It’s not because I don’t trust myself.
I take a seat, gambling that Stephanie, our group’s over-eager leader, won’t sit next to me. Four dozen metallic legs scrape across the poured concrete as everyone joins. Stephanie takes the seat next to mine. A cup of coffee isn’t going to be enough to hide behind, but today her eyes are on our newcomer: Mr. Arrogant.
I can’t blame her. Mine were until I heard him speak. I can’t see if he’s softened again or if our near miss has permanently affected his mood. I shouldn’t care. It pisses me off that I’m curious. Men that snap over things like spilled coffee are on the top of my list of ones to avoid.
Stephanie manages to collect herself before any drool escapes. But she fluffs her bottle blonde hair as she stands and leads us through a pointless mantra about acceptance and forgiveness.
I direct my attention to the words. I’ve said them a million times. I’ve screamed them into my pillow. I’ve whispered them like an incantation. They never become real. For a long time, I believed saying them chipped away at the boulder of self-recrimination resting on my shoulders. Now I know that I grew strong enough to carry the weight. Unforgiven sins don’t diminish, after all. You can’t magic them away with well-meaning words, because forgiveness is granted not taken.
“Does anyone want to share?” Stephanie prompts. Her request drips with sugar, and I instantly miss Ian, our former leader, who never had time for bullshit. He’d taken that philosophy global and retired to sail the coast. I still hadn’t warmed to his replacement.
I shrink back so she won’t pick on me. Sharing is supposed to be voluntary. There’s always someone desperate to spew their failures or proclaim their accomplishments, but when there isn’t someone gets put on the spot until the meeting starts to flow. It’s not that I want to sit here and stare at a circle of familiar strangers. I don’t want to be the first to go. Not today.
“Perhaps…” Stephanie trails away but her gaze is pinned on Mr. Arrogant. I actually feel embarrassed for her. It’s beyond obvious that she’s screwing him in her mind. It couldn’t be more clear if she had stood up and drawn a pornographic cartoon on the church basement’s chalkboard.
“Jude,” he answers the unspoken question.
Jesus Christ. Jude. I hope he has a motorcycle. Then he can officially be our new town rebel. His eyes flicker to mine as if he can hear what I’m thinking. They’re soft again, but he doesn’t keep his gaze on me. An icy shiver shoots up my spine and spreads its chilly tendrils across my scalp as my heart pounds erratically against my rib cage.
I hope then that he speaks. I want him to share his story so that I can understand the strange effect he has on me. Even now surrounded by a dozen other people, the connection between us is palpable—a tangible thread winding from him to me. I haven’t felt this way since…well, never. Not for a man.
Certainly, not for a stranger.
Even as he turns away and addresses the group, it's still there, binding us to each other.
He stuffs his hands in his pockets and smirks. “Like I said, I’m Jude. Um, do you want my resume? A list of my transgressions?”
A few others chuckle. Every newcomer falls victim to the classic “I’m Nancy. I’m an addict" trope they've been sold in movies. Reality is a bit messier than that. Some people show up and start spilling their guts as if the rest of us have a secret we can share to fix everything. Others sit and fume. They’re the ones who are here because their wife or husband or the court demanded it. The worst are the ones that come with all the answers already. You can’t help them. Then there are the ones that listen. The ones that wait.
I have no idea which one Jude is, but I know which one he’s not. He's not a gut spiller, and I strongly doubt he's got someone waiting at home for him. If I had to bet, I’d guess he was here on court order. It would explain the attitude. And maybe there’s a part of me that wants the whole package—tattoos, arrogance, legal trouble. No woman wants to admit that she never grew out of her bad boy phase.
I can't even remember mine. That’s why I’m here.
“No need.” Stephanie flutters her lashes, and I realize I’m not the only one who hasn’t grown out of that phase. “If you’d like to share what brings you here, feel free. This is a safe space.”
She draws a circle in the air, and I smash my lips together to prevent a laugh from escaping just as Jude bites his own lip.
Well, that’s one thing we have in common. We both see the absurdity of our situation, and yet, we’re both here.
It’s probably the only thing you have in common, I remind myself.