I start stripping in the bathroom. “Fine.”
Rich and I didn’t sleep together for months after we started dating. I’m not sure it would’ve happened at all if it weren’t for a fifth of tequila. I couldn’t even say why we got together. We went to a series of business dinners with my dad, and when clients left, my dad would insist on an after-dinner drink. Then, a few sips in, Dad would make an excuse to go home. Rich and I were each too polite to leave before the other had finished their drink.
One of those nights, when the conversation was good, we ordered a second drink, and then a third. Tequila happened, and we were a couple. Just like my dad wanted.
After Rich and I shower separately under the same stream of water, I blow dry my hair, glancing at him as he dresses in a suit and tie. Rich is a catch—I know that. He was positioned in front of me for a reason. Smart, thoughtful when he has to be, even-keeled—and all that in a nice package. He takes care of himself, and a solid body and handsome face helps me get in the mood when I need to.
I could cheat on him.
Not with just anyone, but with Finn. Finn does things to me with just a look, and I’m even more tempted by him when he opens his mouth. He read my journal and it didn’t scare him off. If it’d been Rich who’d come across it, he’d have put it back where he found it and never mentioned it again.
“Ten minutes,” Rich says with a spritz of cologne.
I’m patting on liquid foundation. “Thanks, Dad.”
“You’ve made your point,” he says. “I just thought you’d like to know the time since you aren’t dressed yet.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“Look,” he says.
Great. I know that “look.” He’s going to say something I don’t want to hear. “At what?”
He ignores my stunning wit. “You’re in a bad mood, I get it. But since that’s rare, I have to ask.”
My heart leaps into my throat. I should’ve known this was coming, because Rich is right. I am in a bad mood, but I was in a great mood earlier, and any kind of extreme is unusual for me. I’m not temperamental anymore.
I skip ahead to applying eyeliner, the best way I know how to avoid his gaze during this conversation. “Don’t start this,” I say. “Not right before we walk out the door.”
“So I’m right then. Something’s changed. Please tell me you haven’t stopped taking them completely.”
It irritates me that it’s been less than a week and Rich has already noticed. Has being on antidepressants changed me so much that the moment I lower my dosage, I become an entirely different person? A person I don’t even know, because it’s been so long since I’ve been her? “I’m a grown woman,” I say. “I’ll decide for myself.”
“That’s not how it works. We’re a team, you and me—”
“And my dad, and Doctor Dummy.”
“It’s Doctor Lumby.” He gets his phone from his pocket. “The car’s here. I’ll be downstairs, but we can finish this after dinner. And don’t forget . . .”
“What?” I prompt just to get him out of here.
“Don’t forget your coat. I’m saying that as your boyfriend who doesn’t want you to be cold, not as the overbearing father figure you make me out to be.”
In the reflection, I watch him disappear. Guilt gnaws at my gut. Despite his faults, Rich does care about me. And he takes care of me. Mentally, emotionally, he makes sure I’m okay from day to day. He keeps his distance for the most part, accepting that my decrease in sex drive comes with the territory.
It’s a big job, handling me. I should be grateful Rich is up for it. Instead, I’ve been unnecessarily bitchy to him for no reason.
No, that’s not true—there is a reason. He knows it, I know it, my dad knows it.
I knew there would be mood swings, and that they’d eventually give me away to Rich, my dad, or my doctor. It’s not as if I was going to keep this from them forever, but they would’ve talked me out of it. They’ve done it before.
But it’s time. Thanks to a handsy pigeon, I only have a quarter of my prescription left, even though Doctor Lumby thinks I just refilled it. This last week, the air has been colder on my skin. People’s features have been sharper. Finn’s acceptance of my embarrassing desire for passion makes my heart swell whenever I think of it.
Next month would make ten years of being on antidepressants. I’m determined not to see that anniversary, though. I’ll be better this time.
I’ll be an improved version of the girl I was before.
