“So, you have a little sister, huh?” she asks, changing the subject. “That’s got to be nice, not being the only child.”

“It’s nice sometimes, but she can be a pain in the ass when she doesn’t get her way.” Although, lately she’s been quieter, which is why I’ve been trying to spend more time with her.

“Still, it’s better than being the only child and being the sole focus of your parents.” Her phone hums from her lap, but she doesn’t pick it up.

“I’ve never looked at it that way, but I get what you’re saying,” I reply. “There’s been a ton of times I’ve gotten away with stuff because Mia had my parents distracted with something she did.”

“Do you guys do a lot of stuff together?”

“We didn’t used to, but ever since . . . my father died, I feel like I need to spend more time with her because he’s not around to do it.”

“That has to be hard, losing him when you’re so young.”

“It was hard.” I pretend to have an itch on the corner of my eye to cover up the tears trying to escape. “He was really involved in my life. He’s actually the reason I’m so into sports. When I was about four, he started taking me to soccer games, baseball games, football—pretty much every single sport you can think of. When I started playing sports myself, he never missed a single one of my games, and he was the same with Mia. She was really into dance for a while, and he would always go to her recitals, even though they were really boring.”

Her eyes get misty. “He sounds like a really good dad.”

“He was the best.” My voice cracks. “It was hard when he got sick. He had a hard time when he couldn’t do as much stuff with Mia and me anymore. I think he did more stuff than the doctor’s said he could.”

“What was he sick with?” she asks then hurriedly adds, “Never mind. You don’t need to tell me if you don’t feel like talking about it.”

“No, it’s okay. He died of cancer.” I remember the day my mom and dad sat Mia and me down to tell us, and it becomes more complicated to fight back the tears. “It was crazy. It was like, one minute, he was perfectly healthy, and the next, he was telling us that he was sick. He didn’t look sick at first, but then he started chemo, and he got weaker and frailer until he didn’t even look like my dad anymore . . .” I trail off as my hands start to shake.

“Grey, I’m so sorry.” She places a hand over mine, steadying it. “We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to.”

“No, I want to,” I tell her, surprised by how much I really do. “I haven’t actually talked to anyone about it. Even with my mom, I don’t feel comfortable enough because I’m afraid she’s going to cry, and Mia is the same way. Every time I bring him up, she gets upset. And my friends . . . None of them are good listeners like you are, and they make me feel bad whenever I bring it up because they think I’m being too depressing.”

“Well, I’m here whenever you want to talk.” Her lips pull into a smile as she repeats the words I said to her.

I open my mouth to tell her that I’d really like to talk more, but the door swings open, and five people wander in, putting an end to probably the most honest conversation I’ve ever had.

When I was fourteen years old, I stole a jacket when my mom was taking me school clothes shopping. It wasn’t even a jacket I liked. It was too big and bulky and was this horrible shade of puke green.

Right before I jacked it, I was following my mom around the store, watching her put clothes in the cart that I was supposed to wear while listening to her ridicule every person around us.

“Oh, look at that girl, Luna.” She pointed at a girl around my age who was wearing a tight black dress, matching boots, and who had a stud through her nose. “Imagine how she’ll end up in a few years. Probably on the corner of a street.” She didn’t even say it quietly, and the girl gave us a nasty look.

I was beyond embarrassed and wanted to say something, but like always, I kept my mouth shut and didn’t express how I truly felt. I felt something silently snap inside me, break, and I stole for the very first time in my life. For the briefest second, I felt in control, like I was somehow yelling fuck you to my mom without actually saying the words aloud.

After I made it out of the store with the jacket, I gave it to a homeless woman standing near the store, like somehow giving it to her made me a better person. It didn’t.

I’ve known what kind of person I am ever since I was seven years old, and my parents tried to explain to me how I was supposed to act, what I was supposed to wear, and who I was supposed to be. I remember thinking it didn’t sound like someone I wanted to be, which had to make me a bad person.

I spend most of the session listening to the rest of the group talk about their problems while silently drowning in my own. I desperately want to steal something. My hands twitch to snatch something up and hide it in my pocket. I long for control. Long to breathe for two goddamn seconds. But I can’t go anywhere.

Or can I?

I glance at the exit door several times, debating whether to get up and make a quick trip to the store. I could be in and out in five minutes. But what if my parents found out I left? All it would take is for one of their church friends to spot me and for word to get back to them.

What do I do?

What kind of person am I to be sitting here, contemplating this?

I’m so fucked up.

My head is crammed full of thoughts that are in no way related to the session, and I can barely think straight. Thankfully, Howard, the guy in charge, doesn’t push me to talk. Grey does, though, during what Howard calls sharing-our-feelings time.

“I felt bad about what I did.” His hands are balled into fists and he’s staring down at the floor. “No matter why I stole the stuff, it wasn’t fair to just take it from someone else, you know? But it felt like this other person took me over and let me justify putting that stuff in my pocket.” He lifts his head, and our gazes collide. “But I don’t think that makes me a bad person.”

It feels like he’s trying to send me a message, like he gets me. I wish he did. Maybe then I could finally open up to someone and release the pressure building in my chest, instead of having to steal in order to do so. He doesn’t understand me, though, even if he thinks he does.

Grey has stolen a total of one time, and I’m guessing it was just a rebellious act to get a rush. He doesn’t understand what it’s like to go to the store with the sole purpose to steal, what it’s like to feel like you have to do it; otherwise, you have to feel your entire world spinning out of control. He isn’t sitting here contemplating running out the door just so he can put something in his pocket in order to get some messed up form of temporary peace.

He does, however, know more about me than he did twenty minutes ago. I don’t even know why I told him all those things about my family and the fire. It just sort of poured out of me. It seems that I had the same effect on him since he told me all those things about his family and his dad. I’ve always been told I’m a good listener, but I’ll admit, I never thought the day would come when I’d be a good listener for Grey Sawyer or that I’d ever offer to be the person he could talk to. Listening to him talk about his dad, I saw a sweeter side of him, one I didn’t think existed.

“I totally get what you’re saying,” a woman in her mid-twenties with short, black hair says, drawing me out of my thoughts. “It’s like when I used to get high. I’d always justify what I was doing, but after I crashed, I always felt so fucking bad about what I did. I don’t think what I did made me a bad person; I just made fucking bad choices. I wish my sister could see how hard I’m trying and forgive me. I know I did a lot of terrible shit to her, but I’ve been trying to get my shit together, you know?”