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.