Erin
I never eat the donuts or drink the coffee at group therapy.
I don’t know why I choose this exact moment to notice that, but as the usual group files in, I stare at the donuts, the various colors of sugar and sugar substitutes, the tiny, individual cups of creamer, the simple red stirrers, and the steaming, black liquid as it flows from the pot and into a Styrofoam cup that’s then carried away and I wonder — why do I never get any?
Part of it is vanity, I suppose, because I gave up coffee for fear of stunting my growth and yellowing my teeth, and donuts, well, that one is pretty obvious.
I work hard enough to keep my thighs cellulite-free and my hips fitting into a size six, that even thinking about how many miles I’d need to run to work off a donut stresses me out.
And in my eyes — a trap.
When I come to group, I walk straight to the same chair I’ve sat in every week, sit down quietly, place my large purse in my lap, and cross my legs.
Then, I wait.
I watch as other members talk to each other while making their perfect cocktail of coffee and sugar and cream, and I smile politely if someone catches me looking — but I never join them.
And yet, I always take my time to get dressed up for session. I change into a different outfit so I’m fresh, redo my makeup and hair if need be, and I always look like I’m ready to go out to dinner after.
Maybe it’s because sometimes, I hope I will be.
My vision is blurred and out of focus with my mind buzzing, until a dark shadow crosses between me and the coffee table. It’s just a blur of black and gray that whooshes by, but I blink, waking from my daze, and my gaze follows the shadow.
Of course, when my vision focuses once more, I realize the shadow is a human.
A boy — around my age, I guess — with olive skin.
He’s dressed in dark, skinny jeans and a black, long-sleeve shirt that makes me sweat thinking about the fact that it’s September in South Florida.
Those sleeves are crossed over a broad chest, and he stretches out his long legs next, crossing them at the ankles and sinking down into his chair.
His face is hidden by the bill of a gray ball cap, pulled down over his eyes, just the hint of stubble on his chin visible to the room.
I’ve been coming to group therapy all summer, and I haven’t seen him before. Everyone else in the room I know very well — at least, well enough.
There’s Cyndi — with an i, which she’ll remind you nearly every session — a white, middle-aged redhead who has an obsession with the color green and has been plagued with guilt since she backed out of her driveway and accidentally ran over her thirteen-year-old cat.
There’s Jonathan, the father who put his gambling addiction before his children, and they now want nothing to do with him.
There’s Kendall, the kleptomaniac — which I smiled at the first time I heard it, because it somehow sounded cute, the combination of her name and her affliction.
There’s Sam, the man cheated on by his wife before she divorced him, and Clarence, the quiet old man who always smiles when someone’s talking and barely ever says a word about himself.
Harper is my favorite, mostly because she always sits next to me and leans in to offer her commentary on everyone’s problems.
I could go on and on, but the point is that I know everyone in this group.
Except for the new shadow.
I wait for myself to feel something about him, about his newness, but all I can think is that he’s very tall, very lean, and very sad.
The last fact is as obvious as the color of his shirt.
I’m still watching him when our group leader, Jackie, clicks the top of her pen and holds the notebook in her lap by the serial binding, her usual cue that we’re about to begin.
With one last, curious look at our new addition, I turn my attention fully to her, and straighten my back, meeting her smile with my own.
“Hello, everyone,” she sings in her calm, soothing voice. “Welcome to group.”
There’s a murmur of hellos from the group — from everyone except our new shadow.
“So, before we get started, I want everyone to get comfortable in your chair, and then I want you to close your eyes.”
I want to roll my eyes, but I close them as she instructs, reminding myself to remain open to the energy she’s trying to give off.
That’s what my personal therapist always says.
She knows how I’ve felt in the past about group therapy, about therapy in general, and she always reminds me that I’m on the road to healing, and if I snub my nose at everything I pass on this road, I’ll just end up right back where I started.
Once our eyes are closed, Jackie leads us through a breathing exercise, reading off some calming mantras as we tune into our breaths. The more we breathe, the more she speaks in her soothing tone, the more I relax and drift into the open space she wants us to be in.
But suddenly, I feel like someone’s watching me.
I creak one eye open, and then the next, glancing around the group at all the other members who have their eyes closed. Jackie is still speaking, and I frown, not knowing what made me feel uneasy and snapped me out of the moment.
Until I lock eyes with the shadow.
He’s still in the same pose — long legs outstretched, arms folded across his chest — and his eyes aren’t closed like Jackie instructed.
They’re wide open, and completely zeroed in on me.
I blink at the boldness of them, of him — his gaze and his demeanor. His eyes are a bright, Caribbean water blue — almost see through, almost green, almost gray. They’re light and playful as they take me in, and just as Jackie signals for everyone to open their eyes, he smiles at me.
