Page 15 of Wrapped in Hope
Chapter 6
Five years later…
“Doyou want to stay in and rent a movie tonight?” my roommate, Jen, asks me as we’re walking out of class.
“No, not tonight,” I answer, pulling my books closer to my chest, hoping to hide behind them.
She rolls her dark eyes before pushing her black hair behind her ear. “Group again?”
“It was the only night available,” I lie. Truth is, they have a group meeting every night of the week, but I picked Friday so I would have a good excuse to miss out on parties and other group activities I didn’t want to go to. I don’t want to do anything more than what I have to. Right now, I’m focusing on getting a degree. I didn’t want to be here without him. I think actually getting here was the hard part. But I couldn’t stay locked up in my room any longer either. I was going crazy.
I decided to come to school after wasting a year of my life. Now I’m behind, but better late than never. I keep myself busy with class, homework, and group. I don’t even know why I go. I never volunteer information, but it’s comforting to know that there are other people like me out there, that I’m not the only one living without their heart.
Neither of us talk much on the walk back to our apartment. That’s why we make such good roommates. We’re both broken and like to hide away from the world.
Jen told me that once upon a time she was as normal as they come, going to parties, sleeping with all the popular guys in school, and winning every popularity contest she was ever in. It wasn’t until she was raped by an older man that she pulled away from society. The man was an upstanding citizen, married with the perfect wife and kids. He was someone she thought she could trust, so she didn’t think otherwise when he offered to give her a ride home.
After everything was said and done, nobody believed her. They said that she slept with everyone anyway, she must have invited it one way or another. Since then, she spends all her time locked away, not trusting many people, older men especially.
I go directly to the shower, in hopes of washing this day off of me. When I step out, I put on a pair of jeans with a black hoodie, and pull my wet hair up into a messy bun. Going to group is just to fill my time, I don’t need to have hair and makeup done to sit in a chair and stare off into space for an hour.
I hail a cab and give him directions across town to where the group meetings are held. When I walk into the brick building, the harsh florescent lights almost blind me. They shine brightly off the white linoleum floor and plain white walls. The fold-up chairs are in their usual position: arranged into a circle in the center of the floor. And there is a table set up against the wall that is home to coffee, tea, water, and cookies.
I pass it all, and I’m the first person to sit down in the large circle. I hate the circle thing. I prefer when the chairs are all facing one direction, but this way we can all see one another. I don’t want to see the hurt and tears in people’s eyes because it only reminds me of my own.
Slowly, the chairs start to fill up, and the group leader walks in and takes her seat. She introduces herself like she does every week before looking at the person on her left to start.
The man stands. I look at his long, messy blond hair, the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, and the hollowness of his cheeks.
This one is fresh.
I know because I used to look that exact way. The lack of sleep is evident on his face. So is the self-loathing that’s rolling off his weakened frame.
“My name is Tom, and I’m here today to talk about losing my girlfriend.”
“Hi, Tom,” the whole group says in unison, except for me. I don’t talk in these meetings.
He nervously waves to the group before starting his story, eyes downcast. “I lost my girlfriend a month ago to an overdose. And I don’t know how to move on. Me and her, we both met at a bad time in our lives. We both used, but after a year of being together, we both decided to get clean. We had been going to rehab and slowly healing together. But she relapsed. She called me crying, trying to talk out her problems, but I didn’t have time to listen. I was at work. I told her I’d talk to her when I got home, but by the time I got there, she was dead.” He begins to cry, and he wipes away the tears from his face.
“I feel like it’s all my fault, you know? If I had just been there for her, this never would have happened. She wouldn’t have reached for the needle that night. But I blew her off. I could have talked her down. That’s what we did for each other.” He falls back into his seat and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Since her passing, I hate to admit that I’ve started using again. I can’t stop.” He turns and looks at Marissa, the group leader.
She reaches out and rubs his knee, whispering something to him. I try to listen in, just out of curiosity, when the door behind me closes loudly. Everyone in the group jumps, but me. I don’t turn to look to see who came in because I don’t care. I can’t. If I start caring about these people, I’ll never heal.
I look up to see him walking away from me, toward the only open chair left, the one that sits directly across from mine. He’s tall and he’s wearing a black, leather jacket that hugs his wide, muscular back. When he sits down and I look up to meet his eyes, I’m frozen. I see nothing but familiar blue-green as a tingle takes over my body, causing every hair to stand upright.
It’s Dean’s uncle, Holden.
He sees me and his brow furrows while his jaw tics.
It’s been five years since I’ve seen him, but he looks good: strong and put together. He’s tall and looks like he’s been working out. He pulls off his jacket and hangs it on the back of his chair. My eyes automatically go to his bulging biceps and muscular chest.
His jet black hair is styled neatly, almost in a way that Dean would wear his, and his jaw is cocked, highlighting his high cheekbones. He looks tense, making him look dark and menacing. Something floods over my body. Something thick and hot, something I haven’t felt in a long time that halts my breathing.
Marissa turns to look at him. “Thank you for joining us, Holden.”
He tears his eyes from mine, finally. With his hot gaze off me, I can breathe again. “You suggested it, so here I am,” he replies in a deep, gravelly voice that causes goosebumps to rise on my skin from the memories it brings up.
“Would you like to tell everyone here your story?” Marissa’s eyes land on mine. It makes me wonder if she knows my story and set this up. How is that possible?