I chuckle. "Ha ha funny."
Blue lifts her glass last, her voice softer than Demi's but steadier than it used to be. "To—" she glances at me, then at Demi, and Mikhail like she's including all of us whether we deserve it or not, "—to new things, not hiding, and doing what scares you."
It lands like a punch under my ribs.
Mikhail and I meet each other's gaze and take drinks.
We make small talk, eat shrimp cocktail, cheese, and crackers. By the time we sit for dinner, I'm internally relaxing.
Demi plates warm bread, butter, and something lemony on the side like she's running a restaurant out of my kitchen. She sets the beef roast, fingerling potatoes, and roasted root vegetables down. Then she grabs the salad bowl and heaps a pile into our bowls.
Blue sits at the table next to me, holding my hand.
Demi keeps the conversation moving at the speed of light, filling every gap before it can turn sharp.
"So," she says through a grin, pointing her fork at Blue, "tell us how you got your dress in the finale."
Blue's eyes light up again, the way they did when she walked through my door. "I thought it would look good with the collection. I only expected it to be added as an online purchasable item. But when Mom saw my dress, well, she fell in love." Blue leans closer to the table and lowers her voice. "I almost threw up. In a good way."
Demi nods, already halfway to tears for dramatic effect. "She made it from scratch. Like, every stitch. Like a witch. A couture witch." She snaps her fingers.
Blue giggles, then turns toward me, eyes shining. "It's not perfect."
My mouth opens on instinct to tell her it is, but I stop myself. Praise that doesn't see her is useless. So instead, I say, "Perfect doesn't exist in art. I'm sure it's creative, and that's why it's going to stand out."
She blinks a few times, then beams brighter. It's like I just pressed her bruise and it gave her the rush she craves.
Mikhail pours more wine into Demi's glass without asking. It's smooth, familiar, and possessive in a way no one would clock unless they were trained to see territory disguised as manners. He shifts the bottle toward Blue next.
I cover Blue's glass with my hand. We established in therapy that more than two glasses put her at risk of tailspinning when she's alone. I don't plan on leaving her alone tonight, but I don't want to take any chances. So I state, "She's good."
Mikhail's gaze flicks to mine, flat and unreadable, but he withdraws the bottle with a faint nod like he's acknowledging the boundary.
Blue picks up her water and takes a sip.
I squeeze her thigh.
She leans closer.
Demi keeps talking, oblivious or pretending not to notice the silent exchange. "Okay, outfits for the show. Blue, I'm doing black. Obviously. But like slutty black. With an open leather jacket so I look important."
Blue laughs. "You always look important."
"I do," Demi agrees without hesitation. "But this time I want to look importantandlike I might start a fight."
Blue's shoulders shake with her laughter. "Please don't start a fight."
"I can't make promises," Demi says, then turns to me. "Red, what are you wearing?"
I shrug. "I don't know. I've never been to a fashion show. I guess a suit?"
She makes a face. "Boring."
Blue touches my knee under the table like she's reminding me she likes boring and stability. Then she tilts her head toward them, eyes glittering with mischief. "What aboutyou? What are you wearing, Mikhail?"
Demi's smile turns sharp. "Mikhail wears whatever I tell him to wear. But I haven't decided if I'm allowing him to go yet, have I?" She arches her eyebrows at him, smirking.
Mikhail settles his hand on the back of her chair, fingers resting like a claim. He grinds his molars, eyes wide.
