Clearing her throat, Amanda asks, “Everything okay with, um, your player?”
“No,” Matt shakes his head. “But I talked with the Hal, the General Manager, and the um, player,” Matt glances over at me, trying to be discreet, “he’s going to start that Dear Life program. He’s spent some time thinking about it ever since he made his decision, and we all agree it might be good for him. The front office is willing to accommodate any schedule the program brings. We just want him mentally healthy.”
“The Dear Life program?” I ask, barging in on the conversation. “I think I’m going to join it as well.”
“Really?” Matt asks, looking slightly confused.
“Yeah.” I shrug. “I mean, I want a fresh start.”
“I suggested it to her,” Amanda cuts in. “Hollyn is going to do it as well.”
“Are you some kind of secret marketing guru for them?” Matt laughs.
Turning the stove off, Amanda shakes her head. “No, I’ve just heard great things about it, okay?” Her tone makes me believe that maybe she might have taken the course herself. I hate that I don’t know my half-sister well enough to read her. That will be rectified.
Glancing down at the tablet, I read more about the program. It’s all about writing letters, expressing your feelings, really putting yourself out there, exposing your inner demons and getting raw with the idea of facing your fears.
This might be exactly what I need. At least I hope it is because right now, I know nothing of this world other than what my grams has told me.
Already, after only a few days with Amanda and Matt, I’ve realized how extremely sheltered I’ve been. I’ve always been happy, never once did I feel neglected or like I was missing out on anything, but then again, that’s probably because I didn’t know what I was missing.
And boy, have I been missing out on a lot. TV shows alone are blowing my mind, not to mention the gossip magazines, the access to anything by the touch of your phone—yeah, I just got a cell phone for the first time. No clue how it works. The world sits in the palm of your hand.
I don’t blame my grams for sheltering me. I know she taught me what she knew, but now that I’m living with Amanda and seeing the abundance of opportunity right in front of me, I want to take advantage of it. I want to learn, I want to feel free. I want to live. Break free.
And Dear Life sounds like it might just help me do that, along with the brilliant check from my estranged father.
It’s funny, when one door closes, there really is another door open, ready and waiting for you.
CARTER
This is my fucking nightmare. Literally, God popped out of his cushiony throne of clouds, decided to fuck with my sanity, and put me in this love-thyself group. Absolute nightmare.
According to my uncle, I only have myself to blame for the reason I’m drinking stale coffee and sitting in a circle of sad and unfortunate souls. But I beg to differ.
I have a few people to blame. First, I blame my asshat uncle for making it practically impossible to claw my way out from under his watchful and suffocating eye. Second, I blame Sasha, the evil bitch who stole all my money—and I’m not going to lie, a little piece of my heart—but I’m not going to get into those bullshit feelings right now. Third, I have Ryan to blame for getting in my way behind the grill, which led to an all-out brawl in the kitchen. I’ve told him time and time again to get the fuck out of my way but he didn’t listen. I made sure I got him out of my way myself, by punching the shit out of him. Not going to lie, the dude has a killer right hook because he blasted me a few times. And fourth, the final nail in the shit-tastic coffin I’m lying in right now belongs to Hollyn, my co-worker, the demanding waitress with the bright red hair. She suggested this godforsaken program to my uncle who jumped on the bandwagon immediately.
Yesterday, I was brought into his office and offered up two opportunities: I could either attend this Dear Life program to completion so I can, as my uncle put it, get my life in shape, or I can continue to work at the restaurant but add three more years to my “sentence” to pay off the damages made during the fight.
Three more years.
No way.
Three more years in the hell I’ve already been living in seems like a life sentence. That’s why I’m here, partaking in the infamous Dear Life program that’s been sweeping all the granola-headed, kumbuya freaks in the Denver area, stewing in my own hatred and anger.
When I first arrived I spotted Hollyn, who annoyingly waved at me. Clearly not interested in talking to her since she is one of the reasons I’m here, I ignored her and grabbed some coffee. Now I wish I didn’t because my mouth tastes like a stale coffee-coated asshole.
And to top it all off, I had to sign my life away when I walked into this dank church hall. Yeah, I had to not only sign a non-disclosure, but I also had to sign a contract stating I’ll attend every single meeting, follow through with the program, and write letters as described in the program leaflet. And if I don’t? This free program that’s offered is immediately switched over to something of cost. Yeah, if I decide to quit, I have to ante up one thousand, two hundred thirty-two dollars to the church we’re meeting at. Where they came up with that number I have no clue, but since I’m now broke, I have no way of paying my way out, not that I could because that would mean three more years at my uncle’s. How the fuck did my life spiral down so quickly?
As I was told by the chipper debutante with her grossly high-styled hair at the front, the money portion is to ensure everyone entering the program is serious about it and committed. Little do they know, I will be skirting my way through the entire thing, ticking down the days until I’m done.
Throwing the trash coffee out, I take a seat in the round circle—shoot me now—and stare down at my hands that are clasped in front of me. Right about now, I would be found being anti-social with my face buried in my phone, but of course, would you guess that they confiscated our phones when we first got here? Yeah, like I said, fucking nightmare.
“Is this seat taken?” a small voice asks from behind me. Glancing back, I see a blonde, porcelain-skinned girl wearing a long-sleeve turtleneck with snowflakes decorating the fabric. Added to her appearance are frumpy, acid-washed overalls, creating a mom pouch in the front that I know she doesn’t have by the look of her petite frame. Yikes.
The circle of chairs around the room are not quite full, she could have chosen a different seat, but I guess it’s better to sit next to snowflake than it is to sit next to the heavy breather marking his territory around the sugar packets.
“Nah, go ahead,” I answer her, nodding my head at the chair.