by K. A. Tucker
***
The group therapy session is in a church basement, complete with ugly yellow walls and dark gray school-grade carpet. The smell of burnt coffee permeates the air. There’s a small table set up in the back with cups and tea biscuits. I’m not interested in any of that. I’m not interested in the group sitting in a circle in the center of the room, participating in idle chatter, or the middle-aged skinny man with faded blue jeans and feathered hair standing in the center.
None of it.
With a hand against my back, Trent gently prods my stiff body forward and I feel the air shift as I move closer. It thickens in my lungs, until I have to work to draw it in and push it out. When the man standing in the center looks up at me and smiles, the air gets even thicker. It’s a warm enough smile, but I don’t return it. I can’t. I don’t want to. I don’t know how.
“Welcome,” he says, pro-offering two empty chairs to our right.
“Thanks,” Trent murmurs behind me, shaking the guy’s hand as I somehow get my body to bend into the frame. I nudge it back a bit and stare straight ahead, distancing myself from the circle. So I’m not part of it. Exactly how I prefer things. And I avoid all eye contact. People think they’re allowed to talk to you and ask who died when you make eye contact.
Outside the circle is a sign that reads, “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder—therapy session.” I sigh. Good ol’ P.T.S.D. It’s not the first time I’ve heard that term. The doctors in the hospital warned my aunt and uncle about it, saying they thought I suffered from it. Saying it would likely work itself out with time and counseling. I never understood how they believed that night could ever possibly work itself out of my thoughts, my memories, and my nightmares.
The man in the circle claps his hands. “Everyone, let’s get started. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Mark. I’m sharing my name, but there’s no need for you to share yours. Names are not important. What’s important is that you all know you’re not alone in the world with your grief, and that talking about it, when you’re ready, will help you heal.”
Heal. There’s another word I never understood as it related to the accident.
I can’t help but peer around the group now, careful that I don’t seem interested as I take in their faces. Luckily, all eyes are riveted to Mark, watching him with fascination, like he’s a god with curative powers. There’s a mix of people—old, young, female, male, the well-dressed, the disheveled. If it tells me anything, it’s that suffering knows no boundaries.
“I’ll share my story,” Mark begins, pulling his chair forward as he sits down. “Ten years ago I was driving home from work with my girlfriend. It was raining hard and we got T-boned in an intersection. Beth died in my arms before the ambulance came.”
Like a vacuous pull, my lungs constrict. I see, rather than feel, Trent’s hand on my knee, squeezing gently. I can’t feel anything.
Mark continues, but I struggle to focus on his words, my heart rate climbing like it’s on its way to Mount Everest. I fight the urge to stand and run, to leave Trent here. Let him listen to this horror. Let him see the kind of pain these people have experienced. I have enough of my own to deal with.
Maybe he gets some sick fascination with this shit.
I barely hear Mark as he talks about drugs and rehab, as words like “depression” and “suicide” float around. Mark’s so calm and collected as he lists the after affects. How? How is he so calm? How can he throw out his own personal tragedy in front of these people like he’s talking about the weather?
“… Tonya and I just celebrated our second wedding anniversary, but I still think about Beth every day. I still suffer through moments of sadness. But I’ve learned to cherish the happy memories. I’ve learned to move on. Beth would have wanted me to live my life.”
One by one, they go around the circle, airing their dirty laundry to all as if it takes no effort to talk about it. I pull short, hard breaths through the second tale—one of a man who lost his four year old son to a freak farming accident. By the fourth, the coils around my insides have stopped tightening. By the fifth, all the emotions that Trent has managed to coax out from hiding over the last few weeks have fled back as tragedy upon tragedy beats me over the head. All I can do to avoid reliving the pain of that night four years ago, right here in this church basement, is to bottle everything human inside of me up.
I’m dead inside.
Not everyone shares their stories, but most do. No one pressures me to speak. I don’t offer, even when Mark asks if anyone else wants to share and Trent squeezes my knee. I make not a sound. I stare straight forward, anesthetized.
