Mom blinks, once, then again. "Red…as in?—"
"Yes," I say, nodding, letting them get over the initial surprise. "The brilliant Dr. Red Mercer."
Dad grinds his molars. His eyes harden, something sharp and unreadable flashing through them.
"I know you're overprotective of me, but I'm not a little girl anymore, Dad. It's okay. I love him, and he loves me," I admit, putting my hand on Dad's.
He glances at my hand. When he looks up, his cheeks are maroon. He snarls, "Are you serious?"
My butterflies die, and my stomach twists. Still, I try to bring the mood back to light, so I laugh softly. "Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"
Mom's questions overlap, as if she's trying to regain her footing on unstable ground. "How did this happen? When? Does anyone else know? Blue, this is very sudden?—"
"It's not sudden. It just…well, it wasn't public."
Dad leans back in his chair, crossing his arms and curling his fists. He seethes, "This is inappropriate."
The word lands like a slap.
"Inappropriate?" I echo, confusion creeping in at the edges of my excitement. "Dad?—"
"No! He's your therapist!"
"So what? Get over it! Things aren't black and white, and you of all people should know that!" I accuse.
"What does that mean?" he hisses.
I scoff. "Do you still think I'm naive and don't know what you do? You definitely color between the lines!"
Mom looks between us, clearly rattled, her earlier warmth replaced with concern. "Honey, we're just trying to understand?—"
"There's nothing to understand," I say, my smile faltering despite my efforts. "I'm happy. He makes me happy."
Dad's gaze pins me in place. "That doesn't make it acceptable."
The next course arrives, absurdly beautiful, set down between us as if nothing had changed, and the world hasn't tilted.
I stare at the plate, my appetite evaporating, my earlier certainty cracking for the first time. The restaurant hums register again, growing louder. The other diners laugh and silverware clink. Everyone around us is unaware that my perfect night is unraveling in real time.
This isn't how it's supposed to go.
Dad's words—that doesn’t make it acceptable—hang like a verdict already stamped and sealed.
I swallow, my heart pounding now for an entirely different reason, and I realize it's too late. I walked into this dinner believing love would be enough. For the first time all day, I feel the edge of something cold and unfamiliar creeping in.
For a second, I think Dad's going to laugh, or soften, or at least realize he's overreacting and recalibrate the way Mom did. Yet it's only wishful thinking.
The server begins describing the next course. He says something about aged duck, fermented cherry reduction, and a texture contrast designed to evoke late autumn. But his voice sounds distant, distorted, like I'm underwater. He sets the plate down in front of me with surgical precision, and it's another incredible piece of art.
All I want to do is flip it and slam the plate down. My voice cracks, and I lie, "He's not my therapist anymore. I stopped seeing him."
"When?" Dad fires back immediately.
I hesitate.
His eyes narrow. He demands, "When, Blue?"
"A while ago," I say, hating that it sounds defensive. "But it doesn't even matter. The point is?—"
