Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
The week drags at the pool hall. Every shift blends into the next—sticky bar tops, pool balls clattering, the same regulars ordering the same drinks. But honestly, I don't hate it.
Daniel won't drop it. Every night, it's the same conversation.
"You should quit," he says over dinner on Wednesday. "Go back to school. Study something worthwhile."
Thursday, he brings up online courses. Education programs, specifically.
Friday, he suggests I just take a break. "You don't need the money anymore."
But what would I do? Sit in his apartment all day, staring at the walls? Binge Netflix until my brain turns to mush?
I'm not wired that way. I need people, conversation, the chaos of the bar. Even the annoying parts—the drunk guys hitting on me, the spilled beer, the arguments over fouls, sportsmanship, and shots called—it's still life. Movement. Connection.
Daniel doesn't understand that. He's content in his quiet, controlled world.
I'm not.
Now it's Saturday, and I'm staring at my reflection, second-guessing everything. Dark jeans. Green polka dot top. Hair twisted up in a clip, deliberately casual. Nothing too sexy. Nothing that says I'm trying.
Which I'm not.
I practice my breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
The lie sits heavy on my tongue. I told Daniel I'm visiting Jenna, which required a painful phone call where I begged her to cover for me.
She agreed, reluctantly, after a lecture about boundaries and bad decisions.
God, I hate her sometimes. We have a very mother-daughter relationship, despite the fact that we're basically the same age. I suppose she's more mature than me.
My phone buzzes.
Almost there.
My heart stutters.
I’ve asked him to pick me up at a plaza near my place. I didn’t want Daniel to see us.
When I spot Julian’s dark and sleek SUV, I grab my jacket and head out of my car, walking slowly, each step amplifying my nerves.
When I slide into the passenger seat, he glances over, and God—he's devastating. Black fitted shirt, jeans, that easy confidence he wears like cologne.
"Hey." His smile's warm, genuine.
"Hey."
We pull into traffic, and the city slides past the windows.
"So, ready for group therapy with strangers?" he asks, eyes on the road.
"Thrilled. Can't wait to cry in front of people I don't know."
He laughs. "We'll bring Kleenex. Make it a party."
"Do they serve wine at these things?"
"Doubt it. But we can stop after."
The suggestion hangs between us, dangerous and tempting.
"You look nice," he adds. "Green suits you."
Heat creeps up my neck. "Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself."
"I try."
The drive stretches ahead—fifty minutes of highway, trees blurring past, the sun dipping lower.
Fifty minutes alone with him.
What could possibly go wrong?
Thankfully, the drive is rather uneventful, just as it should be. I'm proud of myself — I kept it cordial and polite—did not flirt once… I don't think. But I did steal a few glances at his beautiful profile—just couldn't help myself.
I can do this. And this meeting could actually be good for me. I've been so on edge lately.
The church basement smells like old Grandma smell and lemon furniture polish. It hits me hard, unexpectedly—Dadi's house. Her tiny living room crammed with photo frames and doilies. I swallow against the ache.
She's been gone three years, but the grief still ambushes me.
"You okay?" Julian whispers.
"Yeah. Just… the smell. Reminds me of my grandmother."
His expression softens. "Good memories?"
"The best."
A woman approaches, mid-thirties, warm brown skin, kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. Her cardigan's buttoned wrong, and somehow that makes me like her immediately.
"Hi, I'm Tara. I'll be facilitating tonight." Her smile's genuine, practiced but not fake. "Go ahead and grab a seat. We'll start in a few."
The room's small, cozy. Folding chairs arranged in a circle. Against the far wall sits an old upright piano, wood worn smooth, keys yellowed with age.
I nudge Julian as we sit. "You should play. Entertain the masses."
He glances at the piano, then back at me. "Absolutely not."
"Come on. Show off a little."
"This is group therapy, not open mic night."
"Missed opportunity."
Two people already occupy chairs—a middle-aged man staring at his hands, and a younger woman scrolling her phone. More trickle in. An older couple. A guy in a hoodie. A woman clutching a travel mug like a lifeline.
My palms sweat. I wipe them on my jeans.
"Nervous?" Julian asks quietly.
"Terrified."
"Same."
He pulls a small notebook from his jacket pocket, black leather, pages dog-eared.
I blink. "Did you bring homework?"
"Notes. For the book.”
"You're taking notes at a trauma support group? I don't think that's allowed."
"If something resonates, yeah." He shrugs, no apology in it. "I'll be subtle about it. I'm sure it'll be okay."
It should feel weird, invasive even. But there's something honest about it. He's not pretending this is purely altruistic.
"As long as you don't write about me."
His gaze locks onto mine, intense, searching. "What if I want to?"
Heat floods my chest. I look away first.
"Then change my name. Make me taller."
