Lead Me Not

by A. Meredith Walters

  I had seen how he was with his brother in the commons. I had seen him embarrassed and angry. And some sadistic part of me wanted to see that side of him again.

  I attempted to observe him clinically. I had myself almost convinced that he suffered from some sort of personality disorder.

  Or maybe I was completely delusional and projecting my own issues onto this poor guy in the group I was supposed to be facilitating.

  “God, could they look any more miserable?” Brooks whispered, eyeballing the group members as they made their entrance, taking seats after grabbing their free cup of coffee. Their routines were the same each and every week. Eat a cookie. Drink some coffee. Mumble monosyllabically when asked a question.

  This was supposed to be a voluntary group, aside from Evan, April, Kyle, and Maxx, who were court-ordered to attend. Yet the attendance of the others felt forced. In recovery groups, there were usually the one or two who took to their sobriety with the ferocity of a newfound religion.

  Not in this group. And I felt like a failure for not figuring out a way to snap everyone out of it. It irked me even more that Maxx alone was the only one to arouse any sort of response from people. In fact, it often felt like he had taken over the group and was the one running it. And Kristie let him.

  But the thing about Maxx was that he was a hard man to refuse, and I was learning that there were times when even I didn’t want to refuse him. That worried me. A lot.

  I turned to Brooks and nodded. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but this group is a hard sell. I thought it would be . . .”

  “Easy?” Brooks laughed, and I smacked his arm.

  “Not easy, just not so difficult,” I complained, realizing how silly I sounded. Therapy wasn’t supposed to be easy. Groups were going to be a struggle for everyone involved. I had read the case studies, I had devoured the textbooks. I should know this stuff. But I had dreams of walking in and saving the world on my first try. I was an idealistic moron.

  Kristie started handing out packets to people as they made their way to their seats. She gave me a pointed look, and I knew that was my cue.

  “Okay, you’ve got to go.” I turned Brooks around and pushed him toward the door. Out in the hallway, Brooks chanced a quick hug.

  “Knock ’em dead, tiger. I’ll come by later with soup and a movie,” he promised, making me smile. He really was such a great guy.

  “Twilight?” I joked, knowing the answer. Brooks tapped my nose with his finger.

  “You’d have to be at death’s door for me to agree to that one,” he stated.

  I laughed. He laughed. And then a pointed cough had us both quieting down.

  “Has group been canceled or something?” I looked over Brooks’s shoulder to see Maxx standing there, hands shoved in his pockets, disheveled blond curls falling over his forehead, and a cold and stony expression on his face.

  “Uh, no. Go on in and grab a seat.” I indicated for him to walk around me, but he continued to stand there, making no move to head inside the classroom. Brooks looked at me questioningly. It was hard to miss the feral testosterone rolling off Maxx as he stood there and regarded the two of us angrily.

  What was his problem?

  The three of us stood there, a triangle of silent awkwardness. I couldn’t place the emotion that flashed in Maxx’s eyes, because everything that came to mind made absolutely no sense. Desire. Longing. Possessiveness. And most strangely, sadness. Maxx looked at me like a man who had lost something.

  Oh, come on, Aubrey. This cold is screwing with your brain.

  “Call me when you want me to come over. Feel better,” Brooks said finally. His suddenly narrowed eyes flitted between Maxx and me as though trying to read the uncomfortable situation we found ourselves in.

  “Okay, thanks, Brooks,” I said, hoping my friend would get the hint.

  Brooks stared at Maxx for a moment longer, and when he looked back at me, his face was a varied mix of emotions. It made me nervous.

  But before I could say anything to allay my concerns and Brooks’s apparent unease, he mumbled a quick good-bye and walked down the corridor.

  I tried to settle the knot that had formed in the pit of my stomach during the difficult exchange, but it was proving tough under the strength of Maxx’s gaze.

  I eyed Maxx apprehensively. “You can go in, you know,” I muttered, not bothering to disguise my irritation.

