I hadn’t handled my grief well at first. I had berated and abused myself. My guilt ate me alive. My parents blamed me for not taking care of my little sister. I blamed myself for spending so much time on my sanctimonious soapbox that I had been blind to what was really going on.
In the aftermath, my relationship with my parents deteriorated into barely functioning. And I had made it my mission to find a way to fix the pieces inside me that were broken and to live a life that mattered. A part of me was convinced that helping others would in some way help me move on from the devastation of my past.
So I came to Longwood University wanting to escape and to focus on becoming a drug-addiction counselor. It was far enough away from my hometown in North Carolina to feel like I was in another world. Yet it was close enough that it would be impossible for me to ever truly escape what had happened. Because I needed the daily reminder. It was motivation. It’s what got me out of bed every goddamned morning.
It made me a fighter.
But it didn’t change the fact that I was scared. I worried like hell that I’d never be able to do enough for the people who needed my help. That I would never be able to stop the slide once it began. The fear of failure was acute and debilitating.
Kristie made it all seem so easy. I appreciated the way she displayed such competence. She must have sensed my unease because she kindly patted my arm.
“We all have our crosses to bear, Aubrey. Yours led you here. And I know that is a good thing, for you and for the lives you’ll make a difference in,” she said knowingly. My smile was tight, and I wished I could believe her. But self-doubt was like a mosquito buzzing around my ear. The more I tried to swat it away, the more determined it became to suck me dry.
Before long the group members began to filter into the room. It was a relatively small group. We were expecting only twelve people. I didn’t know all of their stories. Kristie had filled me in briefly on the few who had been in the group before. But for the most part, the group would consist of newbies. Four had been court-ordered after being brought up on misdemeanor drug charges. The rest were here voluntarily, which was a bit of a relief. Hopefully that meant they’d be more open and accepting and less combative.
The seats began to fill. There were two girls I recognized from one of the sororities on campus. To say I was shocked to find them in a substance-abuse support group was an understatement, though if there was one thing I had learned in my life, it was that addiction didn’t discriminate.
A guy and a girl, obviously a couple, came in behind them. They seemed unsure and more than a little nervous, and a selfish part of me was relieved that I wasn’t the only one freaking out.
I needed to do something more than stand by the wall trying to blend in with the scenery. If I wanted Kristie to sign off on my volunteer hours, I had to jump into this experience with both feet. Who cared if I got wet?
I approached the couple with what I hoped was a welcoming smile. The guy seemed very protective of his girlfriend. His arm was around her shoulders, and she was pressed into his side as if he could shield her from everyone else. He had short, cropped dark hair and hoops along the outer shell of his ears. His jeans had holes in the knees, and he wore an old Black Sabbath T-shirt.
His diminutive girlfriend had bright pink hair cut just below her chin. She had a ring through her septum and two studs in her left eyebrow. I could see part of a tattoo on one side of her neck. Despite her kick-ass appearance, she came across as skittish.
“Hi, guys! I’m Aubrey,” I said, introducing myself. The girl’s eyes darted to me and then away again. I noticed the guy squeeze her shoulders before he turned his attention to me. He didn’t smile. His eyes were a dark, chilly brown.
“Hi,” he responded shortly, not offering his name. I looked at the girl again, but she had turned her face toward her boyfriend’s chest, and I wondered what their story was. They were anything but friendly, and I wished I hadn’t approached them at all. But this is what I was here for. They would have to get used to me eventually.
“I’m glad you guys are here. Find a seat. There are drinks and some food on the back table. We’ll be starting in about ten minutes,” I said, forcing a smile.
The guy watched me closely, his eyes narrowed and suspicious. The girl hadn’t moved from the protective shelter of his arm. Something about him reminded me of Devon and thus instilled an instant dislike. Okay, this was going nowhere. Without bothering to attempt to prolong the conversation, I returned to my seat.
Kristie finished handing out a packet of information to the people who had already taken their places and then found her own seat. She glanced up at me as I came to sit down beside her. She looked over at the couple as they finally made their way to the chairs. The guy had moved his arm but was now clutching his girlfriend’s hand so tightly it looked as though it hurt.
“I’ve seen them at the clinic downtown. I know they’re two of the court-ordered crew. Don’t take their lack of social skills personally. I think they’re a pretty rough pair,” Kristie said quietly, watching them carefully.
“Yeah, just kind of a sucky start, I guess,” I muttered, flipping through the pages of the introductory packet. Kristie chuckled.
“If it didn’t suck, I’d start to worry it would be a boring group,” she joked. I tried not to stare as the rest of the group entered the room, but it was hard, particularly when I realized I recognized quite a few of the participants, including a frat guy who hung out with Brooks.
There wasn’t a whole lot of talking. The room was silent except for the sounds of chairs scraping across the floor as people found their self-designated spots.
Just before group was about to start, the door swung open, and I glanced up at the person who entered.
Instantly the mood in the room changed, and the air crackled with an electric energy. I felt an immediate awareness inside me that was surprising. Because the boy who walked in was beautiful. That was the only word my addled brain could come up with to describe him.
His broad shoulders strained under a shirt that looked as though it had been sculpted to his form. His blond hair fell in haphazard curls around his ears. His almost startling blue eyes were framed by the thickest and blackest lashes I had ever seen. It should be criminal for guys to have eyelashes like that.
His face was lean, and his chin was dimpled in the middle. His lips were stretched in a smirk as he took in the other people in the room. Every single person, male and female alike, focused on his entrance. And he seemed to revel in the effect he had.