by Jean Haus
A sigh escapes him. “Come on.”
With a strong grip on my arm, he slowly helps me up the stairs. I mumble and laugh about being on a boat. Though I can sense his normal dislike, I find the boat thing too funny to care. I never laugh like this anymore. Never let go. It’s kind of refreshing.
Okay, it’s very refreshing.
When we get to the second floor, I wrench my arm from his grip, then lift my arms and sway. “I’m on a mother bleeping boat!”
I’m laughing and falling toward the wall as Gabe mumbles something about preppy girls not being able to hold their liquor, which takes me from giggly to angry.
“Hey!” I whip around, my finger pointing in his direction. I over whip and fall on him. We crash into the wall and slide down. He ends up sitting against the wall. I end up straddling his long body while weaving.
I’m about to tell him off—preppy girl!—but I’m suddenly caught by the light above us illuminating his lower jaw and lips. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s always scowling or that I rarely look his way since his dislike is almost tangible or the fact that I don’t really check out guys, but I’m suddenly noticing his lips. Big time.
They’re lush and full, the upper one just as full as the lower one. Very sexy.
I reach out and trace that upper lip with my index finger. “You have nice lips,” I say in a surprised tone. His skin feels nice under my finger. Like hot, soft silk.
The silence in the walkway is suddenly filled with a harsh breath from him. I’m about to trace his lower lip when he grabs my wrist and hauls me up.
“Where’s your apartment?” he growls.
I point two apartments down. “Over there.”
He practically yanks me to my door.
“Sorr-e-e-e-e-e, I didn’t mean anything. You just—”
“Key?” he demands.
I dig my key ring out of my pocket. “Look—”
He snatches the keys from me. “Which one?”
Swaying again, I point at the correct key. “Listen, your lips just caught me unawares—”
He unlocks the door, whips it open, and hands me the keys. “Try not to hurt yourself.”
Then he’s gone.
I roll my eyes and stumble into my dark apartment.
I’m on a dark boat…alone.
Chapter 2
~April~
I’m learning how to become more detached while in group therapy. Role reversal that is what I tell myself. That’s the mind ticket out of this insanity. That is why I’m sitting in this circle of people. One day, I’ll be the facilitator in a similar situation, helping people too. Now, I’m learning what it’s like to be on the other side of things, gaining precious knowledge.
Jeff, our fearless leader slash counselor, drones on about goals, his voice a monotone whine into the uncomfortable silence. He likes to open with a long and dry commentary. No one ever listens. When I’m the leader, I plan to keep the commentaries to a minimum.
As in none.
I take a deep breath through my nose. Okay, I’m here every Tuesday afternoon because I have issues. Tons of them. Most people do. I’m just far, far better than most at hiding them. The root of my issues, the real reason, the burden I live with every day, will never come out. Not in this group. Not in the future. Just not ever.
Misha, the tattooed and pierced self-proclaimed slut, stares at me from across the circle. Her spiked pink hair flutters as she grasps the edges of her metal chair as if the tight grip holds her back from attacking me. Her stare is intimidating. It speaks a wealth of silent words. The strongest is dislike. Each week she stares with a hate that pinches her face. Most times, since I’m fairly sure she hates every other female on the planet, I feel sorry for her. But sometimes, if I’m in a rotten mood like today, I can’t find the will to care, although I want to care.
As usual, I avoid confrontation and appropriately keep my face devoid of any emotion, cross my khaki clad legs, and glance away to stare at the fake, dusty flowers on the shelf by the window before returning my attention to our counselor.
I’ve grown into this, a calculated personality that fluctuates between emotionless, friendly, understanding, and sometimes compliant. A premeditated chameleon of sorts. The instances of genuine reaction are becoming far too rare, even for me.
When a knock sounds at the door, Jeff holds up a finger and closes the binder on his lap. His green corduroys are a loud swish in the silence as he moves across the room. He opens the door a crack and commences on conversing with whoever is on the other side. Misha gives me the devil glare, causing the diamond in her eyebrow to practically point at me. Chad, the blond guy to her right, stares at her chest, which, as usual, is on display. Jason, the guy next to me, picks at a fray in the knee of his jeans. I hold in a sigh.
