Page 94 of True Colors

Her chair scrapes loudly against the floor as she stands. “This is fucking bullshit,” she cries out, her palms landing with a thud on her table.

I recoil—not at the language, but at the fury behind it.

“It-it’s okay. I am n-not b-board f-facing.”

“That fucking dickhead has his fucking head way up his fucking ass.”

I force myself to smile. “That is a c-creative u-se of the w-word f-fuck.”

Dot swears again. “Anouk, I am so sorry.”

“N-no n-need.” I shake my head. “H-he’s t-the b-boss. He can d-do wh-whatever he wants.”

I can see now that I made a mistake with Luther.

I trusted him to see me, appreciate me; instead, he’s like all the others; he only sees the stutter, the outside, and makes decisions based on that. He thinks he’s being a good leader, protecting his career by shafting mine. That’s not good leadership. Dot would never do something like that.

He thinks it’s nervousness, lack of confidence, or whatever. And, granted, it isn’t the kind of stutter most people are born with, the one that lives quietly in the background, no matter how calm or confident they feel. Mine is different. Mine came later. It flares when my body senses a threat—real or remembered—when something inside me tightens before my mind can catch up.

People love to say: just breathe, just relax, just slow down—as if I wouldn’t have tried that a thousand times already.

Like calm is a switch I can flip.

Like hell it’s that simple.

Dot’s jaw tightens. “I’m going to talk to him. I’m going to⁠—”

“No,” I cry out. “No,” I repeat.

Because if Dot fights this battle for me, if she drags Luther back into doing the right thing, I’ll always wonder if I belong at the table, or if I am just tolerated. Plus, Luther doesn’t get the chance ever again to make me feel small like he just did. I don’t normally give that kind of power to anyone, but I gave it to him because I fell in love.

Well, I’m not going to make a mistake like that again, am I?

I may have a stutter. I may have anxiety in social situations. I may have psychological issues. But I have a high IQ, and I know how to protect myself from a threat. Luther is one.

Dot studies me for a long moment. Then she exhales, slow and controlled. “How are you?”

I feel my emotions, all of them.

It’s a tool I learned from Finn to calm myself. It’s what he does when he’s in a life-or-death situation. He just lets himself feel fear, panic, rage, helplessness, lets it pass through him, and then becomes the best person he can be, not weighed down by the detritus of sentiments.

“I-I a-am g-going to b-be f-fine.”

Her expression twists with raw pain. “I’m so proud of you.”

I nod, grateful and hollow all at once.

I leave her office and return to my desk, telling myself I can still do this, that I can still work. That my value hasn’t evaporated just because I won’t be standing in front of the board.

Then my email pings.

Meeting Update: Board Review – Attendees Revised

I have been removed from the invite entirely.

So, Luther decided that I don’t even need to attend to support. That’s not a bad thing. It would’ve cost me to watch Erin screw up presenting my model and data. She’s not as good as she thinks she is. She’s not as good as Luther thinks she is, either.

Actually, this is a decent thing Luther has done.