38. Did you ever know that youre my hero?
Chapter 38
Did you ever know that you're my hero?
LETTIE
Y ou know that feeling when someone’s following you? You can’t always explain how or why, but you know it’s happening.
Like right now.
The telltale scuffle of feet behind me shoots my pulse through the roof. I spin around and press my back to the wall and my hand to my chest.
“Sorry,” Tina hisses through a tight smile that stretches her cheeks wide. She cups her hands in front of her in a funny bear claw pose. No clue what that’s about, but she’s adorable, so I’ll allow it.
Pulling the single earbud from my ear, I wave her off. “You’re fine, sweetie. That’s what I get for listening to music while roaming the halls.”
I thought I’d be okay with only one earbud in.
Wrong again—the backup title to my forthcoming autobiography.
Without prompting, she slings one arm around my waist for a quick hug. “You’re coming to group session, right?”
I keep her tucked into my side as we meander down the hall.
“Yes. That’s where I’m going now.”
“Yay.” She bounces with joy like she’s got a spring for a spine. “How come you didn’t come to group last night?”
“I was a bit tired. It was a lot to get moved in.”
We stroll in companionable silence, her leading the way. Every time I glance down at her, she beams at me. Sunshine dances from her eyes to mine. My heart almost can’t take it.
Since I arrived yesterday, Tina’s been all over me. Always smiling like I hung the moon and roped the stars just for her. It’s not bothering me to have a little shadow. After all, she’s peach cobbler sweet, and I’m not chomping at the bit to be solo all the time. Being on my own is only good in small doses.
Surprisingly, I did enjoy the time all by my lonesome in my room last night. I kept the television on. Blaring musicals. Old ones. New ones. Nothing but musicals. They’re perfect entertainment when even your shadow frightens you. The cheesiness and lack of jump scare fodder is exactly what I need.
Our half hug has morphed into an odd hand-holding by the time Tina and I reach the group therapy room.
I step past the threshold, and my jaw drops to my chest. “Full house.”
“This is the larger group tonight. Everyone in the facility can come, regardless of why they’re here. Tomorrow night will be the small group with just the girls like us.”
Girls like us . Those who survived the nightmare house.
There are at least twenty-five women gathering. Maybe thirty. Chairs spiral out from the center of the room in two wide circles, one inside the other. A long buffet-style table full of snacks and beverages draws my attention instantly. My mouth waters.
I sure hope Simone can help me overcome my new fear of eating food that isn’t sealed.
Tina gives my hand a tug. “Will you sit next to me?”
“Of course.”
With pep in her step, she leads me through the meeting room toward the open chairs on the far side. As we pass by the food table, I swipe two packages of mixed nuts and a water bottle. Score one for sealed snacks.
After our butts hit the seats, Tina springs back to her feet barely a second later. “Oh my gosh. Amber’s here.” She flaps her hands, and her voice is coated in youthful glee like she’s just glimpsed a celebrity.
My eyes scan the room for the paparazzi, coming up empty.
I don’t recall Tina being this childlike in the nightmare house. She’s only fourteen, but she seems much younger now. Why am I remembering her differently? Maybe this behavior is more aligned with her true nature, and she was forced to be older in the house.
As my last thought swirls through my mind, the answer to my musing hits me like a sack of bricks to the gut, sending a puff of air past my rounded lips.
Of course she was forced to act older in the house. Her innocence was ripped from her inside those walls. Now that she’s out of that place, she’s probably regressing or whatever psychologists call it.
Tina holds her hand out for me, tilting her head toward the other side of the room. “You have to meet Amber. She’s so cool.”
I rise to join her. Let’s pretend she’s giving me a choice.
She drags me across the room, weaving us among the women engaged in hushed conversations. I apologize profusely for cutting through the groupings in this mad quest to get to whoever the hell this Amber chick is.
Tina drops my hand like wet garbage when we get to a very pregnant woman with short, powder-pink hair, fabulous eye makeup, and sparkling rings on every finger. A beautiful necklace with a heart-shaped pink gemstone shimmers at the top of her V-neck sweater. And oh my biscuits ... I want to touch that sweater. It looks like the softest, fluffiest material I’ve ever seen.