This is such a waste of time.
Jeff opens the door all the way and I’m shocked—one of the few emotions I haven’t been able to control— like grasping the edges of my chair and blinking in confusion at the person who walks in.
No. No. No. This cannot be happening. I’m thrown back in time. Five days ago. Once again waking with a pounding headache and a mortification that had me blushing in my own bed.
Tall and lean, Gabe strolls across the room, his freshly shaven face is hard lines devoid of emotion, his black boots stomp on the office carpet, and his russet, sun-streaked hair brushes his jaw.
Oh, crap. The embarrassing memory of my drunk ditziness along with touching his lips has me mortified all over again. I’m trying to control the hot flush of my cheeks as the rest of my group mates stare wide eyed and slack mouthed at Gabe while Jeff makes room for another chair.
Once Jeff gets the chair situated, he puts a hand on the newcomer’s shoulder. “I’d like everyone to meet the newest member of our group, Gabe.”
Misha purrs a hello. Chad gives Gabe the stink eye. Jason waves without looking up. And I sit frozen, still stunned. I agreed to this group because it was discreet being almost thirty minutes from campus and in another township. I blink at Gabe. Was is the key word.
He barely looks at any of us as he deposits his whipcord lean body in the chair between Jeff and Misha.
Calm. Internal hum. Calm. Internal hum. Calm.
I. Will. Not. Freak. Out.
“We were discussing the importance of goals, Gabe,” Jeff says, sitting and opening his binder.
Deep breath.
Sadly, we weren’t discussing anything. Jeff had simply been droning. More important than Jeff‘s illusions though, is the sudden burst of the real world into what was my own private dimension of hell.
Jeff smiles warmly at Gabe. “We’ll get back to goals at the end of the session. I don’t want to pressure you, however if you’d like to start by sharing something about yourself, the floor is yours first.”
Cocking his head on an angle, Gabe regards Jeff through strands of sun-streaked hair. It’s not a hateful stare like Misha’s at me, more of a You’re an idiot stare. Then he glances around at the rest of us. He doesn’t even pause on me. And I’m suddenly very aware of his dislike.
Great. Another person in this group who detests me.
“All right,” he says, crossing his arms over his plain, white T-shirt and glaring at Jeff. “I’ll keep it simple. The first time my old man gave me a full ass whipping was fourteen years ago when I was age eight. By age eleven, the beatings became more frequent fueled from his alcohol rage. At age fifteen, I started fighting back. Now when I get angry, I fight. Knowing the reason doesn’t change anything. I’m like a lit fuse, and yeah, I’m here because the court ordered it. Probation but no jail time. Yet.” His crossed arms grow tense, daring any of us to comment.
The sound of Jason picking at his frayed jeans fills the silence.
Oh, well, wow, Gabe just won the crappy life award. Seriously, my heart squeezes at the thought of him being abused, especially at the age of eight. As Misha nearly pants over bad boy Gabe and Chad sizes him up, I faintly recall Romeo comin
g late to the Community Center, where we both volunteer for their suicide hotline, last winter because he had to bail Gabe out of jail first thing in the morning.
Jeff is clearly stunned from Gabe’s sharing because for once he’s quiet. He sits, clutching his binder while opening and closing his mouth like a fish.
“Dude, that story sucks,” Chad says, breaking the silence. “Your dad sounds like a dick.” Obviously, Chad sized Gabe up and decided not to make an enemy.
Though he glances at Chad, Gabe doesn’t comment.
Chad turns to me. “Isn’t that something?” He nods toward Gabe. “It’s his first day, and I know more shit about him than I do about you after a month.”
Though distressed by Gabe’s induction into our group, I look calmly at Chad, instead of flinching, keeping emotion devoid from my expression. Jason doesn’t say much either, but Chad is trying to impress Misha by being a jerk to me. “I’m sorry you fee—”
“Chad,” Jeff says, finally gaining his wits. “We’ve talked about respect extensively, so let me repeat, April may share when she’s ready.”
