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He claps, and everyone joins in the applause. Pierre says a few more words about his talented students while I mentally replay my speech. Rhode’s hand moves in soothing circles on my lower back, steadying me like he was handcrafted for my personality.
“Now, I'd like to welcome one of our radiant ambassadors to talk about The Peaceful Mind Project in our welcome speech,” Pierre says. “Without further ado, please put your hands together for Philomena Alstyne!”
The sound of applause crackles through the air, mingling with the earthy scent of clay. Rhode squeezes my shoulder. “You got this, Nina. I’ll be out in the audience cheering you on. Now go blow them away.”
And with that, he saunters through the crowd while I approach the microphone. The audience gathers, clutching their drinks. My thoughts are jumbled, but I lock eyes with Rhode and take a deep, calming breath.
I can handle this.
You’re not jumping out of a plane or getting chased by a bear, Nina. You’re fine. You’re always going to be fine.
I adjust the mic. “Hi, everyone. I'm Nina.”
I look down at my notecards, but glance back up to find Rhode. His dirty whispers were distracting enough to melt my nerves over the speech, and I’m not sure if that was intentional on his part, but either way, I’m grateful. “Thank you for coming out and supporting The Peaceful Mind Project. You have no idea how much it means to have everyone here. Art therapy is something that has helped me over the years, and…”
I hold Rhode’s shining blue gaze and continue speaking in a steady voice, watching him watch me. There’s a peacefulness in him that the chaos in my soul craves. Maybe it’s because he’s a little older, a little wiser, and I hope that whoever created his soul also made mine.
“So, thank you all for being here,” I finish into the mic. “Your support means the world to me and The Peaceful Mind Project.”
The room erupts in applause, and I can't help but bask in the moment. I did it without fainting.
No anxiety. No panic attack. Everything turned out fine.
My smile stretches like a sunrise across my face. Anxiety might be unpredictable, but it doesn’t rule over me anymore. I used to think of it as this thing that lived inside me, but it always passes, never stays. Maybe it was never really a part of me at all.
Rhode claps the loudest of anyone, blue eyes fixed on me. They never once drifted throughout my entire speech. I step away from the mic, and people pull me in different directions, expressing their gratitude.
All night, Rhode watches from a quiet corner, letting me have my moment, but pride fills the small grin playing across his lips.
By the end of the evening, my throat is parched from all the conversations, so I make my way to the two bartenders in leather aprons. “A virgin mojito, please?”
“You got it.” The other bartender whispers something in his ear that makes him laugh, and he nods.
Rhode struts through the dwindling crowd, hands in pockets, a tilt to his lips. He stops in front of me, resting an elbow on the sleek metal counter. “You barely looked at the notecards during your speech.”
I glance down at the stack, still on the first one, and my lips twitch in a grin. “I guess you were right. I didn’t need them, but it was just an introduction speech.”
“So what?” Rhode counters. “It was important to you, which makes it important to me, and you captivated the entire room.”
I brush off the compliment because it means too much to me. “Captivated? That’s a strong word choice.”
“It’s the truth.”
Rhode’s eyes drop to my lips and stay there. His throat bobs, which reminds me of the way he stared at me in the office. My mouth goes drier, if that’s possible. When the bartender slides the mojito over, I take a huge swig.
Rhode watches me swallow, and his knuckles whiten as he grips the bar. I drink and drink and drink, but as soon as I finish, I notice it—the burn of alcohol.
I whip my head around to the bartender. “Was there alcohol in this?”
He nods. “Mojito, right?”
“No, I said a virgin mojito.”
“What the hell?” Rhode snaps in my defense. “She doesn’t drink. That’s a big mistake to make, man.”
His eyes bulge. “Oh shit, sorry. You pregnant?”
I glare at the bartender. “No, I’m not. I’ll be fine, but I just need to leave before the room starts spinning because this is going to hit me hard.”
