Chapter 3
Grace
I’m surrounded by newspapers, my phone, and my laptop. I’ve been searching all mediums, hoping to find an apartment I can afford. But what am I even doing looking for another place to live? I won’t be able to afford even the cheapest of options. I don’t have a job.
“Argh!”I throw myself back onto the pillow and stare up at the ceiling. A minute later, with my frustration reined in, I sit back up. “Come on, Grace. Getting yourself riled up won’t solve anything.”
My self-encouragement falls flat. My anxiety is still on the rise.
It’s uncomfortable living in Rowan’s apartment after what he did. It’s been four days since the Devlin incident. I ignored his calls for two days until the phone stopped ringing. But ghosting him is ridiculous, considering I’m living in his place.
Rowan can show up at the door any time and kick me out. I’ve been anticipating that moment. So, I’ve been desperately trying to figure out another living situation. Chomping on my fingernails, I gaze at my phone.
A small part of me wants to talk to him, to let him know how angry I am that he played me. Another part of me wants to hear him out... maybe I shouldn’t have run off without confronting him. At this point, I’m just too embarrassed to face him.
Rubbing my eyes tiredly, I get up and nix the temptation to reach out to Rowan. There’s somewhere I have to be, anyway. Maybe my next meeting with the fire victim support group will go better than the first. Perhaps this time I’ll find the courage to speak and release some of my anxiety. Maybe I’ll stop feeling so lost.
***
Familiar faces forma circle in the same room we sat in last time. A few people who didn’t speak at the previous meeting have shared their stories this afternoon. Will I be brave enough to follow in their footsteps?
My legs bounce up and down and I have to make a conscious effort to keep still. Andrew, the meeting’s host, must see my growing anxiety because before he asks who else wants to share their story, he smiles gently and states, “It’s okay to be nervous. Talking about trauma isn’t the easiest thing to do.”
There’s a murmur of agreement.
“So, who else wants to share?”
A man who looks to be in his late twenties or early thirties timidly lifts a hand. “I’ll go next if that’s alright.”
I do a double-take because I don’t recognize his face. Now that I’ve been jolted out of the daze I’ve been in since I walked through the convention center’s door, I realize his isn’t the only new face. There are two more people who weren’t present at the last meeting.
I blow out a breath. It’s going to be doubly hard for me to speak now. I’d gotten comfortable with the group I sat with last time. Again, I listen to a few victims share their experiences and how they’re coping until it comes down to me.
“Grace.”
My head snaps up at Andrew’s voice.
“How do you feel about sharing today?”
I gulp. Spilling my guts in front of a group of strangers is hard. But I can’t just show up and not participate all the time, can I? “I can speak today.”
I stand up and tentatively look around the room. I catch Susan’s eye—she was at the last meeting. She smiles encouragingly.
“Um... well, first, hi everyone.”
There’s a chorus of, “Hi, Grace,” that makes me smile.
Taking a deep breath, I dive in, starting with how difficult I find it to share my experience with them because I don’t think I lost as much as most of them did. But Rowan told me the other night to talk about my trauma and not to downplay it or I’ll never heal. I hate thinking about him right now, but he’s always there in the corner of my mind. Lingering—or maybe haunting.
By the end of my story, I’ve shared how off I’ve felt since my ordeal.
“I feel like I’m standing in the middle of nowhere with no indication of where to go,” I tell them. “It’s like I can’t get back the life I had before, no matter how much I try. Not that things were all that stellar, but I felt like I was going somewhere.”
My fingernails dig into the tender flesh of my palm. It’s become a habit when I get anxious.