10
I can’t think of much worse than client dinners. At least in meetings, I have work to discuss. At these after-hours engagements, I’m expected to talk about anything but work. My dad’s method for signing clients is to impress the shit out of them with ideas at the office, then close over expensive food and liquor.
Which is what we’re heading into now. The host leads us to our usual table. My dad gets my chair for me. “You look nice tonight,” he says.
Not that it’s so rare to get compliments from my dad, but I’m immediately suspicious. Did Rich already mention the argument over the tights to my dad? Is this their way of thanking me for not wearing them? I look at Rich, whose nose is buried in the wine menu, pretending he didn’t hear.
“Flying solo tonight, George?” Grayson Dietrich asks once we’re all seated.
“Unfortunately.” Dad unfolds his napkin to put it in his lap. “After my wife passed, I was never quite able to move on.”
My throat closes for a few seconds, long enough to suppress my intake of air without killing me. What my dad says is true. He’s never even attempted to date since the accident. But I still don’t like when he uses my mom’s death as an icebreaker, and tonight the sting is especially painful. I’ve been thinking of her more this past week, ever since the pigeons. I wouldn’t call myself a spiritual person, but it’s as if she’s around.
Mrs. Dietrich touches her collarbone with both hands. “Oh, George. I’m so sorry. When was that?”
He clears his throat. “Almost ten years ago.”
“Ten?” She shakes her head at her husband. “Would you go that long without dating if you lost me?”
“Of course, dear.”
“And this was your mother, Halston?” she asks.
I try not to fidget. I don’t want attention on me. “Yes.”
Rich passes me the wine list. “Why don’t you pick one out?” He turns to Grayson. “George tells me you’re a Knicks fan.”
Gratefully, I take the menu. Rich doesn’t like me to drink ever since last year’s incident, so saving me from this conversation is an olive branch. Suddenly, I’m glad I opted for plain black tights and a more conservative outfit. On some level, I guess I know Rich is usually looking out for me.
I go to squeeze his hand as thanks, but my dad reaches across and snatches the list from me. “Why don’t you get yourself a coffee instead?” he asks, halting the table conversation. He turns his glare on Rich. “Don’t you think that’s best?”
My face warms as I’m reduced to a twelve-year-old in front of a man who’s here to decide whether to trust us with his million-dollar-plus advertising budget.
“Yes, sir,” Rich says. He smiles uneasily at Grayson, nodding in my direction. “This one drinks coffee like water.”
“I used to be that way,” Mrs. Dietrich says. “I’m too old to have caffeine this late, though. Let’s call the waiter over.”
Without my usual armor my antidepressants provide, embarrassment hits me harder than it normally might. It shifts to sadness. For my strained relationship with my dad and Rich. For missing my mom more than usual. For ten goddamn years. I put on my best smile. Anything less will irritate my dad. “Excuse me,” I say, standing. “Ladies’ room.”
I sit in a stall and take a deep breath. I don’t want to be here. Already, this dinner feels like it’s been going on all night. I’m getting restless. I’m anxious that I’m anxious, worried my dad will notice and that Rich will out m
e. George Fox put me on antidepressants, and he’ll decide when I stop taking them. At least, according to him.
I hope that Rich orders me coffee so it’s waiting for me when I return. But I need something right now to take the edge off. Something to dispel the gloom creeping in. I get my phone from my handbag and check to see if Finn ever posted the second photo—and to my delight, he has. I’m on the screen, sucking coffee off my two fingers, and it has forty-seven likes—even more than the one before it and in much less time.
I still can’t believe he captured that. And took the time to edit it. And post it. With a caption of mine that he picked out. Is he looking at the photo right now too? Does it excite him? Is he thinking of me like I am him?
I smile all the way back to the table and through dinner as well—or, at least until Rich makes me switch to decaf.
* * *
In the town car on the way home, Rich is quiet. That’s not unusual, but tonight he’s not volleying e-mails or checking on an international client or tracking his beloved stocks.
“I’m sorry your dad went ballistic about the wine,” he says finally.
