32. Alex

Chapter thirty-two

Alex

I slide into the back seat of the Uber, the cool leather a comfort against my radiating skin. I’m a new kind of nervousness today. One that comes with starting therapy and the side effects of my anti-depressants rattling inside my head like maracas in a somber tune.

As I sit in the Uber, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m a fraud. What do I really know about therapy? I’ve never been good at opening up.

Reflecting on my life, I’ve come to the startling realization that I’ve allowed my mental health struggles to have an extremely negative effect on those around me.

Case in point, doubting my worthiness of Daphne, using Celeste as a crutch, and not having enough faith in my sister in allowing her to support me.

It’s too late to change the past, so I focus on the future.

Such as being here for Daphne every step of the way, cook her meals as she’s asked, attend her concerts, and not love her from afar but instead in front of the entire world. So far, I’ve completed the first one. Every day, I drop off a dish that I think she’d enjoy, sometimes directly, sometimes leaving it with Vic or on her doorstep when she’s busy showering or practicing.

Without a doubt, the times that Daph opened the door for me and accepted my food gifts, I wanted to kiss the fuck out of her. Every single time, she’d stare at the food and subtly lick her lips. What an idiot I’d been to deny her something so simple by feeding her.

Either way, my aim is to show up for her. At the same time, I’ve been attending therapy regularly and started psychotropic medication. That’s what I’m doing right now, taking an Uber to my next therapy appointment.

It’s a slight gesture, but I hope she’ll notice. So, naturally, while I await my appointment, I find myself distracted by thoughts of her. Fishing out my phone, I tap across the screen, hesitating for just a second before posting, Anyone know when the Spring Orchestra concert is? My thumb hovers, then tags Victoria, Eden, and Daphne. I know Daphne won’t see it, but maybe, just maybe, she’ll hear about it and understand the silent plea behind my words.

Eden’s comment pops up almost instantly, her digital voice lacking the warmth I know she’d offer in person .

gardenofEDEN: Ask Victoria.

I could ask Victoria, sure. But everyone—Eden included—knows this isn’t about the date or time. This is about Daphne. A minor rebellion against her blocking me on all socials, against the silence between us.

Alex.Whitmore: I could, but we all know I’m asking because I want to see Daphne play. *Heart eyes emoji*

Celeste chimes in next, her words dripping with false humor. The only thing funny about her comment is how I didn’t tag her, yet she’s replying instantly. It wouldn’t surprise me if she has been stalking my socials.

Celestralbeing: Ha ha, as if. *Laughing face*

My grip tightens around the phone. That’s Celeste, always trying to spin my sincerity into some joke. Daphne deserves more respect than that. She deserves—

“Your stop, man,” the driver interrupts my brewing storm of thoughts.

“Thanks,” I mutter, and as the car idles at the curb of the counseling center, I fire off one last message, aimed like a well-thrown dart.

Alex.Whitemore: Jealously doesn’t look good on you, Celeste. I wasn’t fucking joking. I’m in love with Daphne Burton.

The phone goes dark as I pocket it, stepping out into the chill of reality. The counseling center looms ahead, nondescript and yet daunting. Like a challenge. Like a chance. I draw in a breath, trying to steady the erratic pounding in my chest, and walk towards what I hope is the first step to being better. For me, for Daphne, and for everyone tangled in this mess of mine.

The door clicks shut behind me, the sound hollow in the waiting room. I’m alone now, the therapist’s words still echoing like a new melody in my mind—one that’s soft but persistent. I rub at the spot over my heart, where the tightness always seems to gather, and nod to myself. Yeah, therapy could be good for me. Uncomfortable as hell but good .

I make my way down the front steps of the counseling center, the air biting at my exposed skin, and pull out my phone. The screen lights up with a notification from Celeste.

Celestralbeing: Whatever. Sex wasn’t even that great.

Celestralbeing: And I’ll have you know their Spring Concert is the same day as our fundraiser. Good luck getting out of it, asshole. Not even I can, and I’m in the damn orchestra. *laughing crying emoji*

“Shiiiit.” The word slips from between my lips before I can catch it. The fundraiser. The one night of the year when all eyes are on the Whitmore legacy—my family’s name etched on every invitation, spoken with reverence and envy. As a football player, bailing isn’t an option. Not when it means rubbing shoulders with the who’s who, every handshake a potential deal, every smile a pledged donation. My parents wouldn’t let me forget it, not for a second.

A stiff wind whips past, and I shiver, tucking the phone close as if it holds some warmth. My fingers hover over the keyboard, indecision clawing at my insides. Daphne’s face flashes in my mind, her concentration when she plays, the way the world seems to fall away for her. I’ll figure it out .

My phone buzzes again. I pull it out, hoping it’s Eden or Daphne.

It’s not, but I’m still happy to read my sister’s response to my ex.

VictorianotVickiBitches: @Celestralbeing You have 30 days to move out of our suite. & If you ever talk to my brother like that again, I’ll tell your granny it was you who stole her anniversary pearls. Matter of fact, I’m going to do it anyway. *Smirking emoji* *Stabbing Knife Emoji* #notkiddingbitchmoveout

I chuckle before shoving the phone back into my pocket. The weight of my choices settles heavy on my shoulders, but I push through it. I have to. For Daphne. For the sliver of peace I’m trying to carve out of this mess. I owe her that much, at least.

“Can’t let you down, Daph,” I murmur under my breath, more vow than statement. The words hang in the air, unacknowledged by anyone but me.

The fundraiser is going to be a circus. People will wear suits and dresses worth more than most people’s cars, and there’ll be laughter that never quite reaches their eyes and the suffocating stench of greed veiled as philanthropy. I can already hear my father’s voice, sharp as the clink of crystal, reminding me of my role, my duty.

Meanwhile, on the same day, miles away, Daphne will play each note like a piece of her soul. Like music is her confession and ultimate truth. I need to support her.

It’s non-negotiable. Fuck the fundraiser. I choose her.

My Uber pulls up, and I get inside. The seats are cold, the fluorescent lights harsh and unforgiving. I lean against the window, watching the city slide by, a blur of lights and shadows. I’m supposed to be part of that world—the glitz, the glamor—but my heart’s snagged on a harp string, thrumming with a melody that only plays in my head.

I’d face the wrath of a thousand fundraisers, endure the scorn of my parents, if it means giving her that silent nod of encouragement from the darkness of an auditorium. Because seeing Daphne lost in her music, that’s worth any price.