I hear murmurs of “goodbye” and I stand. With robotic movements, I climb the stairs and walk out to the street.
“Hey,” Trent calls out from behind. I don’t answer. I don’t stop. I just start walking down the street toward my apartment.
“Hey! Wait up!” Trent jumps in front of me, forcing me to stop. “Look at me, Kacey!”
I follow his order and look up at him. “You’re scaring me, Kace. Please talk to me.”
“I’m scaring you?” The protective numbing coat I pulled over my body for the session falls away as rage suddenly fires through. “Why would you do that to me, Trent? Why? Why do I have to sit and listen to ten people recant their horror stories? How does that help?”
Trent’s hands push through his hair. “Calm down, Kace. I just thought—”
“What? What did you think? You don’t know the first thing about what I’ve gone through and you … what, think you can swoop in, give me an orgasm, and follow it up with a survivor’s group full of fucking cyborgs who talk about their supposed loved ones like everything’s alright?” I’m screaming on the side of the street now and I don’t care.
Trent’s hands move to touch my arms as he shushes me, glancing around. “You think that wasn’t hard for them, Kacey? Can’t you see the torture in their faces as they relive their stories?”
I’m not listening to him anymore. I throw his hands away with a shove and take a step back. “You think you can fix me? What am I to you, some pet project?”
He flinches as if I slapped him across the face and I grit my teeth. He has no right to be hurt. He made me sit through that. He hurt me. “Stay away from me.” I spin around and stalk down the sidewalk.
I don’t look back.
Trent doesn’t chase.
Chapter Twelve
Storm’s hands fidget with a bead bracelet as seven o’clock rolls around. It’s bizarre that she’s so nervous considering she can swing over a stage topless in front of a room full of strangers. I don’t remind her of that though. I just help her pick out a classy yellow dress that flatters her skin tone and accentuates her curves but not too much. I help her clasp her necklace and pin her hair back on one side. Mainly, I try my damndest to smile when all I want to do is curl up into a ball and hide under my covers, alone.
“Ten tiny breaths,” I murmur.
She frowns into her mirror. “What?”
“Take ten tiny breaths. Seize them. Feel them. Love them.” My mother’s voice rings in my ear as I repeat her words and fight off a choke. That stupid session today has left me bothered, my defenses wavering, my ability to bury the pain challenged.
Storm’s frown dips further.
I shrug. “I dunno. That’s what my mom always used to say. If you figure it out, let me know, okay?”
She nods slowly and then I watch as she breathes in and out slowly, and I imagine she’s counting in her head. That makes me smile. Like I’m passing on a little bit of my mother to Storm.
We hear the knock on the new front door and, a moment later, Mia’s little hands fumbling with the lock. All is quiet, and then Mia approaches, her bare feet slapping hard against the floor as she runs down the hall, yelling, “Mommy! The police officer is here to take you away!”
I snort and shove Storm toward the door. “Stop fussing. You look great.”
Officer Dan is in the living r
oom, putting his hands into his jean pockets and pulling them out, and then putting one in, and taking it out. I can’t help but smile just a bit as I watch him. He’s as uneasy as Storm. Though when he sees her, his face brightens.
“Hi, Nora.”
Nora? His blond hair is styled in that messy, spiky way. He’s wearing a fitted black golf shirt that shows off a solid body. I catch a faint whiff of men’s cologne. Not too much. Just enough. All in all, Officer Dan cleans up really well.
She smiles back politely. “Hi, Officer Dan.”
He clears his throat. “Just Dan is fine.”
“Okay, Just Dan,” she repeats and then the room fills with awkward silence.
“Officer Dan brought you flowers, Mommy! Tigers!” Mia runs to the kitchen where Livie is arranging a beautiful bouquet of deep red Tiger Lilies in a milk jug. Mia reaches up to grab one and knocks the jug over. Water and flowers splash everywhere. “Shit!” She exclaims.
“Mia!” Storm and Livie scold at the same time through gasps.