  Maxx ran a hand through his curls and then scrubbed his face. His expression neutralized, and he gave me his trademark careless smile. “After you,” he said, sweeping his hand forward, indicating for me to walk ahead of him.

  I arched my eyebrow but didn’t comment, hurrying inside. I sat down and looked around at the other group members. I attempted to make eye contact and give a smile in greeting to a few of them, but was shut down each time.

  My eyes eventually found Maxx’s, and I wasn’t surprised to receive a blinding grin. I didn’t reciprocate and instead turned my attention to Kristie, who was explaining tonight’s discussion.

  Twenty minutes later, everyone was working in their journals, creating a life map. People had been tasked with identifying both positive and negative experiences that had impacted them in some way. This was meant to lead to a bigger discussion about what had triggered their using. It was a great activity, one that would undoubtedly lead to some great therapeutic interaction in any group but this one. Sadly, I couldn’t imagine anyone here taking it very seriously, the way it was intended.

  Kristie encouraged me to participate as well. She had told me before group that some elements of personal disclosure from a facilitator can have a powerful impact. She warned me to be careful of what I would expose about myself, but she said that small bits of information could be a great way to create a bond between them and me.

  The idea of opening myself at all had always been hard. And it would be absolutely agonizing to do so with this particular group of people.

  When the time was up, Kristie started going around the group, asking everyone to share something. Most shared very shallow things, from Marissa getting her first car to Twyla’s rejection by her first choice of a university. When Kyle, the frat guy, stated that a negative experience in his life had been the time he got locked out of his dorm room, I sort of lost it.

  “Are you kidding me?” I scoffed. Thirteen sets of eyes swung in my direction. Kristie frowned, clearly not appreciating my outburst. She silently reprimanded me for my lack of supportive sensitivity, but I didn’t care. I had had it with sitting week after week in a group of people who weren’t taking this opportunity seriously.

  What I wouldn’t give for my sister to have had the chance to sit and learn something in a group like this. Their rigid refusal to absorb any of what Kristie so patiently tried to teach them was frustrating to the point of blinding rage. And Evan and April, with their derisive sneers, tipped me over the edge.

  Kyle looked taken aback and blinked in confusion. “Uh, yeah, that day sucked. I had to walk down to campus security, and then I had to wait like two hours for a replacement key. I was late for my chem lab . . .”

  I held up my hand and cut him off. “Enough. You know that’s total bullshit,” I said blandly. Kyle puffed up indignantly, which was a hell of a lot better than his placid disinterest.

  “Well, fuck you. What do you know about having a hard life, Miss Barbie Doll?” Evan piped up, his arm squeezing his girlfriend to his side so tightly it was as though he worried she would try to escape—though I wouldn’t blame her if she’d tried.

  Kristie snapped her fingers, trying to get everyone’s attention. “Let’s move on to deep-breathing techniques,” she said with a fierce perkiness that belied her irritation with my outburst.

  “No, Kristie. Let me answer Evan,” I spoke up, my eyes meeting his beady dark ones head-on. This guy was used to intimidating others. Well, he could just fuck off.

  “I don’t think that would be appropriate, Aubrey,” Kristie reproached me firmly. I was going to be
in trouble for this. But something had to be done. These people didn’t respect either of us. They sat there in their self-involved bullshit, thinking they were the only ones with pain. And they didn’t understand a goddamned thing about it.

  It was time to page Dr. Fucking Phil and call them on their crap.

  “I lost my fifteen-year-old sister to a drug overdose three years ago. She was pumped full of heroin by a guy she thought loved her but then left her in an alleyway to choke on her own vomit. Her body wasn’t discovered until two days later when the trash guys came to empty the Dumpster she was propped up against,” I snapped.

  Evan’s eyes went wide, and I couldn’t help but relish the way he seemed to recoil at my moment of honesty. And then I realized what I had said. Christ, I hadn’t meant to say any of that.

