6
Kevin
Iallowed her to reside in my mind instead of evicting her. Why did I do that? Her touch crawls through my chest and squeezes my heart. The perfect melody of her voice infiltrates my ears. Her image is permanently etched into my mind, reminding me every day of what I lost.
Well, fuck.
I sneak a drink of rum from the flask in my jacket. My hands tremble. The Jesus statue stares at me disapprovingly—the one who turned water into wine. Hypocrite.
“Kevin!” Mr. Andrews raises his voice at me and knocks on the desk in the church fellowship hall.
The sound startles me, and I sit up tall.
“I asked you if you wanted to share why you were here.”
I snap my attention back to the large white room. Unfamiliar faces surround me in this half circle, with Mr. Andrews front and center. The chair squeaks as I adjust my position.
“No thanks,” I say with tight lips and a shrug of my shoulders.
“Okay, Mr. Marino.” He cocks his head with a look of disappointment. “Does anyone want to share?”
Just as a young kid stands to introduce himself, the heavy metal door slams behind us. The sound makes my skin crawl. I almost leap up and grab the weaponless waistband of my pants. The sound echoes in my ears as it mocks me, rattling around in my head and trying to stir up memories.
As everyone turns toward the door, I take the opportunity to grab my flask and chug it, and the last of the dark liquor hits my tongue. As I tighten the cap and slip it back into my jacket, the chair beside me whips backward, and a girl sits down with a huff. I look at her and cock an eyebrow. She doesn’t bother to acknowledge me, which is fine. I’m not here to make friends. I’m not even sure why I’m here. Not even Mr. Andrews can fix the things going on in my head.
Mr. Andrews lifts a file and looks at the girl beside me. “Skye Sarotta?”
“Present,” she says.
“Group starts at seven, not seven thirty.” He gives her one of his disapproving looks. That look used to make me feel guilty as fuck. In some ways, he’s like a dad I never had.
She rolls her eyes, and the blue color reminds me of marbled sodalite. I cross my arms and look ahead. Mr. Andrews walks from one group member to another, asking them to stand and introduce themselves.
The young man who stood up before the girl came in wipes his oily blond hair from his face. “I’m Alex. I’m twenty years old, and I have bipolar paranoid schizophrenia. Diagnosed five years ago.” He flashes a smile as the group welcomes him. What a triple decker.
I sit silently. I dread speaking because I don’t even know what I’d say.
“Skye, will you introduce yourself?” Mr. Andrews stands in front of her with a clipboard in his hand.
She doesn’t stand up. “I’m Skye, I’m eighteen, and I don’t want to be here.” She flashes a fake smile and drops her face into her hand.
I’m the one rolling my eyes this time.
Mr. Andrews sidesteps to position himself in front of me, and I stand without prompting. I’m nearly a foot taller than him. His eyes rise to meet mine, and he brushes a hand through his balding hair.
“I’m Kevin. I’m thirty. I’m a combat veteran who served two tours overseas.”
People in the room clap for me. I wring my hands and grimace at the applause. I don’t deserve it. I’m not a hero. My early discharge makes me feel like I let my country and myself down. I can’t seem to finish anything without fucking it up.
I nearly knock my chair backward when I sit down. I look over and catch Skye staring at me. She drops her gaze, her cheeks flushing red.
We get through the group session, listening to story after story of people willing to be better versions of themselves. What am I doing here?
“Kevin, can I see you?” Mr. Andrews motions me toward the table at the back of the room. The rest of the group files out of the fellowship hall, leaving silence and empty chairs in their wake.
“What’s up?”
“I have no file for you. Why are you back? Did you get in trouble again?” Mr. Andrews asks as he gathers the manilla folders into a pile.
“Not officially, but kinda. Trying to get ahead of it, I guess. What did you used to tell us? Self-awareness is the first step?” I give him a half-smile and brush my hair back.
“Do I need to be worried?” he asks without accusation.
“No, nothing like that. I’m struggling with a little bit of infatuation. I feel like it’s overtaking me.”
“Why didn’t you talk about it at the meeting, Kevin? How can I—”
“Do you remember how long it took me to open up to the last group? I’m not exposing myself to all these strangers on the first day.”
He nods. “You don’t have to expose your guts right away, but please try to participate a little more next time. I can’t help you if you won’t share.”
“Yeah, I’ll try.” No promises.
With a quick nod, I head through the metal double doors and past the Jesus statues lining the hallway. I scoff at them. Growing up catholic, I had Jesus thrown in my face since I was a child. Everything I could or couldn’t do was for Jesus Fucking Christ. I do the sign of a cross as I reach the end of the hallway, zipping up my jacket before stepping into the frigid night air.
Combat boots stomp on the icy ground behind me. Skye walks in place, her breath visible with every exhale. She puts a cigarette to her lips and lights it with shaking hands.
“Can I help you?” she snaps.
I curl my lip at her. “No.”
I turn around and head for my car, looking back once more before getting in. The ignition turns over, and I wait for it to warm up. Smoke rises from the exhaust. I put the car in reverse and pull out of the holy parking spot. My foot hovers over the brake as I near the front of the building. I press down, and my car lurches to a stop. When I lower the window, Skye looks at me with fiery suspicion.
“Do you want a ride home?” I ask.
“I don’t get in cars with strangers, especially not ones I meet in fucking therapy.” She drops the cigarette, squelches it beneath her boot, and takes off toward the road.
I release the brake and ride up beside her again. “This is creepy, I know, but I really don’t feel comfortable letting you walk home at night like this.”
She rolls her eyes before grabbing the handle and climbing in. “I have a knife and will slit your throat if you try anything.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. For some reason, I don’t doubt her.
“Where to?”
“The cul-de-sac in the Hedgewood community.”
Hedgewood? What rich girl like her ends up in a place like this with a person like me? I glance at her all-black outfit. Dark jeans, boots, and a long-sleeved shirt. She shows no skin, pulling the sleeves over her hands and wringing them.
I drop her off at the entrance of the community. She grabs her backpack and slams the door behind her without acknowledging me. I watch her walk. The slump of her shoulders and the shuffle of her feet tell a story I’m interested to hear.