They stare at each other for an awkward length of time, until Dan scratches the back of his head, his cheeks flushing. “So, um, if there’s nothing else I can do for you, I’m going to grab some sleep.”
“Oh, okay,” Storm nods.
I roll my eyes. Utterly clueless. “Yes.” Devious little plot hands rub together inside my head. “Are you free tonight?”
Dan looks from me to Storm. “Yes, I am.”
I catch the side “what the hell are you doing” dagger glare from Storm, but I ignore it. “Good. Storm was just saying that she’d love to go out to dinner with you.” Dan’s face lights up. Going out with Storm is exactly the something else Dan would like to do. “How about around seven?” I suggest. “That works for you, right, Storm?”
Her pretty head bobs up and down dumbly, looking like she may have swallowed her tongue.
Dan watches her with wariness. “Are you sure, Storm?”
It takes her a minute to pull her tongue back out to operational mode. “It’s perfect.” She even manages a tight smile.
“Okay. See you then.” He walks out, his pace picking up as I holler. “Can’t wait!”
I turn back to find Storm glaring at me. “You enjoyed tormenting that poor man, didn’t you?”
“Oh, I think he’s okay with a little torment if the end result is a date with you.”
“I have to work tonight though.”
“Nice try. Cain gave you the night off. Come on, what else you got?”
Storm’s shoulders sag. “This is a bad idea, Kacey.”
“Why?”
“Why? Well …” Storm sputters, struggling for a valid excuse. “Look at the last guy I brought home.” She gestures at the broken door.
“Storm, I don’t think you can compare Officer Dan to that strung out asshat of an ex-husband. They’re kind of on opposite ends of the spectrum. I’m not sure that guy last night was even human.” My brow quirks. “Do they need to make a ‘So I Married an Alien’ movie starring you?”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on, Kacey. Don’t be naïve. He’s a guy. He knows what I do for a living. There’s only one thing he’s interested in and it’s not my cooking.”
I shrug. “I don’t know about that. I might do you for more of that veal parmesan.”
Sweaty Door Guy breaks out into another coughing fit, harsh enough that I think he may bring up a lung. Storm’s hand flies to her mouth, trying not to laugh. She tosses a pillow at my head, but I duck, sending us into an explosion of titters as we scurry to her bedroom and close the door.
“So what are you gonna wear tonight?” I mock in a bubbly Valley girl voice.
She sighs. “I don’t know, Kace. What if he only wants me for … this?” her hands gesture to her body.
“Then he’s the biggest idiot on the face of the earth because you’re so much more than a pair of giant boobs and a pretty face.”
A tiny smile blossoms to dissolve her worry. “I hope you’re right, Kacey.”
“You also have a killer ass.”
She tosses another pillow at my head.
“All kidding aside, Storm. I see how he looks at you. Trust me, that’s not it.”
She worries her bottom lip as if she wants to believe me, but can’t.
“And if that’s all he’s looking for then we’ll set fire to his balls.”
“What?” Storm’s face twists in a mixture of shock and amusement.
I shrug. “What can I say, Storm? I’m into some weird shit.”
Storm’s head falls back as she howls with laughter. “You’re crazy but I love you, Kacey Cleary.” She shrieks, throwing her arms around my neck. I can only imagine what Sweaty Door Man is thinking right about now.
Trent shows up to my door at noon in his leather jacket. “Ready?”
“For what?” I ask, memories of the morning, of what he’s capable of doing with barely a touch, still fresh. Part of me wonders if he’s here to collect his side. That part is extremely excited.
He smirks, holding up a helmet. “Nice try.” Walking over, he grabs my hand and pulls me from my chair. “We made a deal and you lost.” A sinking feeling settles in the pit of my stomach as he leads me toward the door. “There’s a support group nearby. I figured I’d take you.”
Support group. That’s when my legs freeze. Trent turns around and studies my expression. By the way my insides are reacting, it can’t be a pretty one.
“You promised, Kacey,” he whispers softly, stepping forward to cup my elbows. “You don’t have to talk. Just listen. Please. It’ll be good for you, Kace.”
“So now you’re a computer geek and a shrink?” I bite my tongue, not meaning to be that harsh. Gritting my teeth against the urge to scream, I close my eyes. One … Two … Three … Four … I don’t know why I keep following my mom’s stupid advice. It never brings me relief. I guess it’s become more like a security blanket that I’ve dragged from my old life into my new. Useless, but comforting.
Trent waits patiently, his hand never leaving my elbow.
“Fine.” I hiss, shaking away from him. I grab my purse from the couch and stalk out the door. “But if they break out in a f**king round of Kumbaya, I’m so gone.”
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.”
