***

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 fucking 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.”

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.