Chapter Eleven Cole
The community center basement seems smaller this time, more confining.
I arrive five minutes early, but I’m not the first one here.
Tyler is sitting in the same metal folding chair as last week, chatting with Tracey.
They both look up when I enter, Tyler with an approving nod, and Tracey with that carefully neutral expression I associate with all therapists.
“Cole,” Tyler greets me. “It’s good to see you.”
I nod back, choosing a seat opposite them. “Tyler. Tracey.”
“How was your week?” Tracey asks, her clipboard already in hand, her pen poised. Always ready to document, to analyze.
“Fine,” I say automatically. “Work’s been busy.”
It’s the kind of non-answer I’d flag immediately in a security interview. Vague, deflective, designed to sound normal while revealing nothing at all. By the slight tilt of Tracey’s head, I can tell she notices it, too, but she doesn’t press.
“Did you have a chance to work on the awareness exercise?” she asks instead.
My hand goes to my jacket pocket where the notebook sits, now containing a few days’ worth of entries. Not a stellar record of compliance, but better than nothing.
“Some,” I admit. “It’s been…educational.”
Tyler raises an eyebrow at me, looking almost amused. “Educational is one way to put it. Eye-opening is another.”
Tracey’s gaze shifts between us. “You two had your first check-in?”
“We did,” Tyler confirms. “We met at the diner on Mountain Avenue.”
“And how did that go, Cole?” Tracey directs her attention back to me.
I consider her question before answering. The truth is complicated. The meeting was uncomfortable but not entirely unproductive. Tyler’s insight about redirecting what I’m feeling rather than suppressing it has stuck with me, even if I haven’t found a way to apply the concept to my own life yet.
“It was fine,” I say. Then, making a small effort toward honesty, I add, “Tyler had some useful advice for finding alternative outlets for my…instincts.”
Tracey nods, scribbling down a brief note. “That’s good. Finding positive ways to channel maladaptive behaviors is a key part of your recovery.”
The door opens again, and Grant enters, followed closely by Austen.
They nod in greeting, taking seats in the circle.
Within minutes, the remaining members arrive—Zach still looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, and Jessica carrying what looks like a stack of new books, probably from the store where she works.
At exactly seven p.m., Tracey clears her throat, officially starting the meeting.
“Welcome, everyone. Before we begin our check-ins, I’d like to introduce a concept we’ll be exploring this week: the distinction between simple observation and crossing the line.
I believe some of you refer to it as ‘surveillance.’”
My shoulders tense slightly. Her words hit uncomfortably close to what I’ve spent the last several days doing.
“Observation,” Tracey continues, “is passive, momentary, and generally reciprocal. It involves noticing your surroundings, being aware of others in shared spaces, and processing information that’s publicly available. It’s something everyone does.”
She pauses, letting that definition settle before continuing.
“Surveillance, on the other hand, is active, sustained, and typically one-sided. It involves deliberate tracking, information-gathering beyond what’s freely offered, and pattern analysis over time.
It’s the difference between noticing someone frequents a coffee shop and recording what time they arrive at that coffee shop every day for a week. ”
The distinction seems clear enough on paper, but in practice, the line smudges easily. Especially for someone like me, whose training and profession have normalized shit like this.
“As we do our check-ins today,” Tracey says, “I’d like each of you to reflect on an instance this week where you found yourself crossing from observation into surveillance, and what triggered that shift.”
She looks around the circle. “Who would like to start?”
To my surprise, Jessica raises her hand. Last week she’d been quiet, offering only minimal responses when directly addressed.
“I had a moment,” she begins, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear.
Her voice is low and gentle, but there’s a sadness in her eyes.
“My ex’s girlfriend came into the bookstore where I work.
She didn’t see me—I was in the stockroom when she arrived, and I saw her through the window in the door.
” Jessica’s fingers twist together in her lap.
“I should have just kept working, but instead I watched her for almost twenty minutes, memorizing which sections she browsed, which books she picked up.”
“What was the trigger for you?” Tracey asks gently.
