Chapter Two

Coco

“ S o, can I schedule you for next week? Same day and time?”

The bell above the clinic door jingles as Mrs. Esmodeus, my first and last patient of the day, rushes out without a word. I watch her retreating form through the frosted glass, my unanswered question hanging in the air.

She probably needs to check her schedule. She’ll call later, my hopeful-bordering-on-delusional inner voice tells me as I trudge back to my office, shoulders slumped. It’s the same voice that insists my patients’ reluctance to open up isn’t because I’m unqualified, but because I’m a human outsider trying to treat a sensitive demon issue. The truth is, I’m navigating uncharted territory here. Magic has been deeply woven into demon culture for centuries, and my modern treatments must seem like new age balderdash to many in this tight-knit community.

I sink into my ergonomic chair with a heavy sigh, the pleather squeaking in agreement. The blank computer screen stares back at me as I log into the medical charting system and pull up Mrs. Esmodeus’s profile. My fingers hover over the keyboard, unsure what to type. There’s not much to say when a patient refuses to answer questions or even speak for the entire hour.

I wish I could say her behavior was atypical, but unfortunately, that’s been the pattern with all my patients. Some even storm out before the hour is up. I type out a one-sentence note, giving myself the illusion of productivity. At least she stayed for the entire appointment, and didn’t storm out until after.

"Next week will be better," I promise myself. As long as I keep seeing patients, I'm bound to break through eventually.

The problem is: I don't have the luxury of time. My clinic has been open for a couple of months, and the senior partners at the main practice are already breathing down my neck with the threat of serious consequences if things don't improve soon. As much as I try to stay positive, I can't ignore the data, and data never lies.

My phone buzzes, reminding me of my scheduled video chat with Mom. I prop it against my prized possession, a limited-edition Nylara Nebulae bobblehead from Quantum Renegade. Nylara is a genius xenobiologist from an alien race who's always stumbling through social situations on other worlds. I can relate; Winter Bliss feels like another planet sometimes. But just like Nylara, I've got knowledge on my side. Even if I'm not exactly nailing the social part yet. I give her little green head a quick rub for good luck.

Right on cue, Mom's call comes through at 5:00 PM sharp. Always punctual, even on vacation.

"Hi, Mom!" I say, plastering on a huge smile. I wince, turning away, as I’m greeted by a blinding light. "Whoa, that sun is intense. Can you find a shadier spot?”

"Coco! Sorry, one second." There’s a rustling sound as she adjusts the camera, tucking her phone under the brim of an enormous sunhat. Now her beaming face is the only light that fills the screen, which I don't mind at all. She looks tanned, relaxed, and blissfully happy.

“It's so good to see you,” I say, meaning it. “How are the turtles?”

Mom lowers her ridiculous oversized sunglasses, and I swear it's like looking into a mirror from the future. Her nose is freckled and sun-kissed, and her eyes—God, they're practically glowing. They've always been this deep, stormy blue gray, but with her tan, they've lightened to an almost otherworldly turquoise.

Until she started going gray, people used to mistake her for my sister more than my actual sister. Mom and I have the same pin-straight brown hair that refuses to hold a curl, though she keeps hers long while I keep mine in a pixie because there’s so many things I’d rather do in the morning than worry about my hair. The same narrow face with a button nose my sister used to tease me about, and the same tall, lanky build that makes pants shopping a nightmare.

But it's not just looks we share. We're both total psychology nerds, completely obsessed with how the brain works. I swear, sometimes I think I absorbed her passion for the field through osmosis in the womb. It's like I never stood a chance of being anything but a mini-her.

“Oh, you mean the Aetherial Terrapins ?” She affects a snobbish tone before rolling her eyes dramatically. “I made the mistake of calling them ‘turtles’ on our first night here. One of the biologists was so offended, she almost fainted.” She chuckles, shaking her head. “The turtles are fine, I think. Not extinct yet as far as I can tell, thanks to your father and the crew. I haven't gotten much of an official update though. He’s been so busy I hardly see him. But you know what? From the brief moments I do get, I’ve never seen him happier. Every night he goes to bed grinning and wakes up wearing the same damn smile. All because of some gooey turtle eggs. I wish I'd made the connection sooner—I wasted so much time trying to think of birthday gifts for him.”