Mia’s eyes turn big and round as she looks between the two, realizing what she’s done. “I get one. Right, Kacey?”
My hand flies to my mouth to contain my laughter as Livie’s eyes shoot daggers at me.
“They’re beautiful, Dan.” Storm rushes over and scrambles to pick them all up. I take this as my chance to wave down his attention. “She’s really nervous,” I mouth without making a sound.
Surprise flashes in his eyes. He knows what she does for a living. He’s likely made the same wrong assumption as me—that Storm is made of steel. That’s not the case though. Far from it.
He nods and gives me a wink. Clearing his throat, he says, “I’ve made reservations for seven-thirty.” Stepping forward, he offers Storm his arm. “We should head out now, Nora. The place is down by the water. It’ll take a while to get there with traffic.”
She looks up at him and smiles, all fuss over flowers vanishing.
Good. Take the lead. Smart, Dan. Two points.
“Have fun. We won’t wait up!” I catch a flash of Storm’s crimson cheeks before the door is shut and locked, bringing back my dour mood.
***
I end up working that night without Storm. I need the distraction. When last call sounds and Trent doesn’t show up or text, my disappointment is paralyzing. Why would he come, though, I remind myself. I screamed like a lunatic at him on the sidewalk and told him to stay away.
Trent doesn’t come visit me at Penny’s the next night. Or the night after that. Three days later, I think I might lose my mind. Whatever rage coursed through me the day of the grief session is overshadowed by a new void. A Trent void. It throbs like a deep ache through every fiber of my being. I crave his presence, his body, his voice, his laugh, his touch, his everything.
I need him.
I need Trent.
***
On Thursday at noon, I sit at our kitchenette in my short shorts and tank, shoveling Cheerios into my mouth and staring at my phone as if willing a text to come through. Finally, I suck back a mouths’ worth of air and force my thumbs to work out a message.
Me: Any interest in a matinee?
I sit at my table and gawk at the stupid thing, wondering if he’s already deleted my text, or if he’s even bothered to read it. I consider pressing my ear up against the wall between our apartments to see if I can catch any “crazy bitch” comments out of him. But that doesn’t sound like something Trent would say, even if it were true. Which is it.
A whole five minutes later, after sinking every last one of my Cheerios into my milk, my phone beeps. I drop everything and grab it.
Trent: What do you have in mind?
Flutters stir in my chest. Damn flutters! I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I have no idea what’s playing. I decide to be lighthearted.
Me: Depends. You okay with nudity?
This time, Trent’s response comes right away.
Trent: Define nudity.
Okay, good. He’s playing along.
Me: Well … first I take my top off …
I nibble on my fingernail, waiting to see what he comes back with. I don’t get a response. Maybe I went too far, too soon. Maybe he’s still annoyed with me. Maybe … I hear a door slam shut. A shadow passes by our window and a second later, someone is pounding on my apartment door.
It has to be Trent.
I run to the door and throw it open, struggling to conceal my eagerness. There he is, in a pair of jeans and a loose t-shirt, his hair slightly mussed, bright blue eyes spilling over my body, settling on my chest for a long moment. I’m not wearing a bra and there's no doubt he can see my nipples’ reaction to him. When that gaze lifts back to my face … whoa … it’s just the right mixture of anger, frustration, and smoldering hot to make me bite my bottom lip. And that’s all it takes to push him over the brink.
“God, Kacey,” he growls and takes two quick steps in to slam against my body, his hands quickly seizing my biceps as his mouth claims mine. Dipping my head back, he forces his tongue into my mouth, demolishing me with a depth of need I’ve never experienced before. This is the real Trent, I realize.
Unleashed.
I struggle to stay upright as my body slackens under his intensity. Leading me backward, Trent sandwiches me between himself and the back of the couch and I quickly become aware of how turned on he is.
Suddenly I’m off my feet and perched on the headrest, Trent’s hips fitting snug between my thighs. His arms fold around me. One hand clutches the back of my neck, while the other sweeps my hair to the side to expose my neck. His lips slide first to my throat, and then along my jaw line, up to my ear.