Jessica sighs. “Fear, I think. I’m still worried that he’s hurting her the way he hurt me. But also…curiosity. Why does she stay? What makes us stay when we know they’re not good for us?”
My mind flips to Emma, and I’m instantly triggered. I hate the imbalance of power between men like Jessica’s ex or Shitbag Steve and the women they manipulate.
Tracey nods. “Thank you for that honesty, Jessica. Did you recognize the behavior in the moment, or only afterward?”
“In the moment,” Jessica admits. “I knew exactly what I was doing. I even took notes on my phone about the books she was interested in, telling myself I could ‘accidentally’ recommend titles I knew she’d like if she ever came back.”
“And how did you handle that recognition?”
“I eventually made myself walk away. I went to the break room, texted Austen.” Jessica’s expression shows a mixture of pride and resignation. “It was hard, but I did it.”
“That’s excellent,” Tracey says, smiling warmly. “Recognizing the behavior and choosing differently is exactly what we’re working toward.”
The conversation continues, with Grant sharing how he caught himself researching a potential client’s social media profiles “for inspiration” before a scheduled photoshoot.
Austen describes his impulse to create a fake profile to access an online writing workshop at his former student’s new university.
On and on they go, somehow spiraling but maintaining an ounce of composure as they vent about what tipped them over the edge this week.
Each of us is different, but we’re all drawn back to the same thing.
We can’t let shit go.
Every story features the same elements: the justification for behavior we know is wrong, the moment of recognition, the struggle to choose differently. It’s unsettlingly familiar, this pattern of rationalization followed by a reluctance to stop.
When my turn comes, I consider deflecting, offering some watered-down version of my week that would satisfy Tracey and the group without revealing any real vulnerability. But something stops me—perhaps the honesty of the others or the memory of Tyler’s words about taking the program seriously.
“I met someone,” I begin, feeling the weight of six pairs of eyes on me. “An ER doctor. We met when we were hiking, then ran into each other a few days later. We went on a date.”
Tracey nods, waiting for me to continue. Everyone else is silent, watching me intently.
“After our initial meeting, I had the immediate impulse to look her up. To find out more about her. She told me where she worked and her first name—enough details to find her easily.” I pause, uncomfortably aware of how this sounds.
“I didn’t do it. It really was by chance that we ran into each other again.
It almost felt like a reward for holding out against the urge. ”
“What was the trigger?” Tracey asks, the same question she’s posed to everyone.
I consider her question carefully. “Competence, I think. She was extraordinarily capable in a crisis. Calm, decisive, knowledgeable. I found that…intriguing. I knew she was different.”
What I don’t say—can’t say in this setting—is how rare it is to meet someone who operates on the same wavelength as me, who processes information and responds to changing conditions with the same efficiency.
How the synchronicity of our interactions on Horsetooth Mountain left a hole in me that only information about Hailey could fill.
The desire to understand her was a physical ache in those first days after we met.
My relief running into her at the café was like the closing of a wound or the sudden, complete healing of a broken bone.
To finally kiss her…
That kiss was everything I imagined it would be and more. She’s fucking perfect.
“And you recognized this impulse in the moment?” Tracey prompts, pulling me back to reality.
“Yes,” I confirm. “I identified the thought pattern and deliberately chose not to act on it.”
Tracey’s expression shows genuine approval. “That’s significant progress, Cole, especially for someone so new to the program. What did you do instead?”
“I continued my hike and went home. I watched a documentary to distract myself.” I shrug slightly. “Normal things, I guess.”
“Excellent,” Tracey says. “That’s exactly the kind of redirection we encourage.”
The meeting continues with Zach sharing a brief, reluctant account of driving past his ex-client’s gym “just to see if his car was there,” but successfully resisting the urge to go inside.
The group discussion that follows centers on identifying early warning signs of relapse and developing personalized strategies for interrupting past patterns before they can develop into fully realized behaviors.
As the conversation flows around me, I find myself both engaged and detached—interested in the people around me and how they’ve learned to live with such a demanding addiction, yet maintaining an emotional wall between myself and the group. I’m participating, but not fully belonging.