Chad lets out a harrumph. “Then why is she here?”
“Yeah,” Misha says, ganging up on me. “What is her purpose?”
Her tone insinuates there is no purpose to me. Lovely.
Though usually robotic, Jeff can’t stop a soft sigh. “Not only do we need to respect our fellow group members, we need to care about them too.”
“Like she gives a shit about me,” Chad sneers.
I shake my head. Chad is an immature jerk, but I hope he gets his life straightened out and grows up.
“Of course, she cares about you, Chad. Isn’t that right, April?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I say in an innocent and soft tone.
“See?” Jeff says, making me wonder for the umpteenth time where he got his license.
Chad lets out another harrumph.
Jeff ignores him and turns his attention to our newest member. “Gabe, I’d like to thank you for being upfront and honest with us. And I hope that through some shared wisdom, maybe a few revelations, some goal setting, and working to understand each other, we can help you understand and control your anger.”
Help? With Jeff as the leader, this group is nothing more than one long session of complaining, either by Chad or Misha. Jason and I are about as cooperative as the chairs, and I’m getting the sense that Gabe has said his piece and will stay at the point of peace out.
Jeff opens his binder and looks at me. “Would you like to share anything, April?”
Instead of answering, I shake my head and glance at Jason’s fingers picking at what has become a hole in the knee of his jeans.
“Jason,” Jeff asks. “Would you like to share something?”
Anything? I imagine Jeff saying in a whine.
Pick. Pick. Pick. Jason shakes his head too as we both stare at the hole slowly growing in his jeans.
Jeff asks Misha to share, and she’s soon relating one of her customary sexcapdes with a stranger. She is pouring it on thick today. Most likely for our newest member.
I take a peek at our newest member. Arms crossed, muscles bunched, and large boots crossed out in front of him, he seems to be bored, appearing to not listen as Misha describes performing oral sex in a bar bathroom. Chad is transfixed. Jeff tries not to appear shocked as usual. Jason picks. And I wonder if I can keep doing this, especially with Gabe here now.
Less than three more months, I tell myself.
Next it’s Chad’s turn. He goes on and on about his stepfather who is ruining his life with chores and the demand of getting a job. I’m pretty sure Chad is here via his mother who had created the self-indulgent monster and doesn’t know what to do with him anymore. So this group is stuck with him.
Obviously bored with the never ending complaining, Gabe glances around every now and then, but his view never stops on me, which is relieving. I’m still attempting to get over the shock of seeing him across our little circle.
After twenty minutes of Chad whining about his evil step dad, Jeff goes back to droning, mostly about goals. However, as soon as he says, “Your first goal will be the simplest. Next week I want you all to think of something new to share. Whatever you want. A great memory, a favorite family member, a time when you felt down…anything. You have a whole week to think of something, therefore be prepared next week,” he says, his regard shifting over Jason and me.
Oh, how manipulative, a new way to force Jason and I to share. I’m already planning on something mundane.
“Well, gang,”—Jeff’s reference to us as a gang is so nerve grating it even causes me irritation—“we’ll meet next week same time and same place,” he says with a goofy smirk as if he’s being funny.
I grab my purse and escape out into the hall, then past the receptionist’s desk.
Jason, as usual, is right behind me.
As I step into a warm autumn afternoon, my hand on the logo, New Hope Center, in the middle of the glass, I turn and ask, “Need a ride?”
After seeing him walking away the first time, I ask Jason if he wants a ride following every session.
“No thanks,” he quietly says like always and turns toward the sidewalk.
“All right, see you next time.” I sigh and head into the parking lot of the medical facility, which is mostly doctor and dentist’s offices. Apparently everyone, except me, and Gabe, live in the area.
