Damaged Goods

She leaned toward me and touched my arm. “Is this really so hard? I think you’ve come a long way since your discharge. I would hate to see you backslide into using again.”

Susan was in her early thirties, maybe a few years older. She had shoulder-length, wavy blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a creamy complexion. Today, she wore a green tunic and black leggings with short black boots. She looked like she had never suffered a sleepless night.

“Think I’ll go get some bad coffee,” I said. Anything to keep me awake.

Susan laughed. “Okay. We’ll get started soon.” She flitted off to fiddle more with the seating.

I crossed the room to the refreshments table. My support group of seven had grown by three more members in my absence. People were scattered about, chatting among themselves. Two of them—one Army grunt and a Marine—had also served in either Afghanistan or Iraq. As I poured a cup of the dark and no-doubt bitter brew, I felt a presence at my side.

“Hi. My name is Nick. This is only my second meeting. You just join?”

I looked up to see a man of about thirty, with unruly brown hair and dark eyes.

“My name is Erica, and this isn’t my first time. It may be my last, but I say that every time.”

Nick grinned and shook his head. “Wow, don’t hold back on my account.”

“I tend not to sugarcoat my views.”

“I’ll do my best not to piss you off,” he said. “May I say that you are very pretty?”

Oh-kay. “Sure.” I gave him my happy face. “It’s the high cheekbones, you know. Everyone used to tell me I should be a model.”

“I take it you aren’t?”

“Hardly. I don’t think it’s a good idea to build a career on your looks.” I sipped my coffee. Not as burnt-tasting as I’d expected. “My cheekbones are the happy result of a few Cherokee genes.” No one in my family talked about it, though. One of my grandmothers brought the topic up, only to have it dropped for good. I hoped mightily that my Anglo ancestors hadn’t raped a native.

“Dare I ask how you feel about the Redskins?”

“The same way I feel about football. I couldn’t care less.”

He flashed another smile. “What do you do?”

I leaned toward him. “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.” I winked at him and walked away.

Chairs scraped the floor as everyone took their seat. I picked my own, leaving an empty chair on either side. Almost immediately, Nick sat down next to me. “Hello, again,” he said. “Fancy finding you here.”

I suppressed a sigh. “I’m no good at small talk. Sorry.”

“Neither am I. But I’m intrigued with what you’ve said so far.” He extended a hand. “My name is Nick Baxter. And yours is?”

“Erica Jensen.” I put my hand into his warm, firm grip and we shook amiably. He had a direct, if somewhat piercing, gaze.

Was he hitting on me or just terribly curious?

“I used to be a Washington Post reporter,” he said “I’m working freelance now. Or trying to since I’m a victim of layoffs. I also work part-time as a night manager at Olive Garden.”

“Are you a freelance editor or writer?” I asked.

“Both. I’m taking whatever work I can get.”

Uh oh. That explained his curiosity. Guard your tongue, Erica. “Best of luck with that. Things are tough, huh?”

“Let’s talk about you instead. Seriously, do you work for the government or what?”

“Okay, let’s get started,” Susan piped up, just in the nick of time. “Who would like to share first?”