I laugh, picturing Dad gleefully scooping up turtle eggs and ferrying them across the beach to the hatchery like precious cargo. “And what about you? How's retirement treating you?”

To answer my question, Mom flips the camera, giving me a panoramic view of her black-and-white polka dot swimsuit, long bronze legs, and the beach chair she's draped across. Just beyond, impossibly blue water stretches to the horizon. A few people—biologists, I assume—patrol the shoreline with clipboards and plastic buckets. When she turns the view back on her, she's wearing a fake pout. “I'm suffering, Coco. Really.”

"I can see that," I say with a laugh. "You look absolutely miserable."

She nods emphatically. “Well, misery loves company. I wish you were here. Your father and I feel terrible about not being together for the holidays. Are you sure you can't fly out, even for a couple of days?”

My heart twists. I miss them desperately, but I need to focus on the clinic. “Winter Bliss doesn't have an airport,” I remind her, trying to keep my tone light. “Between drive time and connecting flights, I'd have about an hour with you before having to turn around.”

“We could come spend Christmas with you. I’m sure the species will survive if we leave for a couple days. I mean, they’ve managed this far, haven’t they?”

“It's okay, Mom. This is important to Dad. He's spent thirty years taking care of us. It's his time now.”

She heaves a heavy sigh, but nods in agreement. My mother may be a world-renowned child psychologist, with countless books and papers to her name, but ironically, Dad did most of the childrearing in our family. He never seemed to resent putting his own ambitions on hold to raise my sister and me while Mom threw herself into her work, either. Without his sacrifice, Mom wouldn’t be a household name in the psych world.

Now that Mom's retired, it's Dad's turn to chase his dreams—studying rare, gem-shelled turtles on the other side of the world—while she lounges on the beach, catching up on decades of missed reading and TV. The perfect compromise, if you ask me.

“I hate thinking of you alone for the holidays, especially Christmas.” Her pout is real this time. I feel myself pouting too. No matter how busy she was, Mom never missed Christmas.

“I'm not alone,” I insist. “I have my work.” The lie tastes bitter. The clinic's been so slow I haven't even bothered hiring a receptionist. I could probably disappear for a week, and no one would notice. “And I have Mariah Scary,” I add quickly, thinking of my runt of a chihuahua. I could easily tuck her into my purse and bring her with me on a flight—I've done it before.

“I miss that cranky little dog,” Mom says with a fond smile. She leans closer to the camera, her face filling the screen. “Now, tell me, how is my brilliant girl doing in her new clinic? Everything running smoothly?”

My chest swells at ‘brilliant girl,’ even as guilt gnaws at my insides. I wish it were true. Right now, I feel like nothing more than a brilliant fraud. I hesitate, debating whether to come clean. Mom has decades of experience; surely she'd have advice. But as I open my mouth, I chicken out. It's impossible to imagine my perfect mother ever struggling. She coined the term ‘Sullivan method’ just before the age of thirty, while eight months pregnant with me. And weeks after giving birth, she started training for her first triathlon because pushing out a ten-pound baby wasn’t challenging enough, apparently.

I still remember nearly falling out of my seat when I found her picture in my early development textbook. Thankfully, the lecture hall was too huge for anyone to notice I was a carbon copy of the woman on the page.

If only she knew how brilliantly I was failing right now.

“Oh, you know,” I begin, plastering on a smile, “it's going really well. Amazingly well, actually.”

“That's my superstar!” Mom beams. “You're just like your mother—a natural-born pioneer!”

“Thanks, Mom.” The words feel like ashes in my mouth. “It's still early days, you know? But I'm definitely making our family name proud. ”

The realization hits me like a punch to the gut: I don't think I've ever lied to my mother before. Brilliant liar—add that to the list.