An apology isn’t what I expected, so it takes me a moment to respond. To an onlooker, it would’ve sounded like a normal exchange, but the three of us know it wasn’t. Taking the wine list from me was a reminder that he still doesn’t trust me.
“It’s all right,” I say. “I’m used to it.”
“It’s been over a year, and you haven’t had more than a glass since. I’ve noticed, Halston, even though you think I give you a hard time. It isn’t fair that your dad hasn’t let it go yet—and that I haven’t, either.”
I’m not sure it isn’t fair. I did fuck up. I disappointed them both. But a reminder isn’t helpful. It puts me on edge, and the edge is what I’ve been trying—what I’ve been firmly suggested—to dull.
“I mean, we should be grateful for coffee, right?” he asks. “It’s harmless. Unless you start doing that enema thing.” He chuckles. “Have you heard of those? Coffee enemas? I wouldn’t be surprised if I caught you hooked up to an espresso IV one day.”
It’s dark enough that I can’t see the nuances of his face. Why is he talking about coffee enemas? “Sure. I guess.”
“I’m just a little worried, Halston. If you’ve changed your dosage without consulting a doctor, well . . .” He blows out a breath and shifts to face me in the seat. “You can’t just do that.”
I look out the window at all the people having fun on a Thursday night—most of them around my age. I’d like to be out there with them, not trapped in here for a Rich lecture. “I told you, I’m an adult. I can do what I want.”
“That doesn’t mean you should. I don’t think you’re ready to go off them—neither does your dad, or Doctor Lumby.”
“Doctor Lumby does what he thinks is easiest for all of us, and that’s keeping me agreeable.”
“What’s wrong with easy? Why do you want to make things hard?”
I lace my hands in my lap, squeezing them together. “You’re right. Feeling things is hard. Being moody, having PMS, and voicing my opinions, it’s a burden for everyone.”
“That’s not fair.”
“If I stop taking meds, I won’t be nice, easygoing, doormat Halston.”
“I didn’t say you have to stay on them, but if you really, honestly feel you need to stop, then at least get professional help.”
“I don’t trust Doctor Lumby.” I never really have, but until my recent perspective shift, it didn’t seem to matter. My dad footed the bill, I got to talk to someone candidly a couple times a month, and in exchange, everyone left me alone. Until Finn. He hasn’t left me alone. He’s dug a little deeper without making me feel like I’m under interrogation. “I missed my appointment last week on purpose,” I admit. “It wasn’t because of work like I told you.”
“Why? He’s been your doctor a long time.”
“Maybe it’s time for a change.”
“Then we’ll find you someone else.” The leather seat groans when Rich moves. “I’m not the bad guy, Halston. I love you, and I want you to be happy.”
“How do you know you love me?” I glare at him. “You don’t even know me.”
He blinks a few times, stunned. I don’t say things like that. I don’t even think them. But it’s true that Rich has only ever known this version of me, so how can he actually love me? This is what Finn hinted at this afternoon. It’s not healthy to pretend to be someone else to make others happy. And that’s exactly what I’ve been doing since Mom’s death. I wear a mask. I keep thoughts and desires and opinions to myself more often than I express them. Rich doesn’t get me. If he read what I wrote, if he heard some of my thoughts, he’d think I was sex-crazed. My dad understands me to a certain point. He’d have accepted the quirky tights outside of a work setting. He won’t accept, from an employee or a daughter, posting sexy things online for the world to see.
My mom was different. She appreciated art and encouraged me to be creative. Unfortunately, I’ve ensured I’ll never get to share that understanding with her again.
“How can you say I don’t know or love you?” Rich finally asks. “We’ve been dating almost two years, and I’ve been a great boyfriend to you.”
“I’ve only ever known you while I was taking antidepressants—”
“They don’t change your personality.” He furrows his eyebrows. “You know that, right? They clear away the bad shit so you can function how you’re supposed to.”
