Page 17 of Wrapped in Hope
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just hoping that you came to college and moved on. I want you to be happy.” His eyes, that look so much like Dean’s, soften with his words.
I fight back my tears. I’d rather be mad than sad. “I don’t think I’ll ever let him go. I’ve been trying.”
He grabs his beer and takes a sip. “Have you?”
“Hello! Therapy!” I feel my eyes grow wide and for some reason, I’m throwing my hands around like I know sign language.
“That was you trying?” he asks, sarcasm dripping from his words. “Have you ever actually stood up and told your story?”
“No! Of course not. How will telling anyone my problems make them any better?” I motion for another shot to ease my anger and nerves. I don’t want to sit here and let him judge me, or tell me I’m wrong for the way I’m living my life.
“If you don’t make an effort, why do you keep going?” He rubs his dark five o’clock shadow, drawing my attention to his high cheek bones, to his angular jaw, and down to his thick lips that rest above a dimpled chin. God, he looks like Dean so much, but so much more mature and aged. Just seeing him makes my heart hurt like it’s being squeezed.
“It occupies my time, and I can listen to other people’s issues and forget about mine for a little while. Why did you go there?” I want to turn the tables on him. I want the attention off of me. If he inspects too much, I’m sure he’ll see how damaged I really am.
He lets out a long breath. “My life has changed so much since that day. I figured out that sitting around the house moping wasn’t going to fix anything, so I threw myself into work, going to the gym, and joining those meetings. It helped to take out a lot of aggression and like you said, it occupied my time.”
“But it’s not working?” I throw back my shot and set the empty glass down.
“Do you always drink like this?” He looks at the empty shot glasses setting in front of me, and I look at a nearly full glass of beer.
“No. I never drink actually. I’m afraid it will help me too much and I’ll turn into an alcoholic.” I laugh, I don’t mean to, but I can’t hold it back. Wait, how did we get back on me?
He takes another sip of his beer before looking back at me. “You need to heal. You need to let my son go, and move on. I know that sounds impossible, but he’s holding you back.”
Anger surges through me. “So all your effort and attempts at moving on didn’t work, and that’s why you joined a therapy group?”
His chest puffs out as he holds his breath before letting it all out. “It helps, but the problem is waiting for me when I get home, if that makes any sense.”
I can hear the anger in his voice now, and I’m pleased.