Page 59 of Under Pressure

I excuse myself from the conversation and go over to the front window, looking out at the neighboring houses. Raucous laughter sounds from behind me and I find myself both cringing away and swaying toward the sound, wanting to know what’s so funny, be in on the joke.

Someone brushes against my shoulder and I glance over, finding Mia next to me. “What are you doing brooding over here alone? We’re going to have cake soon.” She links her arm through mine and I let her drag me over to my family, including me in the conversation.

And after a while, I actually find myself… enjoying it.

What alternate reality have I stumbled into? When has anyone cared enough to introduce me to girlfriends, to talk with me, laugh with me, be happy to see me?

It must be because Mia’s here. They’re putting on a show for her. I’ve never interacted with everyone like this, found such easiness in it all. Had Dylan laugh at my joke, Brandon tell me he wants me to come over for dinner at his house sometime. They’ve never been this inclusive.

Or have I never included myself as much?

I shake off the thought. No, that’s not it. This is all just a special night. Everyone’s in a good mood because of Mom’s birthday. But next time, it’ll be back to normal. They won’t care if I come over or not. Brandon will forget about having me over for dinner, Dylan will return to New York and I won’t see him for another few months.

Once Mia’s gone, they’ll remember how they really feel about me. I’m the reason the family broke up. Even if they act like they’ve forgotten, I haven’t.

* * *

“I was expecting some ogre family,” Mia says on the car ride home, chatting away, not a care in the world. “But they were all so nice. Your mom actually reminds me of mine. She and my dad moved to Chicago last year for his work. They didn’t want to leave me, but I’ll probably move for grad school anyway…” She trails off, and I can sense her full attention on me now. “What is it?”

I keep my eyes on the road. “Nothing.”

“Tyler,” she replies in this exasperated voice, as if she says it all the time.

“What, you think you know my moods now?”

She looks at me steadily from the passenger seat. “Will picking a fight about it help?”

Ugh, save me from psychologists. “Nothing’s the matter.”

“Then why are you being all sulky?”

“I’m always sulky,” I mutter.

“Disinterested is different than sulky.”

Damn, she’s right.

I tap my thumb on the steering wheel. “My family really liked you.”

“I liked them too,” she says easily.

I don’t say anything else, and after a minute, she asks, “Is that what’s on your mind? Your family?”

“Don’t try to psychoanalyze me. You’re using a therapist’s voice.”

“How do you know what that sounds like?” she questions in that same even tone.

“Because Mom made me go to one.”

She reaches over, running her hand down my arm in a brief caress. “Why didn’t you mention that when I told you I’d gone to therapy?”

“It wasn’t relevant then. I barely knew you.” That’s not true. I’d already known her a month by then.

But I didn’t trust her.

Do I now?

“Why were you in therapy?”

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