by Layla Frost
Yeah, if there’s a goddess of booze and Botox.
Pulling away, Sharon wiped at her face, smearing her mascara further. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without her. It was so sudden and now my best friend is gone. Your mother is gone. She loved you girls so much.”
There it was.
The first hint of feeling I’d had all day.
Unfortunately—and inappropriately—the emotion that broke through was amusement.
I choked back a sudden burst of laughter, the sound coming out like a sob.
“I know,” Sharon tutted, squeezing my upper arm. “We’re all going to miss her and her beautiful, selfless spirit.”
The only spirit Mom had was the vodka in her ever-present drink.
That time, there was no choking back the laugh that forced its way out. Disguising it as more sobs, my shoulders shook as I buried my face in my hands and fought to get control. But once I started laughing, I could not stop.
“Sorry,” Aria said, wrapping an arm around me. “She’s, uh, super upset.”
“Of course she is, the poor thing,” Sharon sniffled, cluing me in that her own tears were starting again, which only made my laughter increase until actual tears flowed.
“Excuse us,” Aria said, pulling me away from the group and not stopping until we were alone in a small, dimly lit room filled with extra chairs. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Sorry,” I wheezed, “but that was funny.”
“What was?”
“All of it.” I gestured toward the door. “Sharon is out there blubbering and calling Mom her best friend. Mom talked so much shit about her. She’s the one who told everyone except Sharon about her husband’s wandering dick. She hated her.”
At the reminder of stupid, pesky feelings like hatred, I checked the time and saw I was past due for my meds. I fished my pill tray out of my purse and emptied two of the compartments into my palm before pulling out a small bottle of water.
“I know today has been rough,” Aria said, slipping into psychologist mode, “but you can’t overmedicate to get through it.”
“I’m not. These are my one o’clocks.”
“All of them?”
“Mmhmm,” I murmured, swallowing the pills a few at a time.
“What are you even taking?”
“Little of this, little of that.” I wasn’t being evasive, I couldn’t remember all the weird names.
A small frown pulled at Aria’s mouth as she studied me with a clinical eye. Usually that’d make me feel uncomfortable but I was used to it. I was also too busy trying to kill my emotions for the rest of the day to be bothered.
Her voice was soft and loaded with concern. “Are things not going well at therapy?”
I rattled the rest of the pills in my hand. “You’re looking at therapy.”
“Mom said you were doing inpatient at one of those high-end holistic places focused on wellness and spiritual healing or some shit.”
“Why go through all the hard work of trying to actually help when they can throw medication at rich people and call them success stories? It’s the same at all the spas she shipped me off to.”
“But she told me—”
“A lie. Surprise, surprise. Which is why it’s fucking hilarious that all those people were going on and on about Mom like she was a saint and not Satan.”
Aria’s eyes went wide. “Briar.”
“You’re right, that comparison is offensive… to Satan.” I cracked up again. “And now she’s his problem, the poor demon.” My laughter broke, catching in my throat to choke me as it mixed with sudden sobs.
Real ones.
Saying something about normal reactions, Aria reached for me, trying to hug me. Comfort me.
I didn’t want or need either.
“You don’t get it,” I said through happy tears. “I’m free.”
“What does that mean?”
Caught up in my relief and joy, my exhaustion and shock, I lowered my walls and shared. Not everything. Nowhere near it. But more than I’d ever told anyone else—much to the frustration of countless therapists, counselors, and doctors.
Aria stayed silent through it all, her pleasantly blank shrink mask quickly falling to reveal sisterly horror and anger.
Once I was done, she still didn’t speak. Her narrowed gaze was aimed at the wall, but I doubted she saw anything. I was pretty sure I was supposed to offer some reassurance or console her in some way, but my multitude of drugs had kicked in, and I was back to blissfully numb.
After a few stretching minutes, my sister finally dragged her gaze to me. Her beautiful face was set with stubborn determination, and when she spoke, her voice was firm.
“You’re not going back there. You’re coming to live with me.”
Chapter One
Dead
Briar
For Aria
I WISHED I were dead.
That wasn’t an exaggeration. It wasn’t dramatics. It wasn’t residual teen angst flowing unbridled through my twenty-one-year-old mind.
It was the truth—cold and unrelenting like the very death I craved.
Okay, fine. That was definitely skating the line of emo dramatics. Very Poe-esque. Or maybe Plath—she’d killed herself by sticking her head in an oven with the gas on. If that wasn’t theatrics, I didn’t know what was.
The point was, when my group counselor at Redmond Mental Health Center asked me how I was feeling, my first thought was that I wished I were dead. Not that I said it out loud, of course. Giving voice to the feelings that haunted me would ensure an involuntary stay in a special facility.
Again.
No, as I looked at my counselor’s stamped-on smile, I forced one of my own. And then I lied as easily as I breathed. Easier, actually. “I had a really good week. I’m finally moved into my new apartment. It’s small but really nice.”
“I’m glad,” he said, though his tone sounded anything but. I gave him another two weeks—a month, tops—before he quit.
They all quit eventually.