"Of course you are! You always do, my dear." Mom’s enthusiasm is palpable. "I've been doing some light reading—you're using the treatments from Hellfire Neurosis: Cognitive Approaches to Magical Dysfunction , right? It's fascinating stuff! When you first told me about extending your doctorate to specialize in magical issues, I worried you were pigeonholing yourself. But after digging into that book, I get it. I want to hear about all the work you’re doing.”

I stifle a laugh. Only my mother would consider a dense psychology textbook ‘light reading.’ Thank goodness for her Kindle—I can't imagine her lugging that ten-pound tome to the beach. “Yeah, the treatments are really something,” I hedge. “Not many therapists have a specialized fire room built in their clinic. I wish you could see it.”

I wish I could see it used, I think bitterly. Our state-of-the-art immolation room sits gathering dust, a monument to my failure.

“I was just reading about controlled immolation!” Mom says, practically bouncing with excitement. “Please, tell me all about it. So, you really engulf your patient in flames?”

Her eyes sparkle with curiosity, and I'm struck by how much she must miss her work. Now she has to live vicariously through me. If only I had something real to share.

“Not the whole patient. Just their hands—” I glance at my watch, feigning surprise. “Oh shoot, look at the time! I'm so sorry, Mom, I've got to run. I have a friend's engagement party tonight.”

Mom's face falls for a split second before brightening again. "I didn't know you made a friend. That's wonderful, dear!”

I nod, my smile feeling brittle. It's not exactly a lie, but it's far from the whole truth. Noelle isn’t my friend yet. But she will be very soon. I hope.

She runs the local library and is probably one of the busiest people I’ve ever met. I’ve caught her roller skating while shelving books, because walking from aisle to aisle is apparently not fast enough.

While Noelle and I haven't progressed beyond casual acquaintances, she did invite me to her engagement party. It might be a pity invite, but I don't care. I'm just excited not to spend another Friday night watching old Quantum reruns.

“That's wonderful, dear. I'm so glad to hear you're finding your place.” Mom's smile is warm, but there's a hint of worry in her eyes that makes my stomach clench. “I love you, Coco Butter.”

“Love you too, Mom,” I manage. “Give Dad a hug for me. Bye.”

I end the call and slump forward, resting my forehead on the cool surface of my desk. The guilt of lying to my mother mingles with the constant anxiety over the clinic's future, creating a nauseating cocktail in my stomach.

I allow myself exactly sixty seconds to wallow before straightening up. There's still time before Noelle's party. Maybe if I review my case notes one more time, I'll have an epiphany that saves my patients, my clinic, and my rapidly dwindling self-esteem.

As I reach for Mrs. Esmodeus's file, I try to ignore the voice in the back of my head whispering that if I truly want to find the cause of my problems, all I need to do is look in a mirror.

M y feet ache in my heels as I trudge down the sidewalk towards the restaurant where Noelle's engagement party is located. The whole town is here tonight, I think, averting my gaze when a few familiar faces pass by. I take my place at the end of the receiving line, trying to quell the butterflies in my stomach.

As I inch closer to the happy couple, I can't help but feel like an interloper. Sure, there's a mix of humans and demons, but as much as I’d like to blend in, part of me wonders if I’m sticking out like a sore thumb. The newcomer crashing their celebration. I half expect a bouncer to appear out of thin air and escort me off the premises.

I focus on Noelle and her fiancé, hoping it'll calm my nerves. She's radiant in a yellow dress that complements her vibrant red hair. Her demon partner—Rom, I think his name is—plants a kiss on her head, and something in my chest aches. I wonder if I’d feel less frazzled with someone to come home to, like Mom has Dad. But right now, I'm married to my failing career, and my chronic singlehood isn’t likely to be cured anytime soon.

As I draw closer, I rehearse my greeting in my head. Be cool, Coco. Don't sound desperate for friends. I'm hoping that if I can connect with these two, they might share the secret to integrating into the Winter Bliss community. Noelle seems to have deep roots here, and she's created such a welcoming space at the library. And Rom, well, maybe he could give me some insight into connecting with my demon patients.

My carefully crafted smile falters as I spot Mrs. Esmodeus chatting animatedly with the couple, her smile warm and welcoming.

