Serving Pleasure by Alisha Rai Page B

stuck in place.
    He hated talking, the way it made him hyper-aware of his problems . The problem was his whole life. He knew that. He didn’t need to hear himself lay it all out for some stranger every week.
    Because his family and friends had been so focused on him, he’d had no choice in London. There was no one here, though, to push and prod him into “opening up.”
    “You never told us how the show went,” his mum said.
    “I’m sure you know,” he said. “You do have a Google alert set up on me. I’m not big news here, but it made the art section of at least one paper.”
    His mother cast his father an annoyed look, but Papa shrugged. “I didn’t tell him about the Google alert. You know your sister has a soft spot for the boy.”
    “The alert didn’t tell me how it went for you,” she said, exasperated.
    A vague pang of guilt had him shifting, as if his career was a woman he was cheating on. He had barely thought about the disaster of the show. If his night with Rana hadn’t happened, he would have spent the last week obsessing over his professional failures. He parroted the manager of the gallery. “Not bad. Sold about half of the paintings.” Closer to forty percent, actually.
    He didn’t expect his parents to be any happier with that number than he was. But his mother’s brave, determinedly cheerful smile had him looking away, rubbing at the ache in his chest, grateful they could only see him above the neck. “Well, that’s wonderful.”
    “Good job, son,” Papa trumpeted. “Half is better than zero, eh.”
    All was better than half. The words remained unsaid between them.
    “It’s the venue,” his mother said. “The size of the city. Why, if you had been in London, you would have sold out in ten minutes.”
    He tightened his jaw until it ached. He doubted he would have sold any more paintings even if he had been in London. Because his work wasn’t as good as it used to be. The few sales had certainly been born of pity or curiosity.
    “It’s an important step you took, putting yourself out there like that,” his father said. “We’re so proud of you. Look how far you’ve come in two years.”
    Ah, yes. His old psychologist wasn’t the only one who liked to talk about taking steps.
    Micah tried to banish the disloyal thought. His parents tried. They were so encouraging. He knew he was imagining the subtle thread of impatience they watched him with.
    It’s been two years, Micah, he pictured them thinking. Why aren’t you better? It’s been two years, Micah. You need to be over this by now.
    They’d never think those things, of course. Those were the thoughts in his brain. Perfectionism was his curse. Was it any wonder it was killing him that he couldn’t be perfect in this?
    He shifted. “How’s the family? Aunt Karen?”
    His mother’s face softened. “Very good. You know, I saw Paige the other day…”
    “She’s well, then,” he broke in. He wanted Paige Wilson to be doing okay, but he wasn’t eager to chat about her. He bore his former model no ill will, though it had been her boyfriend who had landed him in critical care.
    Still, it was…difficult to speak of her. Or with her. Micah didn’t often have flashbacks anymore, but sometimes the dark thoughts came and didn’t leave, rendering him unable to function. When that happened, all he could do was replay the parts of that afternoon he could remember, his brain occasionally filling in the blanks with more nightmarish scenarios.
    Better to avoid Paige as much as possible than risk her triggering one of those episodes.
    “She’s doing fine.” His mother smiled. “Such a sweet girl. I gave her your new number.”
    So that was who had called him a couple days ago. He only picked up family members’ calls. If there was a default voicemail set up on the phone, he still hadn’t bothered to check it. “Fine. I’ll call her sometime,” he lied.
    “I think that would be nice, Micah. Your friends do miss