frustration.
I watch her, feeling a pang of helplessness wash over me. I wish I could do more for her, to make her feel better, but right now, all I can offer is my presence. It doesn’t feel like enough, but I hope it’s something. So, I sit down on the bench beside her, our shoulders touching. Tension radiates from her body. She’s wound so tight, like a spring ready to snap. She turns to me, her always so lit-up eyes dulled behind her glasses, the usual spark dimmed by whatever is troubling her.
There is more to this.
The way she’s avoiding eye contact, the slight tremor in her hands, something deeper is going on.
“Amelia, I thought we had no secrets anymore,” I say softly, trying to coax her into opening up.
“You have me all figured out, haven’t you?” She smiles sadly, a ghost of her usual cheeky grin. Then, catching me off guard, she asks, “Do you know why I wear my smartwatch on my dominant hand?”
The sudden change of topic throws me off balance. “No,” I admit, curious where this is going.
“Because I have a motion detector that identifies when I pull my hair,” she explains. “It alerts me so I can understand what I’m doing and, in the best case, stop it.”
My eyes widen. I knew my girl was a genius, but she’s so much more—she’s the whole damn package, a brilliant mind wrapped in a compassionate soul.
“That’s so damn smart,” I praise, unable to hide the awe in my voice. But Amelia laughs, a soft, self-deprecating sound that tugs at my heartstrings.
“I’m not telling you this to brag,” she says, her cheeks flushing. “It’s just… it’s been a part of my life for so long, you know?”
“Why are you telling me about it then?”
“Before moving to Seattle from London, I needed it constantly. Once I arrived in Seattle, it became less frequent, mostly surfacing when my parents called. However, being back in London, I found myself reverting to old habits, pulling at my hair quite often. I even bought a new laptop to work on upgrading it while there because it became that bad again.”
I bite my cheek at this, grabbing her hand and squeezing it. The thought of her struggling so much tears at me.
Especially because I was part of the reason she struggled.
“But now…” she continues. “Since we’ve been back, I haven’t had the urge to pull anymore. It’s like an itch that comes back whenever something doesn’t work my way or when I’m anxious, and believe me, Iamanxious right now. But it’s basically gone. The urge to pull is gone.” She fiddles with her smartphone, then looks up at me again. “I’m looking for a therapist. I think I could need a little help with processing what happened with my family and also with my coping mechanism because… this can’t be right. The urge to play piano is gone too. I mean, sure, I want to play piano from time to time, but it’s not aneed.It’s more of a want. And I don’t know when the last time was that I justwantedto play and didn’t need to. Maybe on my birthday, but not for a long time before that.”
“I’m proud of you for seeking help,” I say earnestly because I really am. “And there is nothing wrong with talking to a therapist, Misha does too. I guess I could use one as well.” I smile, and she gives me a soft smile in return. I bet taking thisstep wasn’t easy for her. But then I furrow my brow, confused. “But you just said you left work because it got too much, and you needed to play…”
“No,” she corrects me. “I just said Ithoughtit would help, but it didn’t. I was sitting there, thinking that what I really needed was you, Misha, and Oliver. To talk to you or to hold me or… I don’t know. It’s just… is that healthy? Is that a new coping mechanism that’s just as unhealthy as the others? Unhealthy for me to be this attached to a new relationship, and unhealthy for you to have this kind of responsibility or even power over me? I should probably ask the therapist, but, well, I haven’t found one yet.”