I had done a ton of research before I agreed to join this group. Partial insurance coverage and discreet were my top priorities when it was recommended to me. Mainly, I didn’t want anyone to know I was in a therapy group. People tend to think I’m perfect. Not that I am perfect—quite the opposite—but it’s a persona I’ve learned to cultivate. It keeps me on the straight and narrow, or more specifically, aiming toward fake perfection keeps from losing it, as in becoming depressed to the point of won’t-get-out-of-bed.
As I near my car and click unlock, I wonder how Gabe ended up here. Since we’re all close in age? Wanted discreet? The partial insurance? Probably not. His joining was court ordered and I’m sure he didn’t have a choice. Not that I had much of one.
Opening my door, I recall my vow five days ago to stay away from Luminescent Juliet. Just my luck that the person I wanted to stay away from is in my therapy group. I go to shut my door, except someone outside, specifically the grip on the door handle, stops me.
I glance up and meet a pair of hard, mahogany colored eyes partially hidden by wisps of hair. Gabe looks anything but indifferent now.
I let the handle go and he stumbles back a bit. “Can I help you?” I ask innocently, though my heart is beating wildly in my chest. He scared the crap out of me.
With a scowl growing on his face, he leans down. “Why are you here?”
His tone has me wanting to shut the door on him. “In the parking lot?” My tone is sarcastic as I turn toward him as much as the steering wheel will allow.
His brows lower and his scowl grows. “No, in the group.”
For several long seconds, I stare at his scowling, contempt-filled expression—ignoring the lips that brought me so much embarrassment. Until rapid, chaotic anger, like a tornado shoots inside me from both his question and his demanding glare. My mortification about acting like a drunk ditz is gone.
“Really? Did you just sit in there? I don’t own you any explanation,” I say without thinking, without curbing my response, which is unusual for me. And although I always try to see the best side of a person, Gabe is making that habit super hard.
“What could someone like you need to come here for?” he asks through clenched teeth.
“Someone like me? Someone like me!” I repeat, before a wild laugh escapes me. “You know nothing about me.”
He glances at the front of my car. “You drive an Infiniti, and”—his gaze roams over my short sleeved sweater and khaki pants—“and dress like a prep.”
Angry tornado gaining power. “The car is eleven years old. It was m
y step-father’s. And your reference to my clothes? Are you still in high school?” I push myself up, and if I were as tall as him, we’d be nose to nose. “Furthermore, if I were some rich…snob? I think that’s what you’re getting at. Are you saying that rich people don’t have problems? Aren’t depressed or lose loved ones or their rich fathers don’t beat them?” I’m getting angrier with each word I speak. “Just what are you saying?”
His expression tightens to the point that his cheekbones slash across his face, but his tone is level when he says, “I’m saying that I have to go to this shit, and you don’t. It’s weird enough, much less with Romeo’s ex-girlfriend who tried to hit on me the other night, sitting across from me.”
The tornado goes wild in my head. “I. Did. Not. Hit. On. You.” I draw in a deep breath. “I would never hit on you. I’m not like that. I was drunk and giggly.” And though I’d love never to come to this group again, it’s not an option. “And I’m not quitting,” I practically snarl, then slip back in my car and face forward. “Let go of my door.”
Across the parking lot, Misha leans against the building, waiting for a ride and watching us. Great.
Gabe bends down, his hair swaying forward, and says in a pacifying tone, “There are tons of other groups, probably better groups for you and your problems.”
“Right now, my problem is you. Let go of my door and get away from my car.”
He doesn’t let go.
Misha shades her eyes with hand to get a better look at us arguing.
“Now.” I jam the keys in the ignition. “Or I will make a scene.”
He reluctantly steps back.
I slam the door shut and drive off, almost squealing my tires on the way out of the parking lot.
My hands tightly grip the steering wheel yet shake. Though I can’t control shock, I rarely get angry. More than Gabe demanding I leave the group, more than his insinuation that I’m a rich snob, more than his assertion that I hit on him, even more than him being in the group, I’m shook up over the swift loss of my control.
I do need to get out of that group and away from Gabe. I don’t like losing control like that.
