I look at him in surprise. "I don't keep secrets from you."
He gently smiles, leans down, and kisses the top of my head. "Yes. I know. But you and your mom need to work through things. We'll be on the balcony if you need us."
My heart pounds harder.
They disappear.
Mom reaches for my hand before I can stop her. She softens her voice, like she's coaxing a wounded animal. "Is it true? You're pregnant? Because if it's true, then your father will—he will calm down. He'll have to. He'll?—"
"He'll what?" I laugh, and it's ugly. "He'll respect me because I'm carrying a baby? He'll finally treat Red like a human because he's tied to me in a way he can't cut?"
She closes her mouth, but her lips tremble.
My eyes sting. "That's your plan? That I have to be pregnant to be protected?"
She looks horrified. "No, that's not?—"
"It is," I insist. "That's exactly what it is."
She opens her mouth again, but I don't let her speak. I blurt out, "I'm not pregnant. I lied so Uncle Maksim could bring Red home alive."
Her breath catches. Mom stares at me like she doesn't recognize me.
Panic rises, and my skin feels wrong. My thoughts get too loud, and my brain goes looking for an exit. But sometimes the only exit I can see is my own blood.
So I swallow, trying to push it all down. My tongue feels heavy. My voice comes out thinner than I want it to. "Dad hurt the only person who keeps me from spinning out and hurting myself."
Worry fills her expression. More tears bubble.
My stomach twists. It's the part I never say out loud except to Red in therapy or when I feel like everything is off-balance. It's the part I keep locked behind my teeth because once people know, they look at me differently. They handle me like glass. They pity me. Or they get angry, like my pain is an inconvenience.
Tell her.
No. Keep it to yourself.
I remind myself it's my mom. And she's going to leave and run back to my father unless I make her understand that Red isn't just my boyfriend.
She needs to understand he's my lifeline.
I inhale slowly, forcing air into my lungs like it's a choice. My voice wobbles. "Sometimes, I don't know how to be in my own skin."
My mother's eyes widen. "Blue…" She squeezes my hand.
I keep going before she can stop me. "It's not always sadness. Sometimes it's numb. Sometimes it's too much. Sometimes it's nothing and everything at once. I get…trapped. In my head. In the noise." My fingers curl into my palms, nails pressing crescents into skin. "And when it gets like that, my brain tells me I need tofeelsomething. Something real. Something I can control."
Tears sting behind my eyes, but I refuse to blink them free.
Mom scoots closer, and this time, I don't push her away.
"I hurt myself," I choke out.
My mother goes pale the same way she did when Brax told her I stalked him, then cut myself and lied to them that his wife harmed me. She whispers, "No, sweetie. No. That's not the answer."
"Yes, Mom. For me, that's how I cope. Not because I want the drama, or to punish you, or Red. I do it because for a second, it quiets everything. It gives me relief. It gives me control when I feel like I'm coming apart."
Her mouth opens, then shuts again, like she doesn't have language for this.
Everything continues to tumble out of me. "I've been doing it for a long time. I got good at hiding it and smiling. I became an expert at being whatever you needed me to be so you wouldn't ask questions."