“You enjoy torturing me, sending mixed messages, don’t you, Kacey?” It comes out in a growl, pulsating through every single one of my nerves. Then his mouth is back on mine, this time even hungrier, more insistent, and it’s all I can do to get a breath in. He presses harder against me as a hand slips under the hem of my shirt and climbs to cup the swell of my breast, his thumb stroking my nipple, shooting a current through to my depths.
The sudden Trent onslaught threw me completely off my game—all my senses assaulted. But I finally catch a handle on my wits, enough to will my hands to his chest, my fingers raking along his abs to hook tight around his belt buckle. I yank him hard against me until his erection digs into me. “Is this clear enough?” I growl back. “I’m not the one who wants to take things slow.”
Trent breaks free, a wild dark look in his eyes, as if he’s shocked. He pulls me down off the couch and then, spinning on his heels, he storms out of our apartment, yelling, “don’t send any more fucking texts like that!”
I’m left standing there, shocked, speechless, and turned on as hell. He’s angry? He’s angry! He’s fucking angry! I stomp over to the table and snatch my phone.
Me: What the Hell was that?
It takes two minutes but my phone beeps with a message:
Trent: You enjoy testing my will power. Stop torturing me.
What? Me torturing him? He’s the one with this stupid, “thou shalt go slow” crap!
Me: One little text hardly qualifies as torture.
Trent: It’s not just the one text.
Me: Well then come back here.
Trent: No, I told you we’re taking this slow.
Me: I think that ship sailed with your little stare down game the other morning. According to the very wise bible, we’re an old married couple.
I smirk with my bible comment. Aunt Darla would have a coronary if she knew how I was using it to my advantage. The smile is torn clean off my face when my phone chimes again.
Trent: You need help.
I stare at those three words for a long moment, gritting my teeth. It’s not a surprise to me that he says it. He’s said it before. Somehow though, seeing it in twelve point font feels different. Official. I don’t respond.
A minute later …
Trent: You’ve been through a terrible ordeal and you’ve bottled ever
ything up. You’re going to explode one day.
Here we go. I rub my forehead with frustration. Persistent fool.
Me: What? You want the gory details about how I lost my parents, best friend AND boyfriend, all in one night? Does that kind of thing get you off?
That fire inside me rages again, the same one from three days ago when he forced me into that therapy session. I put the phone down and inhale deeply, trying to douse it before it takes control.
I can’t stop myself from reading the next text when the phone chimes.
I want you to trust me enough to tell me about it. Or someone, at least.
Me: This isn’t about trust! I’ve told you that already! My past is my past and I need to bury it where it belongs—In. The. Past.
Trent: You’re vulnerable and I’m taking advantage of you by letting things like what just happened, happen.
I groan with exasperation.
Me: Please, take advantage of me! I’m giving you permission!
Trent doesn’t answer. I sigh, deciding to treat his concerns seriously.
Me: I’m fine, Trent. Believe me. I’m better than I’ve been in a long time.
Trent: No. You just think you are. I think you’re suffering from a serious case of P.T.S.D.
I fling the phone against the wall that adjoins our apartment, seething. Metal and plastic sails through the air as the thing shatters.
Everyone wants to be my personal fucking shrink.
***
I’m astonished when Trent show up at Penny’s that night. More so, I can’t keep my mouth from hanging agape as I watch him sit down by the bar, just like he did before, acting like we hadn’t just had a nuclear-sized fight. I raise my chin a notch. I’m not going to apologize. No damn way.
A box with a red bow magically appears in front of him. He slides it forward, his dimples forcing a smile on my face whether I like it or not. Dammit! Of course I go over and open it. Who doesn’t love presents?
Inside is a brand new iPhone.
“Wasn’t hard to figure out what that loud bang was against my wall when you didn’t answer my next text,” Trent murmurs, an amused smirk on his face.