  I looked around at the group, and everyone’s expression was the same. Shock. And pity. Which made me want to hit a wall.

  But when I dared to look at Maxx, I didn’t see any of those things on his face. Again, there was an emotion I wasn’t sure I was interpreting correctly. Because he looked relieved?

  Kristie cleared her throat, trying to take control of the group again. Judging from the look of restrained anger on her face, I had screwed up big-time. “I want everyone to take a few minutes and write about one of the events on your life map and why you feel that impacts your addiction,” she directed, getting to her feet.

  Kristie met my eyes and jerked her head toward the hallway. I sighed and followed her. After she had closed the door to the classroom, she rounded on me. “That was completely and totally inappropriate, Aubrey. I’m in shock right now that you would do something like that. Not only did you belittle a group member and invalidate his feelings, but you made the group about you and your feelings. While disclosure can be beneficial, it most certainly isn’t when it’s given in a context like this. It has to be about solidifying a connection between counselor and patient. When it’s all about you, it’s not healthy,” she lectured, and I hung my head in shame. She was right. I had overstepped.

  “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I did that,” I replied.

  Kristie shook her head. “I have a good idea why, but this isn’t the time or place to get into that. I think it would be best if you left tonight. I’ll finish group by myself. And then I think we need to sit down with Dr. Lowell and talk about whether your continued participation in this group as a co-facilitator is suitable,” she remarked, sounding nothing like the compassionate and nurturing counselor I knew her to be. Right now she was disappointed and unhappy.

  Wow, I had really messed things up.

  “I understand,” was all I said. I felt horrible, both physically and mentally. I should have gone home and gone to bed and worried about the mess I’d made in the morning. But the thought of possibly running into Renee was less than appealing. I wasn’t able to hide my emotions very well, and even though she was on most days still firmly up her own ass, my roommate still read me better than anyone.

  I ended up wandering around campus. I felt achy, and I most likely had a fever, but I just couldn’t make myself go home. It was late, and very few people were still out. I finally sat down at a bench by the library and stared at a wall that was painted with bright greens and blues. The central image was a figure of a woman walking off a wooden pier into a sea of black sludge, her long blond hair waving behind her as she fell. Her face was nondescript except for her smile. It was as though she was happy to be going to her death.

  Well, that was freaking depressing.

  I stared harder at the picture, uncomfortable with the odd sense of familiarity I felt. Looking at the woman’s graceful yet agonized form, I felt as though I should recognize her.

  Bothered by my increasing disquiet, I stood up and walked closer. This was not your typical campus painting of daffodils and laughing students. I had seen this particular kind of art several times before. I leaned in to try to see the details in the poor lighting. And there it was—the tiny patterns on the woman’s dress composed of dozens of Xs.

  I didn’t notice any numbers or words in this picture, though, so I didn’t understand what its intent was. It was my understanding that X’s paintings held the clues to the location of the club Compulsion. But this picture seemed to have nothing to do with that.

  This was a painting created for some other purpose.

  “So what do you think?”

  I looked over my shoulder to find Maxx standing behind me. I turned back to the picture, not bothering to answer him. The truth was, my outburst in the group had left me feeling raw and vulnerable, and seeing him so soon after making a gigantic ass of myself was embarrassing.

  As he came up beside me, the sleeves of our jackets brushed against each other. Maxx inclined his head toward the painting and asked me again, “Well, what do you think of it?”

  I shrugged, not really in the mood for small talk. My pounding head couldn’t handle a go-around with the group Romeo. I started to walk away from him when he grabbed hold of my arm.

  “Wait, Aubrey. Please.” It was that word that did it. Please. It was uttered softly and sincerely. And it held me as fast and surely as if he had put his arms around me.

  “Thank you for talking about your sister tonight,” he said quietly, tugging on my arm so I would face him again. Slowly I complied, looking up into his eyes. All coyness was gone, and I could see only genuine gratitude.

  “You don’t need to thank me. What I did was wrong. I shouldn’t put my shit on you guys. You’re there for your own reasons, and they have nothing to do with me and my past,” I replied quickly.