"You're perfect the way you are."
The words land softly, deliberate.
I swallow hard, staring at the scuffed linoleum.
Tara claps her hands gently. "Alright, everyone. Looks like everyone is here. No time like the present. Let's get started."
Tara settles into her chair and crosses her legs. "I should tell you a bit about myself before we dive in. I've been a licensed counselor for eight years now, specializing in trauma for five. I run three support groups across the city."
She doesn't sound rehearsed. Just comfortable with her own credentials.
"Let's go around the circle. Just your name for now. Nothing else."
We start with the man to Tara's left. "Marcus."
"Bethany."
"Ron."
"Susan."
"Carlos."
"Julian."
My turn. "Liza."
Seven of us total. I expected worse—some kind of emotional bloodletting. But this? Manageable.
Maybe it's Julian beside me, his presence solid, grounding.
Tara launches into trauma responses. Fight, flight, freeze, fawn. My mind wanders to the convenience store, how I froze while everyone else dropped. How Julian stayed calm.
We discuss this topic for a while. I never realized how complicated trauma really is.
"Breathing exercises," Tara continues, "are your first line of defense against panic."
She walks us through a four-count inhale, seven-count hold, eight-count exhale. The rhythm steadies me. Julian's breathing matches mine—we're synchronized without trying.
"PTSD doesn't discriminate," Tara says. "Violence affects everyone differently. These emotion regulation exercises? They're tools. Use them."
She emphasizes that sharing is optional. In future meetings, we can talk. Or not. No pressure. No judgment. Complete confidentiality.
When it wraps, I feel... lighter. Like something has shifted.
I watch Julian close his notebook and tuck it back into his jacket pocket.
The session ended five minutes ago, and people mill around the coffee station, helping themselves to pastries arranged on a folding table.
"Donut?" Julian nods toward the spread.
"Obviously."
We approach the table together. I scan the options—chocolate glazed, old-fashioned, jelly-filled. But my eyes lock on the one covered in rainbow sprinkles. Perfect.
Julian reaches for a Boston cream, and I reach for a rainbow sprinkles.
"That's what sugar addiction tastes like."
"Says the Pepsi drinker."
He laughs, low and warm. The sound settles into my chest, makes a home there.
We drift to a small table near the corner, away from the others. I watch him eat, the careful way he wipes cream from his lip with a napkin. Everything he does feels intentional, measured.
"How are you feeling?" he asks. "After all that?"
I consider the question. Tara's voice still echoes in my head—trauma doesn't discriminate, breathing is your anchor, this is a safe space.
"Lighter," I admit. "Which is weird because we didn't even talk about what happened. Just... theory."
"Sometimes understanding the mechanics helps." He taps his temple. "Knowing why your body reacts a certain way. Takes some of the fear out of it."
"You sound like you've done this before."
"Therapy? Yeah. Years ago." He doesn't elaborate, and I don't push.
I finish my donut and lick sugar from my fingers. I catch him watching.
"What?"
"Your donut's totally you," he says. "Bright. Fun. A little chaotic."
Heat creeps up my neck. "Chaotic?"
"In the best way." His smile softens. "It suits you."
I gesture at his empty napkin, the last smear of cream. "And yours is predictable."
"Reliable,” he says.
“Perhaps a little bland,” I tease.
"Comforting. Classic. Sophisticated. Creamy… smooth… delicious." He winks at me, and I almost fall off my chair.
"Old man."
"Troublemaker."
We're flirting. We both know it.
Guilt twists in my stomach, but I can't seem to stop smiling.
Tara approaches, hands clasped. "Thanks for coming, you two. See you next week?"
Julian glances at me. I nod.
"Yeah," he says. "We'll be here."
We.
The word wraps around me like a promise I shouldn't be making.
The walk back to his car feels too short. I don't want it to end.
The drive home alternates between quiet contemplation and fragments of conversation. We dissect the meeting—Tara's warmth, the breathing exercises, the relief of not having to share yet.
When he pulls into the plaza, I unbuckle slowly.
This feels like a date ending. My chest aches with want.
I want to kiss him so badly. I know it's a horrible thing to want, but I can't help myself. I wonder what his lips taste like. Boston cream, probably. Would he kiss softly or hungrily?
Stop it.
"Thanks for driving me," I manage. "I really appreciate it."
"Anytime."
"Maybe next time I'll trust you enough to reveal my actual address. Instead of making you drop me in parking lots like some weird spy."
"I don't mind. Keeps the mystery alive." He smiles. "Plus, you still don't know if I have a creepy basement… best to be careful."
"Do you?"
"Wouldn't you like to know."
I climb out, wave awkwardly.
When I slide into my Mini Cooper, I grip the steering wheel.
I'm in trouble.
Deep, deep trouble.