It was that, or they would end up putting a bullet in their heads. Listening to a bunch of clinically depressed people turn even the brightest rainbow into a rainstorm wore on anyone after a while.
And Derrick—who’d started out calm, cool, and filled with a bright-eyed optimism—had seemingly reached that point.
“Having your own space is very important,” he continued, saying shit I already knew. “Do you know why?”
I absentmindedly stroked the ends of my long hair. “It gives me a sense of responsibility, belonging, and control.”
Which does jack-fucking-shit to calm the unease that boils under my skin every second of every hour of every day.
“That’s right.” Derrick’s smile grew a little less artificial, as if my answer gave him a momentary validation that he wasn’t wasting his time.
He was.
But it was nice he could still believe he was making a difference, so I returned his smile.
Hey, just because I lived my life with death lurking over my shoulder and pessimism fueling my thoughts didn’t mean I believed everyone else had to.
We moved on from me quickly, switching to Jenna who was having a fit because her hours at work were changing and she just could not deal. The horror. The insult.
The humanity!
Depression was hard enough to deal with. Depression with control issues was worse. Jenna had both with the addition of an unhealthy dose of narcissism—the trifecta of terror.
She wasn’t the only one in a mood that afternoon. It wasn’t uncommon in the young adult group. Actually, I was willing to bet it wasn’t uncommon in any group. It made me wonder how effective that form of therapy actually was. Everyone seemed to feed off one another, making them desperate to be seen. To be heard. To receive confirmation that they hadn’t sunk into the nothingness of full adulthood, all hope and excitement gone from their young lives. Their stories fueled one another to top them, each determined to be t
he very best.
Well, the very best at having it the very worst.
They knew the squeakiest wheel got the oil—or attention, in our case—so squeak-squeak they did.
I didn’t want the attention.
I didn’t want to share and listen and progress.
Nope, I just wanted the aforementioned death.
As if magically sensing my mood, the one human bright spot in my life walked down the hall with a cluster of people. They paused on the other side of the large, shatterproof window, glancing in like we were a zoo exhibit for them to observe. Before it could set me on edge, she took the opportunity to give me a goofy wave and a goofier thumbs up.
Aria Dillon.
She was the reason I was sitting there. I’d promised her I’d attend the recommended sessions, and I would never break a promise to her. I owed her too much.
Which was also why I didn’t pull a Plath in my new apartment’s oven.
I gave her a smile that was only partially forced and bit back a laugh as I watched her jolt before rushing to catch up with her group.
It was filled with doctors, board members, and smartly dressed professionals.
People like her.
My group was filled with the fucked up. The scarred. The messy.
People like me.
Thanks to everyone’s mental thunderstorms, I was able to sit back and zone out for the rest of the hour. It was my skill. I knew just how much I had to share before I was allowed to blend into the background.
Exactly where I thrived and exactly where I belonged.
By the time Derrick ended the session, everyone felt heard. The vibe was happier as they gathered their belongings and talked about where they were grabbing dinner.
I straggled behind, using my long hair as a shield as I pretended to search for something in my purse.
“Not going to eat with everyone?” Derrick asked, making me jump and spin around, already on the defensive.
I hated people coming up behind me.
I hated being startled.
Hated it.
It never failed to send my anxiety into overdrive.
Derrick noticed immediately, his lips tipping down as pity and guilt filled his brown eyes. He reminded me of that old cartoon dog who always looked and sounded clinically depressed. Or like his own voice was putting him to sleep.
That was Derrick. Sad and sweet—but mostly the sad part.
“Briar, I’m sor—”
“No, I’m not going to dinner,” I interrupted, not wanting his apology or pity. They just highlighted my dysfunction. I plastered on a smile and softened my harsh tone. “I’ve got a shift at the animal shelter. Maybe next week.”
Both were lies. I’d already worked my shift for the day. And I had no intent or interest in going to dinner with my fellow group members. Ever. Nor did I join them for pre-session coffee, follow them on social media, or take part in their support group text message thread.
If Derrick knew I was lying, he didn’t call me out. “I’ll let you run then. Good sharing today. I look forward to hearing more about your new place next week.”
Right. It’ll be thrilling. Tales of Netflix and frozen dinners. Real riveting stuff.
“Sounds good,” I said, even though it absolutely did not. “See you then.”
I left the room and wound my way through the brightly lit corridors, going quick enough to get out fast, but slow enough that my desperate escape wasn’t a red flag.
The front door was in sight, and I could almost feel the fresh air in my lungs when I was thwarted.
“Briar!”
Shit.
As tempted as I was to pretend I didn’t hear my sister, I couldn’t get away with it. She knew I heard every creak. Every peep. Every noise, no matter how badly I wanted to tune them out.
I stopped and turned. “Hey, what’s up?”
She pulled me into a hug, even though she knew I hated them. It was her loving way of giving me the tiniest shove outside my comfort zone. To show me human touch wasn’t always bad.
Yeah.
Right.
