Ritual - Palm South University

He’s right. I do hate losing people. I hate it more than anything.

And as much as what he did hurt me, it killed me more to have someone I loved, someone I gave myself to completely, just disappear from my life overnight.

What if we could be friends?

Am I crazy for thinking it’s possible?

“We can attempt to be friendly,” I decide on, which makes Grayson instantly smile and do a small fist bump by his side. “But I’m not making any promises that I’ll be okay with it. I’ll try. That’s all I can give.”

“That’s enough,” he says. Then, he stands straight and salutes me. “See you Thursday, partner.”

I offer a small wave, chest tight even after he’s gone. Then, I scan the yard for Adam. Now that Grayson and I are lab partners, it’s time to tell Adam what’s going on.

I don’t find him after a long moment of searching, and I frown as a text comes through my phone saying he got caught up with Alpha Sigma stuff.

He’s been stressed out, and I know he has a lot going on with the Alpha Sigma karaoke event coming up and the Halloween bash not too far after.

Maybe I should wait until things settle down a little bit.

Maybe by then, I’ll know if Grayson is true to his word or not.

With a deep and uncertain sigh, I reply to Adam’s text to let him know I’ll see him later, and then I make my way to the Student Union to have lunch alone.I NEVER EAT THE donuts or drink the coffee at group therapy.

I don’t know why I choose this exact moment to notice that, but as the usual group files in, I stare at the donuts, the various colors of sugar and sugar substitutes, the tiny, individual cups of creamer, the simple red stirrers, and the steaming, black liquid as it flows from the pot and into a Styrofoam cup that’s then carried away and I wonder — why do I never get any?

Part of it is vanity, I suppose, because I gave up coffee for fear of stunting my growth and yellowing my teeth, and donuts, well, that one is pretty obvious. I work hard enough to keep my thighs cellulite-free and my hips fitting into a size six, that even thinking about how many miles I’d need to run to work off a donut stresses me out.

But deep down, I think I know it’s because that seemingly innocent table spread of caffeine and sugar is a watering hole.

And in my eyes — a trap.

When I come to group, I walk straight to the same chair I’ve sat in every week, sit down quietly, place my large purse in my lap, and cross my legs.

Then, I wait.

I watch as other members talk to each other while making their perfect cocktail of coffee and sugar and cream, and I smile politely if someone catches me looking — but I never join them.

And yet, I always take my time to get dressed up for session. I change into a different outfit so I’m fresh, redo my makeup and hair if need be, and I always look like I’m ready to go out to dinner after.

Maybe it’s because sometimes, I hope I will be.

My vision is blurred and out of focus with my mind buzzing, until a dark shadow crosses between me and the coffee table. It’s just a blur of black and gray that whooshes by, but I blink, waking from my daze, and my gaze follows the shadow.

Of course, when my vision focuses once more, I realize the shadow is a human. A boy — around my age, I guess — with olive skin. He’s dressed in dark, skinny jeans and a black, long-sleeve shirt that makes me sweat thinking about the fact that it’s September in South Florida. Those sleeves are crossed over a broad chest, and he stretches out his long legs next, crossing them at the ankles and sinking down into his chair. His face is hidden by the bill of a gray ball cap, pulled down over his eyes, just the hint of stubble on his chin visible to the room.

I’ve been coming to group therapy all summer, and I haven’t seen him before. Everyone else in the room I know very well — at least, well enough.

There’s Cyndi — with an i, which she’ll remind you nearly every session — a white, middle-aged redhead who has an obsession with the color green and has been plagued with guilt since she backed out of her driveway and accidentally ran over her thirteen-year-old cat. There’s Jonathan, the father who put his gambling addiction before his children, and they now want nothing to do with him. There’s Kendall, the kleptomaniac — which I smiled at the first time I heard it, because it somehow sounded cute, the combination of her name and her affliction.