I move fast. Hurrying down the stairs like I’m sneaking out after curfew instead of just leaving my own goddamn home. Every creak makes me freeze. Every shadow could be Jess rounding the corner with those eyes that see too much.
Pathetic. I’m literally hiding from a woman who weighs maybe 140 pounds and a five-year-old with a stuffed snail.
This is what I’ve become.
Sneaking through my house like some fucking thief.
I make it to the mudroom without incident. Jag’s already there. Waiting. He doesn’t comment on the mask or the cap or the fact that I just skulked through my own house like a burglar.
Professional to the core.
Jag drives. I sit in the back of the Range Rover watching Brooklyn roll past. Sunset Park is working-class. Brick buildings and corner stores. The kind of area where people actually know their neighbors.
My phone buzzes. Felipe via text:Perimeter clear. No cameras. Team inside ran security checks on attendees. All clean.
Good. The last thing I need is some opportunistic asshole recording my breakdown and selling it to TMZ.
We pull up to the church. Modest. Worn stone steps. A sign out front advertising AA meetings and ESL classes.
I adjust my mask. Pull the cap lower.
“You want me inside?” Jag asks.
Do I want my own security watching me unmask in front of strangers? Watching me admit I can’t handle this shit alone?
Fuck no.
“No. Stay close though.”
He nods. Knows the drill.
The basement smells like mold and industrial cleaner. Old lights buzz overhead. A circle of folding chairs surrounds a full-length mirror propped in the center. A small basket sits next to it.
About a dozen people are already seated. All ages. All genders. All showing their damage.
A woman with half her face reconstructed from a car accident. A guy with burn scars covering his neck and jaw. Another woman whose entire left cheek looks like it was scraped off and put back wrong.
Everyone’s unmasked. Faces on full display like ingredients prepped and ready for service.
I’m the only one hiding.
The urge to turn around and walk out hits hard.
This was a fucking mistake.
I don’t belong here.
These people are survivors.
Fighters.
I’m just a rich asshole who got what he deserved.
But then someone gestures to an empty chair and my feet move before my brain catches up.
I sit. Keep my mask on. Cap pulled low enough that I’m barely visible.
The facilitator is older. Sixties maybe. Her own scars are faded but present. Burns probably. She has that calm energy of someone who’s been through hell and came out the other side without losing her humanity.
