Page 87 of Top Shelf

“You literally are.”

“We’re talking about your judgment, or the lack thereof,” he continues. “This is a big decision, Heidi—a marriage to a public figure. And you do have a tendency to get carried away when things feel exciting.”

I look down at the dust flecks covering my shoes. “We kept it private.”

“Private is one thing,” Dad says. “Finding out from an article about a hockey player is quite another.”

“His name is Viktor.”

“We know his name,” Mom adds. “We just don’t know why you would rush into something like this.”

I close my eyes for half a second. “It worked for both of us.”

“That doesn’t sound like a marriage,” Dad scoffs.

No, it sounds like a fucking contract. It sounds like a Swedish estate, a studio lease, and a man who leaves water by my bed and makes me come so hard I sob his name.

“This is between me and Viktor.” Heat crawls up my neck. “And I’m thirty years old.”

“And still our daughter,” Mom retorts. “We worry because you’ve always been a little impulsive.”

I press my fingers against the edge of the counter with a sigh. “This wasn’t impulsive.”

“You expect us to believe you simply planned a marriage and forgot to mention it?” Dad asks.

“No, I expect you to understand that I made a choice about my own life and respect it.”

There’s a silence, then Mom pipes up in a soft tone that she probably thinks sounds endearing. “Does he know what you’re like?”

“What I’m like.”

“With your… your patterns,” she says. “The overcommitting and getting overwhelmed. How everything has to bend around anything you decide is important. You’ve always had these big bursts of enthusiasm, Heidi. Sometimes you get caught up. Marriage requires steadiness.”

“I’ve literally been diagnosed by a medical professional. It’s called ADHD.”

“We’re not talking about that stuff,” Dad replies, which is exactly what he says whenever my formal diagnosis is brought up. “But marriage is serious.”

Viktor’s message from earlier sits heavy in my pocket. Put it down somewhere safe until later, min fru.

“I’m with contractors,” I say. “I gotta go.”

“Don’t hang up just because we’re saying things you don’t like.”

I sigh. “I’m hanging up because I’m at work.”

“We are trying to help you think clearly.”

My laugh comes out sharp enough to surprise even me. “You’ve never wanted me to think clearly—you’ve just wanted me to think like you.”

“Heidi—”

I end the call before either of them can find another way to make me feel small, then stand in the unfinished room, the phone still in my hand. The drill keeps going next door. Someone outside reverses a truck, beep after beep after beep cutting through the wall. My pulse feels too fast, my skin too tight, the room too full of paint smell.

“Dr. Grant?” one of the contractors calls. “Quick question.”

The day doesn’t care that I’m trying to breathe slowly, I just have to keep doing it. And after that, it just keeps coming. Mirror measurements. Flooring adhesive. A supplier email about more freight delays, and an insurance form asking for details I have already sent twice. Zoe messages whether the launch page should say “performance continuity” or “return-to-play pathway,” and Sloane asks how I want referral notes tagged in the system.

So when Viktor texts to ask if I’ve eaten yet, I can’t cope. It’s the least of my worries right now. I look down and find the protein bar from lunch still sitting beside my laptop with a bite out of it. Apparently opening food and eating food were separate tasks today.