The man—Fields—glanced at me first to make sure I didn’t want to share anymore and then launched into a story about his son and how he had a panic attack when a car backfired in his neighborhood. His son apparently had been learning about his symptoms, and they discussed why Fields reacted in certain ways tothings.
How veryhealthy.
Unkind, but envy at how very adapted all these men seemed to be cut through me to my already raw core. The meeting couldn’t be over fast enough. Parker said goodbye to everyone and made a straight shot to me as I almost tripped over the chair in an attempt toflee.
“Mara, you’re welcome back to the next meeting.” He whipped out a card from somewhere and gave it to me. “Or if you find you need to talk to someone, you can call me directly.” His offer of help seemed sincere, and I gave him a nod before running out of there. The taxi I ordered as they wrapped things up waited on the curb. I made it to Murphy’s bar and slammed in with ahuff.
The entire ride I stewed over why I had to attend such a shit show. None of them talked about waking up in cold sweats, none of them talked about being unable to drive themselves around for the rest of their lives because of some fucking head wound. None of them lost years of their lives, leaving an empty void filled to bursting withquestions.
And every single one of them knew who theywere.
I hated them for that the most. Murphy took one look at me entering and turned over a shot glass, poured it to the rim, and pushed it forward to the edge of thebar.
A tightness in me eased at seeing him. I was still angry. My hands shook as I grasped the glass and tossed it back. It burned its way down, eating through some of thefury.
“Another one, Barman, and keep themcoming.”
He poured another shot. “That bad,huh?”
I tossed the shot back and leveled him a glare. “It was fucking in agroup.”
He sucked air between his teeth. “I take it you didn’t know it was a group thing when you called and signedup.”
I shook my head, and he poured another, thankfully, without comment on how one more would likely put me on thefloor.
I cradled this one and let out a sigh. The alcohol already created a nice cocoon in my belly. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t my fault, nor theirs. I had to figure this thing out, and if that meant sitting with a bunch of guys talking about our feelings for an hour, then I’d do it. No way in hell I’d enjoy itthough.
Murphy put the bottle back on the rack and leaned on the bar. “It probably doesn’t matter to you, but I’m proud ofyou.”
Alcohol induced or Murphy being his saint-like self I didn’t know, but I leaned across the bar, captured his neck in my hand and kissed him deep. We broke apart at the wolf-whistle from the corner of thebar.
“Shut up, Marty, or I’ll cut you off.” Murphy yelled even though he remained an inch from my face. Then to me he said, “What was thatfor?”
I shrugged. “Do you need help back there orwhat?”
“Nope. I’m good. Slow crowd tonight, and you might do better off taking a hot shower and relaxing. If you know how to do that sort ofthing.”
“What’s that supposed tomean?”
“Well, you have shitty taste in music, so you can’t listen to that in an attempt to wind down. What do you do torelax?”
My face burned hot, and I prayed the low bar lighting hid my blush from him. He didn’t miss the way I ducked my chin and cut off eye contact. “What? Now you have to tellme.”
“It’s nothing. A girliething.”
“Yes…so…tellme.”
“I like to paint my toe nails torelax.”
I checked his expression from under my lashes, and he only smiled, the same all-knowing Murphy smile he usually wore. “Nothing wrong with that. You do whatever you need to do. I think you’ve earnedit.”
And right back to being reminded I’m different. I took down the last shot, pushed the glass his way, and headed toward the door. Maybe that was the problem. I could never escape it. I’d always be that girl: the one shot in the head, the one with amnesia, the one with PTSD or whatever label they put on it thisweek.
I hated being the center of attention for all the things that happened to me. More so, it rolled my stomach to watch the realization filter into someone’s eyes as they puzzled through who I was or what I’d suffered. Like my trials were a side show attraction meant to fodder conversation when the good topics ranlow.
I made it to my room and flopped on the bed, the shots now giving me a slow, hazy feeling. As close to oblivion as I could get right now, outside of Murphy’sarms.
I could close my eyes for aminute…