Just a tiny curl of his lips, but it does something to my stomach that I do not like.
“Alright,” Jackie says, and I tear my eyes from the shadow and back to her. “Who would like to start?”
The group takes turns sharing, then — tentative hands raising before something good or bad from the week is divulged.
Jonathan had a phone call with his daughter, though it was short and he could tell she didn’t want to talk to him.
He felt like it was a step in the right direction, but was seeking advice on how to bridge that conversation gap between them.
Kendall had a breakthrough when she was shopping with her sister and resisted the urge to steal a pair of earrings.
It goes like this for nearly an hour, and I listen to everyone speak, nodding in empathy and offering words of encouragement when it feels right.
I really do like being in the group, for as much of a fit I threw about going in the first place.
I might not be the most talkative, but I do like helping others when I can, and I like feeling like I’m not alone in my struggle to move past all my own shit.
“Erin, what about you?” Jackie asks toward the end of session. “Anything going on with you this week?”
I take a deep breath, adjusting my legs to cross the opposite way as I balance my notebook in my lap.
“Well, school is back in session,” I remind her and the group.
“And sorority life, too. So… it’s been interesting, adjusting to having classes and responsibilities again.
But it feels good. I’m redoing a wing of our sorority house and helping some of the other sororities plan their philanthropy events.
Being president keeps me busy, and I’ve found when I’m busy, I don’t have time to dwell on everything that makes me sad. ”
“But it’s okay to be sad sometimes,” Jackie gently reminds me.
I nod. “I know. Trust me, I still go there. But… I don’t take out my sadness on the people I love anymore. At least, I’m trying not to. There are still some bridges I’m trying to mend but…” I scratch the back of my neck, thinking of Skyler.
Of Clinton.
“Well, all things in time, I suppose,” I finish.
Jackie smiles. “That’s exactly right. And what are you working on this week?”
My heart squeezes. “Writing letters. I’m trying to write letters to the people I know I hurt… not necessarily to send, but just to figure out my feelings.”
“What happened to you?”
The question is loud and abrupt, and all heads swing to the shadow, who’s looking at me with his fierce eyes again.
I swallow. “Sorry?”
“What’d you do? Who’d you hurt? What happened to you to make you come here?”
Jackie smiles apologetically at me, and then she addresses the shadow in a soft tone. “We actually don’t encourage questions like that here,” she says. “We prefer to let our guests speak about whatever it is that they’re comfortable with.”
He keeps his eyes on me when he speaks. “That doesn’t really make sense, does it? Isn’t the whole point of therapy to talk about your shit and work through it?”
“I have talked about my shit,” I say to him, folding my hands over my notebook. “You weren’t here. Sorry you missed the show.”
“So, tell me now.”
“I don’t feel like talking about it today.”
“Why not?”
My heart picks up its pace, but this stranger isn’t backing down. He just cocks his head, like he’s trying to figure me out, like I’m a puzzle to be solved.
“Why don’t you tell us about you, instead?” Jackie offers, noting the flush of my cheeks at all the attention.
The shadow smiles then, shrugging before he turns to Jackie. “Okay. I’m Gavin Lindberg. I’m a graduate student at Palm South. And I’m here because I got drunk and slammed my car into a tree with my little sister in the passenger seat. I killed her.”
He says the words with conviction, with punctuation, as if each word is a fist he’s throwing into our jaws. I feel each punch, and when he’s done, he looks at me again.
“I had an abortion that I didn’t tell anyone about, and when I finally healed from that, I was gang-raped by a guy I was seeing and three of his fraternity brothers,” I say, not backing down from his gaze. “Then, I became the villain, and I hurt everyone I love most.”
The room goes completely silent, and my heart beats so loud in my ears I wonder if they can all hear it, too.
Gavin smiles, and so softly under his breath that I almost don’t hear him, he says, “There she is.”
Jackie wraps up our session a few minutes later with another breathing exercise, and as soon as we’re dismissed, various members join in little groups to chat and finish up the last of the donuts. I’m just throwing my purse over my shoulder when I feel body heat behind me.
When I turn, I’m met with those piercing blue eyes up close and personal.
I wait for him to speak, but for the longest time, he just looks at me, his eyes trailing over me from head to toe. It’s not in a way that creeps me out, oddly — not like he’s checking me out or assessing my size.
Just like he’s seeing me, like he’s taking the time to look at the girl I hide from everyone else.
When his eyes finally trail up to mine again, he slides his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans, and that same crooked grin finds his lips.
“Thanks for sharing,” he says.
And then he brushes past me and walks out the door without another word to anyone else.