Page 43 of Hidden & Held

“Phi. You have only given us the broad strokes of what happened. But what he did to you was not okay. What happened at that firm, the suspension, all of it—you didn’t deserve any of it.”

She hesitates, and I can see her choosing her next words carefully.

“And I owe you an apology. I should have connected it. The timeline, the firm, a man relocating from Portland … I had enough pieces.” She exhales. “But in fairness to both of us, you never told us his name. You never told us where he worked. He listed Morrison Rose as his employer on the application, and I called and confirmed it. I had no reason to think Cascadia Legal Partners.” She looks at me directly. “That does not mean I am not sorry I missed it. I am. I should have asked you more questions before I approved anyone.”

“Becca—”

“I know.” She holds up a hand. “I know. What matters right now is you. Not the lease, not him, not what I missed. You.”

A beat of silence crosses all four screens.

Nessa nods once, unusually solemn. “What she said.”

Mack stops walking, holding the camera steady on her face. “Phoenix. I want to say this clearly before we talk about anything practical. You were betrayed by someone you trusted, and your body is telling you it has been running on empty for months. Now we add that he lives next door. That is … more than a lot. You are allowed to be furious. At him, at the situation, at all of it.”

I look at all three of them. Something in my chest loosens a fraction.

“Okay,” I say, meaning it but having no more words to add.

Nessa reaches her right hand to her left wrist, thumbing her Mala bead bracelet. “Mercury is in the third house, and this is literally textbook.” This statement is both obscure and infuriating. “Plus, when I saw him on Saturday, his aura felt … complicated,” Nessa says with the air of someone consulting the mystics.

“Don’t. I can’t muster the energy to believe there is any morally gray hero in Jackson right now.”

“I’m only saying I sensed unfinished⁠—”

“Please do not finish that sentence,” I drawl.

“—business between you two,” Nessa finishes.

“I will cancel the next Zentrology night,” I announce, expressionless.

“You would never! We are focusing on aligning positive energy in your new place!”

She’s right, as much as I outwardly mock it. I live for the nights we get together.

“Ugh, fine. I admit, I should have told you guys about him. I just⁠—”

“We know,” Mack supplies kindly. “You were afraid of your feelings, of it not working out, of being abandoned.”

I look to the left, avoiding their gaze. She’s speaking of my childhood. The girl clinging to losing her first love, my dad. It is crazy how heartbreak can take you back to that early grief, the one from parents that should never have happened. But healing isn’t linear. At least that’s what my therapist told me after I lost my ojiichan.

“I …” I swallow, composing myself. “What do I do?” I hate how small my voice sounds, but there is nobody I trust more than these three women to guide me to the next step.

Mack nods, moving to a slightly clinical tone. “Look, you can’t make decisions or react at your best when you are run down. Focus on you first. You eat, sleep, and hydrate. If you aren’t at those proper levels physically, the emotions will be out of whack.”

I nod, seeing her logic in the statement. “Okay, how do I do that exactly, in regard to being around him, geographically speaking?”

“You focus on you, protect your energy, which needs to be used for your health, not whatever he wants. Keep interactions short,” Mack relays.

“Alright,” I absently respond, already thinking of strategies to shut his puppy-dog eyes down.

Nessa speaks away from the phone, “Hey, delinquents, pipe down.” She pauses, listening to a response. “Yes, I know it’s over. Now write about how you would have reacted if you were Romeo or Juliet: would you have been that dramatic AF ’cause your parents didn’t like each other?” A muffled reply is heard in the back. “Whatever, voice notes are fine, just have a response in iambic pentameter in fifteen minutes.”

We all snicker at Ms. Durham, the favorite substitute teacher in all of Cascadia. “Sorry about that, damn teenagers. Anyway, you can’t avoid him, so don’t even try. But you can contain him. Put him in a box and decide, ahead of time, which responses he gets from you. What energy he receives, you give it; he doesn’t take.”

“Yeah,” I respond, “You’re right. I can decide what he gets. He doesn’t get to take any more.”

“Damn right!” Nessa woops. A ruckus is heard in the background. “Oh, shush, like you haven’t heard worse in the last twenty minutes. I mean, seriously, you just watched teenagers commit suicide for ‘love’ after knowing each other for a day. You can handle a ‘damn!’”