Pinpricks

Chapter 15

   I'm here, I type with unsteady hands, as I lean against a picnic table and let out a shaky breath. I suppose it's only fitting to see him here, now, at the place where we first met.
   The first thing I did when Cassie gave my phone back was arrange this meeting with Jared. And after talking at length with my rehabilitation counselor in our one-on-one sessions, I know what I have to do today.
   My heart starts to beat more erratically as his tan Cavalier makes its way up the hill, the tires crunching gravel loudly. I want this moment in time to stop, right now. I want to make it last. I  want to put off the inevitable. I want to change my mind before it's too late to back out, because the things I have to say to him are not what I want to say at all.
   He parks but doesn't open his door. His knuckles still grip the steering wheel tightly. It's as if he can feel what I'm feeling, and he's afraid to face it. I am, too.
   Finally, the door opens, and Jared saunters out. He looks calm and collected, but I can see right through that. He keeps his hands in his pockets, and I know that he's balling them into fists to keep from shaking. I'm overcome with the urge to run at him, to grab him by the hand and lead him back to his car, hop in beside him and tell him to drive. We could leave everything behind, and he would take us away to anywhere else. But that's not how things are meant to happen.
   I'm already crying as he leans in to hug me, and he flinches at my tears. I quickly wipe my face, afraid that he'll think he's already upset me somehow.
   "What's going on?" he whispers.
   "I think you know."
   He slowly shakes his head as a solitary tear traces a path down his cheek.

   "I had to do it," I tearfully tell Elle, who is on the other end of the phone. "There was no other way."
   "You were right," she says soothingly. "It never would have worked. You were just hurting yourself by hanging on."
   "I just... Why?" I cry out, exasperated. "Why aren't things different? I'd just got him back, Elle, and it was all supposed to be okay, and I had to lose him again, and I can't do this."
   I know Elle doesn't have the answers, and I feel bad for having a full-on breakdown right now, but nonetheless I can't stop the torrent of tears.
   "It's been over for a long time, Mick," Elle says. "You know that."
   I do know that.
   "You know what I think?"
   I sniffle. "What?"
   "He loved you. And still loves you. I believe it, I'm not just saying it to make you feel better. But I think it was hurting him just as much as it was hurting you, because he knew he broke your heart, even if he didn't mean to, and he knew he couldn't take it back. When you told him it was over, it was a release for him. You gave him your blessing, basically, to commit to his family. You let him go, and it was the best thing that could have happened for both of you."
   I see the truth in her words, but the finality hits me harder than ever as she speaks, and a whole new wave of despair envelops me.
   After we hang up, I lie in bed and desperately wish I had something, anything, that would make me feel better.

   Today is the first day I will share in Group. I decided this morning, after I rolled out of bed, that I'd been quiet long enough. This will be my sixth session, making it officially two weeks into the program, and I've not so much as uttered a word outside of my private sessions with Dr. Demot, or, as some of the more childish members of group call her, Dr. Demon.
   The chairs have already been arranged in a wide circle when I walk through the double doors leading into the massive space reserved for Group. I feel my chest tighten at the prospect of talking in front of all these people. I count the chairs as I walk toward them, knowing that within the next ten minutes every last one of them will be full.
I count thirty and sink slowly into a vacant chair, the hard plastic scraping my back.
   As the minutes tick by, my fellow recovering addicts start to file in. They come in all sizes and all ages; men and women, boys and girls. There are some who are stuck in this room because of heroin, like me, and others who abused their parents' prescription drugs, some who got caught cooking meth, and one lady who had been prostituting herself for coke. I know these things because all of them have shared in Group. Coke Lady held her tongue for a while, but I suppose she must have known she had to say something sooner or later.
   After everyone has taken a seat and quiet chatter begins to flow, Dr. Demot strides through the double doors, her heels clicking pleasantly on the tile flooring. She takes her usual seat, a nicer-looking chair than all of ours, and smiles warmly across the circle.
   I know what she'll say. It seems to me that her greeting is a rehearsed speech- it's always the same.
   Good morning, she always begins. I'm so glad to see so many of you here today. As if any of us have a choice. I hope everyone has something new to share today. Who would like to begin? Nobody. Nobody ever wants to begin. She picks someone different each time.
   She picked me once, but I just shook my head. After some gentle prodding, she gave up, saying she couldn't force me to talk if I wasn't ready, and I felt smug that day, and kept my lips sealed tightly.
   This morning, as she's nearing the end of her spiel, right as she's asking who would like to begin, I stand up.