Releasing me, she tilted her head toward the cluster of people she’d broken away from. “Some hotshot tech mogul donated a big check to the center and is updating the whole computer system for free. Dr. Davis put together an unnecessarily large welcome wagon to show where his hard-earned cash is going.”
I glanced at the group of doctors, administrators, and a plain guy—who I assumed was the tech mogul since he had the super nerd look—having their picture taken. There was another man off to the side, and once I saw him, it was hard to tear my eyes away. His brown hair was a little overgrown, as was the scruff on his angled jaw. The sleeves of his Henley were pushed up and his hands were in his pockets as he scanned the lobby. Based on his height, his bored expression, and his vibe, I was guessing he was the tech geek’s bodyguard or security.
I didn’t date since it was messy and complicated, even without my… issues, but that didn’t mean I was blind.
The dude was hot.
It was a wonder he was allowed in the building with a jaw like that. It was so sharp, it should’ve been on the contraband list.
Maybe I could hire him just for the day.
Of course, since I’m the only one who wants to hurt me, a bodyguard probably isn’t the best idea. He’d be forced to take me out to protect me from myself which would be not protecting me so then he’d have to take himself out…
Returning my focus to Aria before I gave myself a headache, I deadpanned, “Sounds like a productive afternoon.”
“Right. Way better than… oh, I dunno… helping people.”
“Who’d wanna do that?”
She smiled. “Speaking of, how was group?”
Ignoring the invisible fire ants that skittered under my skin, causing widespread burning and itching, I lifted a shoulder in a half-assed shrug. “Fine. Same dramatics, different day.”
“Pain isn’t a competition,” she chided.
“And you lose one-hundred percent of the chances you don’t take. Climb every mountain. Hang in there, baby.”
She rolled her eyes at my cliché platitudes, and the action made me envious. How stupid was that? I was envious of her freedom to roll her eyes. If I did that in group or one-on-one therapy, I’d end up with extra sessions piled on to address my mood.
“What’re you up to after your stint as overqualified tour guide?” I asked before immediately wishing I could choke on my strictly conversational words.
Just as I feared, my sister read more into the question than I’d intended. “I have some paperwork to do at my practice, but it can wait. Do you want to grab dinner?”
That’s literally the last thing in the world I want right now.
It wasn’t anything personal. I always needed alone time to decompress after any session.
“I would,” I lied before continuing to lie some more, “but I think I’m going to run home and change so I can meet up with some people from group.”
Her blue eyes—one of our few shared characteristics—lit with glee and a grin split her pretty face. “That’s awesome.”
Feeling like shit for avoiding dinner with her and for lying in order to do so, guilt ate at me until I was forced to offer, “Can we do dinner tomorrow instead?”
I figured it was safe to ask since she’d likely shoot me down, making us even. If James Brown was the hardest working man in show business, Aria Dillon was the hardest working woman in mental health. In addition to her hours at the clinic, she worked her ass off at her private practice, trying to get it up and running.
I knew my plan backfired when her grin grew, and I was seriously worried she’d damage the nerves in her cheeks if she kept it up. “Sounds good. We’ll get Mexican.”
That elicited a genuine smile from me as we both wistfully sighed, “Salsa.”
Suddenly, I wasn’t dreading the impending dinner. If it weren’t for the fact group always drained me, the promise of fre
sh salsa may have been enough to make me change my mind about going right then.
“Do you have a shift at the rescue tomorrow?” she asked.
“Yes, but I’m done by five.”
I usually stuck around off the clock to help out, but I’d make sure I broke away on time since it clearly meant a lot to her.
Plus, that whole salsa thing.
“Okay, I’ll text tomorrow.” She pulled me into another hug and didn’t seem surprised or fazed when I didn’t return it. “Be careful and have fun tonight!”
“I will.”
Because I’ll be in the comfort of my own home.
With a smile that was actually kinda real—she was the one person who made that happen—I headed outside.
When I got to my bus stop, I dug around in my bag for my pass. Just as my fingers closed around it, someone bumped me from behind. My purse and its contents skittered across the sidewalk, leaving me standing there holding the laminated card and nothing else.
“Shit, sorry,” a deep voice said.
Thankfully, my heart rate didn’t accelerate into panic attack territory at someone so close behind me, likely because I quickly dropped to my knees to collect the hodgepodge of purse clutter before it blew away.
Whoever it was crouched, too, grabbing my purse and shoving stuff in. His long arm span made quick work of it before he stood, still holding my purse in one hand as he offered me the other.
I finally looked up into a pair of mesmerizing honey-brown eyes, and Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You started playing dramatically.
In my head, at least.
Not because it was love at first sight or any unrealistic bullshit that never actually happened. It just seemed appropriate since that song was in The Bodyguard, and it was the tech nerd’s bodyguard who stood there.
Ignoring his hand, I got to my feet and took my stuff from him. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me, I’m the one who wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“It’s fine.” Even though the state of chaos in my purse was already making me anxious.
His brown eyes narrowed as he studied me. “You okay? I knocked you pretty hard.”
No.
But I never am.
“I’m stronger than I look,” I lied. And it was a big one, too.