“And you would know? Are you taking them?” I ask sardonically. “I’m sure my dad convinced you I’m better off.”
“He didn’t. I’ve done my research, Halston.”
“He never would’ve let me stop them,” I mutter. “He doesn’t know how to handle me.”
“You’re so hard on him.” He unbuckles his seatbelt to angle his entire body toward me. “Why? He does everything for you. He pays for your treatment. He created a position at the company for you. He doesn’t care if you show up late or take a long lunch—”
“That’s guilt over how he’s treated me the past ten years. It’s the only way he knows how to keep me happy and going along with what you guys want. But you never see that, do you? You always side with him.”
“I don’t, and you know that. I genuinely don’t believe your dad has wronged you by paying your rent. And it isn’t healthy for you to get so worked up over him.”
“It is healthy. The world won’t end if I feel strongly about something.”
“Christ,” he says, sighing. “What’s wrong? Why are you suddenly hell-bent on stopping the meds?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I’m good.” I don’t tell him that I’m better than good. Maybe he thinks tonight is going downhill, but for me, I’m finally shedding the past decade of nothingness. Finn has brought a lot to the surface—and I’m surprisingly grateful for it.
“Does it have to do with . . .” Rich’s throat sounds raw. I squint to try and read him. “Is it something new?” he asks. “A new . . . pattern? Something really bad this time?”
I nearly laugh. Pattern is one of Rich’s words for addiction. Other words include habit, routine, or weakness.
“You saw me tonight with the coffee. Do you think I’m doubling up on obsessions now?”
“You know I hate that word.”
So does my dad, which is why I chose it over addiction. “I guess I forgot. What’s wrong with obsession again?”
“Obsessions are for teenage girls.”
“Then is it any wonder I’m like this?” I ask, raising my voice. “In a lot of ways, I still am a teenage girl. How could I not be?”
He frowns. “What?”
“My dad dopes me up practically the day my mom dies. Then terrifies me into staying on them the rest of my life by telling me if I stop, I’ll do something destructive and reckless again. How can I not be emotionally stunted?”
“I don’t know where all this is coming from,” Rich says. “I’ve never heard
you talk about this.”
“Which is why I said you don’t fucking know me.”
“Calm down.”
“Calm down? You brought this up. You were trying to provoke me, and it worked.”
“I was not.”
“Yes you were. You brought up the wine, the coffee, the meds, the patterns. Why, if not to get under my skin? What do you want from me?”
“Come on, Halston. Look at you. You’re acting paranoid and agitated. What could possibly be the reason for that?” he asks wryly. “Gee, let me think.”
I curl my hands into fists. It’s as if I’ve been in a box, and I’m pushing the lid open inch by inch. Rich wants it to stay closed, doesn’t want to know what’s inside in case he doesn’t like it. I lean between the two front seats. “Stop the car.”
“Do not stop the car,” Rich says, then turns back to me. “You’re unstable. I’m taking you back to my place.”
“I’m getting out whether you stop the car or not,” I threaten the driver.
He glances over his shoulder at us. “Uh.”
“Then what?” Rich asks. “You’re going to walk home?”
“It’s not that far.”
“It’s ten o’clock at night.”
You wouldn’t know it by the throngs of students and loosened-tie professionals and hip twenty-somethings littering the sidewalk. By the neon open signs, the steaming hotdog stands, the endless cars swerving by. “I’m twenty-five, not eighty, and it’s a Thursday. People our age haven’t even gotten started for the night. I’ll be fine. Let me out.”
“If you want to go out, I’ll go with you. Let’s just stop by your apartment first. Or mine, even. I think you’ve got a few pills there, and I really think you should—”
“You don’t work for him,” I tell the driver, ignoring Rich. “He’s my dad’s employee, and this is my dad’s company car, and if you don’t stop now, I’ll call George Fox himself and make him tell you to pull over.”
Rich knows my dad would call me unreasonable and hang up, but fortunately, the driver doesn’t. I get out.
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