Her laconic text conjures up an image of a petite woman with big brown eyes and a head full of curly chestnut hair walking toward me. My heart sings with joy, and I do my best to suppress it.
It’s not the prospect of seeing Stella again that thrills me, I tell myself. It’s that she’s willing to talk to me after the way we parted last time. I’m also pleased that my hunch about her pills was right.
That’s all there is to it. That’s why I’m feeling so perky suddenly.
* * *
It’s five minutes to three. I’m sitting at a small round table under the red awnings of the outdoor terrace of Café des Arts. Having ordered a beer for me and a milkshake for Stella—a deliberate choice—I gaze at the picturesque surroundings to keep my mind off her.
The cool April breeze brushes against my face, carrying with it the faint scent of blooming flowers from the nearby Jardins de l’Europe. The sun casts a golden glow on the cobblestone street and historic buildings that frame the terrace. Quirky, colorful artwork hangs outside the café on the pastel-washed wall of the building across the street. The overfull flower boxes decorating the café’s exterior add more whimsy to the scene.
Then I spot Stella. My lips go dry. She’s wearing a long dress with flowers on it and a cropped denim jacket. She looks even lovelier than she did in her sexy cocktail dress! My heartbeat quickens and a rush of adrenaline shoots through my veins.
What the fuck, Darrel?
She stops by my table. “May I join you?”
“Of course!” As if waking from a trance, I spring to my feet and pull out a chair for her. “Please forgive my manners.”
She sits down and glances at the drink in front of her. “You ordered a milkshake for me. How sweet.”
“I hope you don’t mind it. But if you do, I’ll ask them to bring the menu. They have an excellent selection of drinks, specialty coffees and teas, and pastries, sandwiches, salads, and such in case you’re hungry.”
“I’m not,” she says. “And a milkshake is perfect. It’s what I would’ve ordered.”
There’s a challenge in her eyes as they meet mine. I may be reading this wrong, but her expression is saying:Yes, I’m only twenty-two, and I like milkshakes, and I’m not going to apologize for it.
I avert my gaze. We spend some time sipping our drinks.
Stella breaks the silence. “You said this was important. What were you going to tell me?”
Shit, the lab results!I’d forgotten all about them. It’s as if seeing her wiped my hard disk clean. Even in her parents’ basement, when she was the only ray of light in my bleak, desperate days, I didn’t feel this way.What’s going on with me?
Whatever it is, I need to rip it out.
“I have the chemical analysis of the pills you gave me,” I announce.
She takes a moment to process my statement. “What does it say?”
“Your meds are fake.”
Her head jerks backward. “What?”
“The oval white pill, your antidepressant, isan organic neutral tablet for essential oils. The little yellow pill, which is supposed to be an antianxiety drug, is simply good old vitamin D.”
She stays silent for a good minute before asking, “Are you suggesting my parents are giving me placebos?”
“Yes. That also explains the absence of any side effects.”
“How long?” Her chest rises and falls. “How long do you think they’ve been doing this?”
“I’m tempted to say since the very beginning, but I don’t know for sure.”
She rubs her face, visibly distraught. “But why? I thought they loved me…”
“I believe they do in their warped way.”
“Then why would they deny me a treatment I need?” Her big eyes open even bigger. “Is such irresponsible behavior another expression of their folly?”
