She does a rabbit-jump and spins to face me.
“The therapy room is over here,” I say, pointing.
“O-okay,” she says. “I’ll … I’ll see you in there.”
Again, I want to just say whatever and continue on. Again, there’s still enough of the old me—the girl who used to serve on the student council, unofficial chick-in-charge-of-organizing-stuff—that I can’t turn my back on her, no more than I could a freshman who looks ready to bolt on her first day.
“If you don’t mind walking in with me, I’d appreciate that,” I say as I head over. “I hate that part.” I stop in front of her. “I’m Riley.”
“Sandy,” she says.
“My roommate? Even better. Please tell me you know more about these weekend things than I do.”
A weak smile. “No, sorry. I’m a total therapy noob. I …” Her gaze darts to her hand, and I see her sleeve riding up just enough to show bandages around her wrist. She quickly yanks her sleeve over them.
“S-sorry,” she says. “It’s not— It’s not as bad as it looks. I wasn’t really … wasn’t really trying to …” She sucks in breath. “Just a stupid thing. A boy and … stupid. But my parents are freaked out so I said I’d go to therapy, and we heard about this weekend, and I thought it would make them feel better if I volunteered, you know? Prove I regret it and …” She looks up, her eyes widening. “Oh my God, I’m babbling. I can’t believe I just said all that.”
I smile for her. “It’s practice for the sessions. And you did very well.” I look toward the therapy room, where I can hear Aaron’s loud voice and then Max with some sarcastic rejoinder. “We can go in there with the guys or we can poke around out here.”
“I’d rather poke around. He sounds like a jerk.”
“Which one?”
She smiles, and we head off down the hall.
CHAPTER 2
Worst thing about group therapy? The introductions.
Hi, I’m Riley, and I … have a problem.
Yeah, we all do. That’s why we’re here.
Hi, I’m Riley, and I … need help.
Um, well, then you’re in the right place.
Hi, I’m Riley, and I’ve been diagnosed with situationally related anxiety and depression leading to post-traumatic stress disorder.
Say what?
Hi, I’m Riley, and I was in the house while the couple I was babysitting for were murdered.
Oh, you poor thing.
Hi, I’m Riley, and I was under the bed while the couple I was babysitting for were murdered downstairs.
Oh, you poor … Wait, you were under the bed?
No one ever says the last one. But I hear it. Over and over. Some days, it’s all I hear.
Now I’m in the therapy semicircle again. Sandy sits to my right, wearing a cardigan, sleeves pulled down over her hands. Max is in the back, as usual. Aimee sits off to the side, letting the second therapist—a balding guy named Lorenzo—lead the group. The boy on the end was supposed to talk first, but he wouldn’t. The girl on my left went instead. Brienne. As tiny as Sloane but blond, Brienne looks like a cheerleader. She’s here for “emotional stuff.” That’s all she says for now, which is fine. No one will push. Yet.
I’m up next.
“I’m Riley Vasquez, and I …” I trail off, searching for the right words as my stomach clenches.
“Oh!” Brienne grins at me like she’s about to shake her pompoms and ask for an M. “You were in the papers. You saved that little girl.”
As I shrink into my chair, she notices my reaction and hurries on, “And you’re the city girls’ fencing champ. That’s why I remembered the article. I thought the fencing thing was cool.”
I manage a weak smile for her. “Thanks.”
Aaron wrinkles his nose. “If you’re the girl who saved that kid, what are you doing in therapy? Is the pressure of being a hero too much to bear?”
I flinch.
Brienne moves forward, like a tiny attack dog straining at its leash. “She saw two people die.”
“No,” Aaron says. “If I remember the story, she never actually witnessed—”
“Oh, for God’s sake. She was there when two people died. She could have been killed herself.”
“The point is,” I cut in, “that I’m working through some things—”
“Like what?” Aaron says. “Did you even see them after they’d been shot?”
My annoyance from earlier flares. “No, I just presumed they were dead and called 911 without actually checking on them. Of course I saw them. I—”
“Take the tone down, please, Riley,” Lorenzo says.
“What?” Brienne says. “This jerk gets to say whatever he wants, and you give Riley crap for defending herself? And if you dare tell me he’s just needling her because she’s cute, I swear I’ll hit you. Then we’ll have to spend the rest of this session talking about my anger issues, and nobody wants that.”
“No, Brienne,” Lorenzo says evenly. “I wasn’t letting Aaron get away with that. I was about to add that we don’t challenge anyone on their right to be here. Now, Aaron, you’re next. Introduce yourself, please.”
“Fine. I’m Aaron Highgate, and I’m here by mistake.”
Brienne mutters under her breath. He glowers at her.