Page 18 of True Colors

I glance out the wall-to-ceiling windows at the glittering bay. “I put her on Novagene.”

Theo chokes. “That’s a huge project.”

Tell me something I don’t know!

“Yeah, it is.”

Ria blinks. “Is that…helping her or punishing her?”

“Honestly, I don’t know,” I admit. “She may be a total fuck up, and Dad is watching this, so…. But Dot said I should do it and⁠—”

“Dot’s hardly ever wrong about people. I would trust her.” Ria slides out of her chair and wraps her arms around my neck, holding me close. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

Theo grins. “Yeah. Just don’t be a corporate tyrant.”

I huff out a laugh. “I’ll try.”

Ria kisses my cheek and smiles. “The fact that you’re so torn up about how you behaved tells me that you’re going to be just fine.”

I don’t have the heart to tell her that I don’t agree with her at all.

The conversation shifts, or maybe it doesn’t, because Ria talks about a paper she recently read about organizational psychology, employee belonging, and neurodivergence in the workplace—of all damn things.

Then, as if wanting to give me a break, Theo talks about a corruption story he’s chasing.

I listen, but I’m not all there because I’m busy sorting out my thoughts about one quiet analyst with soft brown hair and green eyes that look away too quickly.

Trigger Warning

This chapter contains depictions and discussions of:

Child abuse and domestic violence, including physical assault

Parental substance abuse

Trauma and PTSD, including trauma-related mutism and speech impairment

Emotional abuse and gaslighting

Institutional care / foster system experiences

Workplace humiliation and ableism

Mental health struggles, including impostor syndrome and anxiety

While the chapter also emphasizes healing, safety, and supportive relationships, these themes may be distressing for some readers. Please proceed with care.

CHAPTER 5

Anouk

By the time I leave the office, the sun has dipped low over the bay, staining the sky orange and sea-glass pink. The second floor is emptying—people packing laptops, saying goodnights, complaining about Muni delays, or Bay Bridge traffic.

I have a mint-green Linus I bought years ago. The chain squeaks, the gears complain, and the paint has dulled in places where my hands and thighs have worn it down over time. It’s perfect in an imperfect sort of way.

San Francisco is noisy, chaotic, and sharp around the edges. But as I pedal up Market and cut west toward Haight-Ashbury, everything in my mind softens.

Movement helps; it releases the buzzing static of the day, lets me breathe.