3
Claudia is super perky this afternoon. Her place is a complete mess, but she doesn’t care. She’s in love. His name is James, and he’s a chef. I smile, hoping this one works out because Claudia can’t cook to save her life. Her and her son Colton could use a good meal. Apparently, James is divorced too, and has two teenage sons, slightly older than Colton.
She’s been going on for over an hour about him, when Mischa who looks bored, changes the subject. “So, Gretchen. How did the interview go?”
Abigail perks up. “Oh yeah, I forgot… the interview. How did it go?”
“Was Mr. Dark & Mysterious there?” Claudia asks.
I smile. “We can stop calling him Mr. Dark & Mysterious now. His name is Weston.”
Claudia smirks. “But I like calling him Mr. Dark & Mysterious.”
I shake my head. “Yeah… he was there.”
“How did he look?” Mischa asks.
“Amazing… God, I could barely breathe around him,” I confess.
Abigail smiles. “Well, that might be a problem if you get the job.”
“Well, I actually would be working mostly with his assistant, Rosetta,” I explain. “She’s a hoot.”
“Is that the older lady he’s with sometimes?” Claudia asks.
“Yeah.”
“I knew it wasn’t his mother,” she says. “They look nothing alike.”
“Anyway, she’s a lot of fun—”
“What is the penthouse like?” Mischa asks.
My eyes widen at the recollection. “It’s amazing. You would love it, Mischa. Everything is so pristine and perfect, and you can tell everything is top-notch expensive. Floor-to-ceiling windows and the views are fantastic.”
Her smile is tight when she says, “You really want the job, don’t you?”
I nod, knowing that I’m in for a huge heartbreak if I don’t get it. I’m starting to worry. It’s already been three days.
“You’ll get it,” Abigail says. “I can feel it.”
I smile at my sweet friend. I hope she’s right.
* * *
The room isas dreary as I remember. It’s only my second time here. I didn’t hate it the first time. I didn’t love it either.
My gaze darts over the posters on the wall, the colorful marked calendar, the table covered with tea and coffee and store-bought cookies, the kind I don’t like; cinnamon swirl and oatmeal.
I’m early again. There’s only four of us, seated in a circle. Deanna, the group leader, a tall delicate blonde, is shuffling through her notes and papers. She’s a soft-spoken woman with a calming voice, about forty or so. If she weren’t a social worker, I could easily imagine her as a yoga instructor. She has a zen quality about her.
She’s married and has two children, a boy, ten, and a girl, eight. I forget their names now. She’s been working as a social worker for almost twenty years. She’s a Grief Counsellor at the hospital nearby. She’s called in to console the loved ones of the deceased. I wouldn’t want her job for all the money in the world. Yet, I’m thankful there are people like her around. She’s as close to an angel as you can find on earth.
I know all this because we chatted a bit last week since it was my first time at the Grief Counseling Group.
I blame Abigail for all this. She’s been on my case for a long time about this, harping on the fact that I need to properly grieve Donovan. She just wouldn’t let it go, so I finally relented and let her do her thing, and find a group for me. I promised to go, and now I feel obliged, accountable.
I hate everything about this place; the hard chairs, the crappy cookies, the dumb motivational posters. I’m debating how many weeks I’m obliged to attend in order to prove that I really gave it a go when he walks in.
