I turn the text over to check the price only to find a wad of pink gum stuck to the back.
“I have to go to grad school.”
“You should do it.”
I head for the checkout, wedging my phone between my ear and shoulder and grabbing a plastic ruler off a display to scrape off the gum.
My older brother’s talent is why my parents were so focused on him when we were growing up. Clay’s prospects and mine moved in opposite directions. Just when he was starting to shine, I began to stumble.
I wonder if he feels guilty about what went down when we were kids. At the time, he didn’t notice. He’d FaceTime me from wherever he was playing to check in, but our parents didn’t know what to do about me.
“You going home for her birthday?” His words bring me back.
“I don’t think so. The semester just started and I’m already behind.”
“Last I heard they were thinking of going on a trip anyway,” he says.
The line is long, but advances quickly. I drop the text in front of the cashier.
“This too?” she asks, pointing to the ruler.
I shrug and reach past her for a tissue, sticking the wad of gum in it and setting it next to the book.
She recoils as if I’ve passed her a live spider.
“So what’d I interrupt last night?” Clay asks.
“I was about to get laid.”
“Impeccable timing on my part. Clearly, I’m looking out for you.”
“First time for everything,” I mutter.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. I have to go.”
“Send me the link and I’ll get my assistant to order the bracelet and wrap it.”
“Will she make me a sandwich while she’s at it?”
“I’ll ask.”
“Tell her to sign it with the usual.”
“Uh-huh. Take care of yourself,” Clay says.
I always have, I want to say.
I click off and head back out into the sunshine.
Group therapy takes place at a community center in Elmwood. The one-storey building houses a big gymnasium plus smaller rooms. It’s well-maintained with tidy gardens separating the parking lot from the front doors. The paint on the brick is new, but the trim near the door is cracked.
I follow the signs to the second room on the right of the hallway, a box of cookies in my hands. The door is unlocked and I push it in.
“Hello?”
No one’s here. Chairs are stacked at one side.
“Twenty.” I turn to see a girl around my age entering. “They usually set for twenty.”
“Thanks.”
They should probably be in a circle. Promote equality and honesty and all that.
She notices what I’m carrying. “Cookies. This is an upgrade. I’m Rana.”
“Kat.”
We exchange smiles.
“Are there supposed to be drinks?”
“Coffee.”
I can’t find anyone working in the building, so I go to the pop machine and get six juices and five sodas—all the cash I have—then take them and set them on the table next to the cookies.
By five minutes before the time we’re scheduled to start, more people have filtered in.
My professor arrives, grad students attached to her sides like they’re trying to absorb her energy.
She starts to take a seat, her gaze landing on the cookies and drinks. My prof gives me a micro-nod, and I feel the glimmer of satisfaction at her approval.
“As this is the first session of the fall, introductions are in order. I’m Emily Trainor, faculty in Russell’s psychology department.” The grad students go next. When it’s my turn, I sit up straighter.
“I’m Kat. A fourth-year psych student.” Everyone has shared something about them so I say, “I’m a badass with crafts. All media, but I do my best work in ceramics and papier-mâché.”
My comment gets a few laughs.
“Katrina will be making some notes while she’s here as part of a school project. But rest assured everything you say is completely confidential.”
The professor turns to the main business at hand.
I pull out a pen and notebook to take notes.
One by one, people raise a hand to share their stories.
It’s impossible not to be affected by their tragedies.
But in that room, something happens.
There’s a softening. As if each layer of grief piled helps to melt the one beneath it.
Toward the end, most of the dozen or so participants have spoken.
Rana, the woman from the start, shifts in her seat. “My dad’s been sick. I’ve been doing all this research, phoning doctors, trying to fix it. When I go to see him, to tell him, he looks right through me. It’s as if I’m not even helping.”
“Maybe you’re not.” I speak without realizing it, and every set of eyes flies to me. “I mean…Maybe he just wants you to be there.”
She shrugs one shoulder. “I want to do more.”
“Who says it’s better to run around spending your time with doctors and data instead of with him?”
One of the grad students drops her pen.
“Kat.” Professor Trainor’s voice is soft but there’s an edge beneath the surface.
I snap my mouth shut and go back to taking notes.
Rana comes up to me after to help put away chairs.
“I was out of line,” I say under my breath. “I don’t know you or your dad.”
“It’s okay.”
She offers a small smile and I return it.
Professor Trainor calls me over once I’m done packing up.
She dismisses the grad students, who are disappointed to be asked to leave before hearing whatever she has to say.
“You’re not a therapist yet. This is my group. You aren’t qualified to offer anything except cookies and compassion. Understood?”
“I wasn’t—”
She levels me with a look, and I take a breath. “Got it.”
When I get back from group and picking up Andy, Daniel’s car is in the driveway and I’m still annoyed about getting chewed out.
I’m barely in the door when there’s a knock. I glance through the peephole and grimace.
Great.
I hang up Andy’s bag by the door, unzipping it to pull out his art project from today.
“Why don’t you go show this to your dad?”
Andy bounds off, and I go to pull the door open to find Adam.
“Hey, Kat.”
“Don’t ‘hey, Kat’ me like we’re friends.”
My gaze narrows on his attractive face. The guy’s more flake than substance, but I never had a problem with him until he screwed around on Liv.
He rubs a hand through his wavy, perfectly styled hair. “We hung out for a year. I’ve bought you drinks.”
“What are you doing here? This is where I work.”
He grimaces, as if he’s suddenly rethinking the idea, too. “I’m trying to get some scouts here to watch me play. If I don’t have interest from a pro team, my dad’s going to make me get a real job. I thought Clay might be able to help me out.”
“Maybe you should’ve decided who your friends were before chasing some stupid chick with her legs wide open.”