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The answer is so obviously ridiculous that I laugh.
Healthy people fuck up constantly. Bliss once attempted to interfere with a fight between Luke and Cade forcing Cade to remind her a grown man never needs her help. Aura a year refusing to speak to Easton because admitting she loved him felt more dangerous than losing him. Every person I know is carrying something sharp enough to make them stupid when it presses against the correct wound.
Recovery never promised perfection.
It gave me enough clarity to accept what I do after the mistake belongs to me.
“What do you hate most?” I ask.
“Being controlled.”
“What do you do when you’re afraid?”
“Control everything.”
The answer sobers me more effectively than water could.
I control the room, the explanation, the timing, and the version of myself everyone is allowed to see. Even now, I am performing healthy Charm. Respectful Charm. Recovered Charm. I speak calmly, use the correct language, and make certain everyone understands how much work I have done.
Then something threatens the image, and I panic because I still believe losing control means losing love.
“Fuck that,” I whisper.
The voice recorder catches it.
“What if I stopped?”
“Stopped what?”
“Performing.”
A laugh escapes me. “What if I did exactly what I wanted and said exactly what I meant for one week?”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It sounds fucking amazing.”
I lift my glass toward the phone and nearly spill Tito’s over the rug.
“One week,” I decide. “No polishing. No becoming whatever makes the room easiest. I say what I mean, do what I want, and stop apologizing for existing.”
The following evening, Bliss receives her wedding photographs.
She arrives at dinner carrying two albums and enough excitement to attract attention from the entire restaurant. Aura and I reserved a table in the quieter back section so we could spread out the photographs without blocking servers or forcing strangers to watch three women scream over Cade crying at the altar.
The maître d’ attempts to seat us beside the kitchen.
“We reserved the corner table,” I tell him.
“That table is being held for a larger party.”
“There are four chairs.”
“They may have additional guests joining them.”
“Do they?”
His polite smile tightens. “They may.”
