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He sighs, and I bite down on my lower lip. It’s not that I don’t like him, but it’s a platonic crush that will never materialize.
“How are you going to celebrate?”
Noah leans back, the corner of his mouth tipped up. “With you if you were here.”
“Shut up.” And he’s a major player. He’s weak for attention. We could not be more different. He seeks it as if he’s an addict, not caring about the lows as long as, for blissful seconds, he can enjoy the high. And I? I am okay with virtual attention, but the real thing... I shudder at the thought alone.
“And you?”
“Working on the demo of my game.”
We hang up and I stand up, stretching my tired limbs. I lean against the window, the moon fully illuminating the trees outside, artificial lights on each side of the pavement, and my sister’s play space.
Pushing myself off the window frame, I get in bed and close my eyes, sucking back the guilt, the mix of longing and fear tearing me apart.
***
A groan slips free when I wake up with a stiff neck. I roll it from right to left, and my muscles loosen up.
Opening the door, I pick up the breakfast tray. My parents and sister are coming home today, and the arrangement will be back in place where we have dinner as a family, and that’s it.
I am screwed up.
Hours of therapy and counseling didn’t work either. What I learned, though, is you don’t conquer your fears. You become more comfortable with them. But not even that worked.
Everyone said a psychiatrist would be a better alternative, but all the medications he suggested made my parents wary. And afterward, we were just exhausted. And one year turned to six with us all stuck in limbo. The experience I went through has ingrained itself in my psyche, and I never want to feel that weak or vulnerable again. So, safety first.
I immerse myself in finalizing the game’s demo version and send it to Scott, my agent. I stare at my phone, waiting for news from him, pacing around. While playing soothes me, sending my games for validation is nerve-racking.
When my phone rings, I press “accept” with bated breath.
“Scott.”
“Violet...” I swallow and he adds, “It’s your best yet.”
I plop on the chair, elation kicking the worry to the side.
“And?”
“I contacted two big companies this time. I’m waiting to hear from them.”
“That’s good, right? But what if . . .?”
“Who knows better than me when it comes to marketable games?”
“No one.”
“Then trust me. I’ll call when I have a viable offer.”
I hang up, and my mother’s voice follows the door knock.
“We’re home.”
“I’ll be right down.”
When my sister sees me, her eyes widen. I pat the new wig l have on. I ordered three new ones over the weekend. All my wigs hit just below my jaw, but these are in various colors: faded pink, blue, and gray.
“Can I have one as well, please?”
