Highly Suspicious and Unfairly Cute(58)

“It’s unprofessional,” she says primly, and starts walking toward the sleek silver elevator.

“Unprofessional? We’re seventeen! What, exactly, is our profession?” I hurry after her.

“Explorers,” is her crisp reply. The elevator slides open immediately, and we step inside.

Me and Celine each have a ten-minute slot with Katharine. Cel’s is pretty much now; mine’s in half an hour. We’re here together because I offered her a lift, and because, once Raj has his appointment in an hour or so, we’re all going out for dessert. And I’m repeating these basic facts to myself because, if I don’t, the big dark thoughts in the back of my brain might overwhelm me.

Oops. I wasn’t supposed to think about the thoughts.

But they’re here now: worst-case scenarios about the meeting today, rushing in like shadows through a crack in the door. I used to hate elevators when I was a kid because I didn’t understand them, and anything I didn’t understand was based on luck, and luck was a monster I barely kept under control. Maybe that’s why my guard slipped as soon as we got in here. Or maybe I’m just overwhelmed because I spent a significant portion of last night thinking about all the ways my conversation with Katharine could go wrong and now—fantastic!—I’m thinking about them again.

“Brad?” Celine’s eyes meet mine in the elevator’s mirrored wall. She’s paused in the act of pushing green and black braids behind her ears.

“Yeah?” I ask, but I can’t fully hear my own voice because my head is so loud. Those thoughts are saying failure, dead end, disappointment-as-always. I count the floor numbers written on the elevator panel, one two three four five six seven eight. In thirty minutes, Katharine Breakspeare will tell me I’m out of the BEP because I suck, tough luck, shit happens. My moments of happiness are numbered, one two three four five six seven eight—

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I say. Then, “No.”

She turns toward me—

“Wait, just—give me a minute.”

She bites her lip, nods, turns back.

I’ve been tapping my knuckles against the elevator wall, one two three four five six seven eight, and now they hurt. My fault for trying to ignore my thoughts instead of, you know, accepting them and grounding myself in the present or what-fucking-ever but—“Do you know how annoying it is that intrusive thoughts come almost every time you want things to go well?”

Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. “I’ll go with ‘super fucking annoying.’ Is that about right?”

Somehow, I smile. “Pretty much.”

She smiles back.

Okay. Okay. I blow out a breath and look all my bad thoughts in the eye because I must not fear. These are mental distortions. My life isn’t doomed to be a string of failures, and counting can’t alter the path of fate even if it really feels like it should, and these thoughts aren’t really mine, but I’ll accept them because they’re nothing I can’t handle. Fear is the mind killer. Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

I will face my fear.

Celine scowls. “What for?”

I will permit it to pass over me and through me.

“I’m usually really good at, you know.” I shrug. “Taking care of my brain.”

“I know that, Brad. You’re doing it right now.”

This feels like a ludicrous compliment. I actually blush. “It’s just hard to notice, sometimes, what’s a reasonable train of thought and what’s, um, not.”

“Okay,” she says calmly.

The elevator glides to a stop and the doors start to open. Already. Crap. Celine glances at me, then hits the close symbol and pushes button number eight.

I blink at her. “What are you doing?”

“You don’t have to talk to me,” she says, her eyes on the mirror. “Take your time.”

“Your appointment is in—”

“Relax, Brad.”

I splutter, laughing. “You’re telling me to relax?”

She rolls her eyes. “Do as you’re told.”

Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.

Only we will remain.

By the time we reach the top floor, I have a firm grip on my endless store of worst-case BEP scenarios and have dismissed the idea that this elevator will crash to the ground unless I step on every floor panel. It won’t. That’s not how engineering works. We glide back down again while Celine adjusts her black dress in the mirror. I put an arm around her waist and bury my face in her hair, just because. Because I can. Because this feels good, and she’s soft and solid, and I want to say—

“Thank you.”

“Deeply unnecessary,” she mutters.

I grin, squeeze her again, step back. “Your hair smells amazing.”

She cuts her eyes at me. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?” I ask, all innocent. “I’m just telling the truth. Speaking of, you look pretty today.”

“So do you,” she murmurs, then freezes. “I meant…you look…”

I am 100 percent positive she’s blushing. “Gorgeous?”

“No.”

“Stunning?”