Amber wraps Tina in a side hug since that’s all her rounded belly will allow. She scoops Tina’s black hair behind her ear.
The gesture, so tender and loving, reminds me of Tomer. He loved to touch my hair like that.
Fiddlestickdicks. I hate that I miss him. And I hate that I had to leave him. Hate him for making me do it.
Most of all, I hate him because I still love him so much it hurts.
I keep thinking about how he’s been so adamant in our texts that he intends to win me back. Each time he says it, I get more confused. Not by his words—he’s quite clear with his intentions. It’s my reaction that leaves my head spinning.
How can his vow make me both outraged and overjoyed? I’m rooting for him to succeed on one hand and flipping him off with the other. When will Simone and I get to the point in my healing journey where we can figure that shit out?
And don’t even get me started on the flirty banter that’s cropped up. I’m totally teasing and taunting him. Why? What’s come over me? It makes no sense. Add it to the agenda for my next therapy session, I suppose.
Tina turns, introducing me to the mom-to-be. “Ana, this is Amber.” She blinks three times and shakes her head. “ Shoot . Sorry. I’m still not used to using your real name.” Her cheeks turn pink.
I told her yesterday that my real name isn’t Ana. It blew her sweet little mind.
“ Lettie , this is Amber. She’s the one who pays for this place.”
An audible gasp escapes my chest, and I stutter a step backward before catching myself so I can attempt to play it cool.
Tina gestures an open palm between Amber and me like she’s serving us from an imaginary tray. “Amber, this is her. She’s the one who saved us.”
Wait. The what?
All the hero worship and those moon eyes Tina’s been hitting me with for the last thirty hours make a helluva lot more sense now.
“I didn’t save anyone,” I correct, shaking my head profusely.
Amber beams from Tina to me, and a hint of playfulness dances in her eyes. “That’s not what Tina said. And around here, we believe women.”
The burn in my cheeks reaches catastrophic levels as we shake hands. Her skin is so supple my squirrel wants me to ask what moisturizer she uses, but my bank account reminds me I couldn’t afford it.
“Nice to meet you, Lettie. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Well, was any of it true?” I tease. “Because I was hiding in a closet when we were rescued.”
How on Earth does Tina think I saved her? That’s crazy.
Tina plants herself in front of me and grips my arms. “Lettie, you did save us.”
Poor little dingus believes her lies. She’s more delulu than me. Bless her heart.
I mockingly rest the back of my hand against her forehead. “Are you runnin’ a fever, child? You’re delirious.”
Tina hits me with those puppy dog eyes. “It’s true. They wouldn’t have come for us if you hadn’t been there. Without you, I’d still be in Hell.” She looks around the room, and I do the same. Some of the faces are familiar. Some are new. “Lots of us would still be there.”
Then she hugs me.
And I let her. Because goodness gracious, I need a hug after that.
Resting my cheek on the top of her head, I squeeze her tightly and breathe in the innocence of her belief, content to let it fortify my soul.
After we break apart, I mutter my way through some chit-chat with Amber, the friggin’ billionaire. I can’t be sure what all we discuss because my head is swimming in heavy emotions, so thick and chunky I have to concentrate on breathing.
Fortunately, I was blessed with the gift of gab and can ramble through small talk with the best of them. However, I’ve likely over-shared and can’t wait to relive all my verbal blunders as I try to sleep tonight. And every night.
Pretty sure I thanked her for whatever she does to fund this place. Can’t recall her response.
On the bright side, I’ll have another chance to talk to her again after the session when I’m not mentally impersonating a cornbread that’s not baked in the center. She asked to meet with me and said she’ll be waiting when we’re done. Not sure what that’s about, but whatever the reason, it’ll give me a chance to make up for however I may have embarrassed myself during our first chat.
Everyone takes their seats when the meeting is called to order by another therapist—this place is crawling with them. This one is older with shoulder-length gray hair that’s tied at her nape with a wispy scarf. Her voice is soothing and tranquil. I bet she can sing the dickens out of some good ol’ Patsy Cline.
Oh . Random squirrel thought. I should ask Tomer if his boss can sing. I mean, if my father can sing. Sheesh.