A cold realization washes over me—what if the problem really is me? Something that I can’t learn from textbooks, lectures, or spending time with new friends? Because the issue is so much deeper than connecting with a new culture. The issue is skin-deep, yet so obvious, demons have no problem seeing right through me to the fraud hiding underneath.

Rationally, I know fear never speaks the truth. But right now, the rational part of my brain is losing the battle against the screaming chorus of my insecurities .

Before I know it, I'm backing away, my legs unsteady beneath me. I thrust my gift into the hands of a passing guest, mumbling something about putting it on the gift table for me. I need to leave. I don’t belong here.

I start walking, letting my feet carry me away from the party, away from the reminder of my inadequacies. I end up outside Under the Volcano, my favorite bar in town. My growling stomach makes the decision for me. There’s a hole in my heart only fried potatoes can fill.

Soon, I'm settled at a table on the porch with a basket of tater tots and extra fry sauce. I'm close enough to the service window that I could probably help myself to the taps if my arms were a foot longer. I fish out my phone and dial the one person I can't lie to.

As soon as my sister, Mag, answers, I blurt out, “I lied to Mom.”

She grumbles, clearly just woken up. She's a night shift nurse, so this isn't unusual. “So? I lie to her all the time.”

I shove the basket aside, burying my head in my hands. “No, you don't get it. I never lie to her. Dad, sure, I've managed an insignificant fib here and there. But Mom? Never. And now I feel sick. I hate this.” I lift my head and plop a tot into my mouth.

I hear her yawn and stretch on the other line. “Oh, Coco. You poor, perfectionist child.” I roll my eyes at her condescending tone. “This is textbook oldest daughter syndrome, made worse by Mom molding you into her mini-me. That nausea? It's called guilt. Don't worry, you learn to ignore it. I do.” She scoffs. “Sheesh, you'd think with all that time spent in school, you’d know how to therapize yourself better. Maybe it’s time to go back for your second doctorate.”

“They always say the ones who pursue counseling are the ones who need it most,” I mutter. “Don’t tempt me with another doctorate. There’s nothing I’d love more than to escape real life by hiding in academia.” I sigh, remembering how graduate school came with its own set of challenges.

She chuckles. “True that. But it's okay, that's why you have me. So, what's this lie about? Talking about it might help.”

I take a deep, steadying breath. “It's the clinic. It's not doing well, Mag. The owners are breathing down my neck. My retention sucks. If my numbers don't improve soon, I’m worried they’re going to pull funding. I don't know what to do. The demons—my patients—they hate me. No, scratch that. If they hated me, they'd at least talk to me. I can't even get them to do that. And I’m slowly starting to come to the realization that maybe the problem isn’t easily fixable because maybe the problem is me. Maybe I’m just bad at my job.”

“God, Coco. You're not bad at your job. There are some things you just can’t fix, no matter how good you are—” She cuts herself off with a sigh. “Sometimes I forget how much pressure Mom's put on you, how deep those roots run. I mean, I'm grateful she focused all her energy on you. I would have never survived living under her clinically trained eye.”

The porch door slams open, dragging my attention away from Mag. I look up to find the most absurdly handsome demon I've ever seen towering over my table. His eyes are glassy, unfocused. I recognize his fancy and rumpled sweater immediately—he was the one openly crying to the bartender when I walked in.

“I know what your problem is,” he announces proudly, his voice a little slurred. He stares at my tater tots with a hungry gleam in his eye. “But you have to give me your food first. Do you agree to the terms of the deal?” Without waiting for an answer, he collapses into the chair across from me, nearly upending the table.

A demon voluntarily approached me. It feels like a win? I mean, he’s clearly drunk, and it's probably the carbs he’s after, but still. Maybe he’s a local, and I can learn something from him. What do I have to lose at this point?

I push the fry sauce towards him as he starts inhaling tots like he's gunning for a world record. “Hey Mag? I'm gonna have to call you back.”

As I hang up, I can't help but feel a shred of hope. Maybe this is the breakthrough I've been waiting for. Even if it comes with the distinct scent of whiskey.