  Maxx slid his knuckles down my arm and took my hand in his. My fingers were curled into a fist, with his much larger palm surrounding it, protecting it.

  “Don’t say that. What you said, what you showed me . . . us . . . was that you get it. And it made me feel, I don’t know . . . connected maybe,” he said. I didn’t know what to say. I was so tired, both from being sick and from trying so hard to hold it together. Tonight I had cracked. Some of the raging whirlwind inside me had leaked out in the worst possible setting.

  But maybe it had helped. And that made my failure seem less . . . destructive.

  His next words took my burgeoning pink fuzzies and flushed them down the toilet.

  “You feel responsible for what happened to your sister, don’t you?” he asked, and my immediate reaction was to deny, deny, deny. I didn’t know him. I didn’t trust him. He had no right to the information he was digging for.

  But when I opened my mouth, only the truth came out. “Yes, I do,” I responded. Maxx’s broad shoulders rose and fell with his deep breath. He seemed to find something in my words that fortified him.

  His blue eyes darkened as he looked over my shoulder into the distance. “I understand that, you know? Feeling responsible for someone else and failing miserably,” he said with so much pain in his voice that I felt it in my bones.

  He continued to hold my hand tight and secure in his, his thumb drawing circles on my skin. I didn’t say anything, I knew instinctively that Maxx needed to share something with me, but he needed to do it at his own pace.

  The wind blew around us, chilling me, but I didn’t move away from him. “My brother expects a lot of me. Landon, you met him,” he said, looking down at me, his lips quirking into a tiny smile.

  I smiled back. “He seemed like a nice kid,” I offered.

  “He is. He’s a great kid. Better than me, that’s for sure,” Maxx said tiredly. I didn’t respond to that. What could I say? That’s not true, you’re a great guy! Because that would have been a lie. I didn’t know whether Maxx deserved that kind of commendation or not.

  “He looks up to me. He expects me to be this great and powerful person. To make our lives something better. I just can’t do that. It’s beyond me to be the sort of guy he needs me to be,” Maxx admitted, his voice breaking at the admission.

  I was absolutely bewildered by the man who stood with me in the cold
January air, his fingers wrapped around mine. He had handed me honesty. I could only do the same. It was only fair. It’s what this moment deserved.

  “Jayme tried to tell me about her boyfriend, Blake. I wouldn’t listen. She wanted me to know what was going on. I ignored her,” I let out in the barest whisper.

  Maxx’s hand squeezed mine. “Jayme was your sister?” he asked, and I nodded, feeling my throat tighten with a suppressed emotion I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in a very long time.

  I pulled in a shaky breath. “He’s the worst kind of evil. Blake. He hooked her on drugs, used her over and over again, and then left her to die. But maybe I’m even worse because I had the chance to save her and I didn’t. I was so focused on my own life I didn’t see how much she needed me.” My voice was a strangled sob.

  Maxx pulled me into his chest, his arms coming up to press me close, as though I could burrow inside him and be safe. I curled my arms up underneath me and tried to get my breathing under control. I didn’t cry. I never cried. My tears had dried up a long time ago.

  But I felt the seams of my world tearing apart as Maxx held me. Something had been altered in the fabric of my universe, and I didn’t know what that meant for me or for the man who held me.

  I felt Maxx lean down, his breath fanning across my face. And still he said nothing. He just held me tightly against his body, and I thought I might have imagined the tiny kisses along the crown of my head.

  But I hadn’t imagined how in the space of a few minutes I had calmed down. I could breathe easier, and I was able to unclench my fists.

  After what felt like an endless amount of time, he released me. “You should get home,” was all he said, his hands returning to the pockets of his jacket. I felt disjointed by the abruptness of our physical separation.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I agreed, unable to summon up any sort of smile to give him, even though I wanted to. I needed to rest. I was sick and tired, but just then I felt . . . all right.