If I’m not mentally correcting myself for calling him James instead of Tomer, I’m doing it because of my new dad situation. My poor brain can only handle so much before it surrenders.
A laugh bubbles up and out at the humorous yet intrusive mental image of my little squirrel waving a white flag from its perch on my frontal lobe.
A few people glare at me, so I disguise the laugh as a cough. No question; I nailed it.
Making myself focus on a presenter when they’re doing their thing is... well, it’s hard. Nay. Virtually impossible. I’m sure this therapist lady leading the session has a great message. Lots of good vibes and all that shit.
Sadly, it’s all wasted on me. Being forced to sit quietly in a room with this many people is an act of torture. And this has nothing to do with the horrible thing that sent me here to start my healing journey. I’ve always been this way.
Lectures and ADHD are a match made in the bowels of Hell.
Sure, ADHD gives me superpowers. For example, I can listen to audiobooks at two-point-five speed while doing a puzzle and writing a shopping list. Beat that, neurotypicals.
However, group presentation hyperfocus isn’t one of those magical skills.
Here I sit, trying with all my might and both tits to concentrate on what this sweet, velvet-voiced therapist is spouting. Only, I hear everything except her words.
Every. Single. Sound. Around. Me.
Except her.
A cough.
A deep breath.
Someone sniffling.
Eww . Why are they sniffling so much? Get a tissue.
Someone three chairs away is bobbing her leg up and down like that part of her body believes it’s in a fight to the death with Jackie Chan.
Directly across from me is a woman with very shiny bangle bracelets. A lot of them. And my squirrel loves shiny things. Who doesn’t?
And holy biscuits and gravy. Will someone give Snuffleupagus over there a tissue already? Heh. Sniffle upagus is a better name for her.
Oh shit.
The velvety voice lady is looking at me, her brows raised like she’s awaiting an answer.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my legs, looking around. Anyone care to throw me a bone?
“It’s okay,” Tina whispers, nudging me with her shoulder.
“Um.”
The therapist smiles warmly, waiting as patiently as an oak.
You know what? Fuck it. I’ll be honest. Not gonna lie or bullshit my way through therapy. Even group therapy.
“Truth time. I don’t know what the question was. I was having trouble focusing. What were you asking?”
The kind lady’s smile stays just as warm as it was, releasing a smidgen of my guilt. “Lettie, I asked if you wanted to share.”
“Like what? A joke or something? A secret? What are we talkin’ about here?”
That’s it, Lettie. When in doubt, go for comedy.
“Well, everyone else here has been in at least one other group session. Since this is your first time, we’d love to get to know you a little. Anything you want to share. Doesn’t have to be heavy stuff.”
“Do I stand or . . .?”
“Whatever you like.”
When my gaze sweeps across the room, some women are craning their necks to see me. So I stand to save them a trip to the chiropractor.
And cue the rambling.
“Well, I’m Violet Holt, but I go by Lettie. I’m twenty-five years old. I moved to Florida a little more than a year ago. I’m from a small town in Georgia named Climax, which I didn’t know was odd until I was in my late teens and learned what that word means to the rest of the world. Why yes, I did have a sexually repressed childhood thanks to religious trauma. Good guess.” I laugh awkwardly, adding a half-arm wave in accordance with the chapter in the Lettie Holt Life Manual covering weird non-verbal movements.
Chuckles echo around the room.
“Let’s see. I love to sing. I love my friends. I love animals, except reptiles. And I love...” Biting my tongue, I stop myself from saying my boyfriend , but I’m determined to finish the sentence. “Nuts. I love nuts.” I raise the bag of mixed nuts, shaking it eagerly and getting another laugh.
With cheeks on fire, I slink into my seat, wishing it could swallow me whole. Some of the women clap. Others tilt their heads at me in a silent greeting.
The therapist leading the session—I should really get her name—continues smiling at me, then adds, “If you’d indulge me, can you tell us one thing that you want to get out of your stay with us here?”
And there’s the spot. I’ve been put squarely on it.
I don’t have to think about my answer. It just sails out of my mouth, unfiltered and honest to the core. “I want to learn to trust again.”