“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 me. 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 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.