Page 7 of Solitude

“He did mouth to mouth resuscitation on Mister Whiskerton!” Gretchen adds, grinning a bit too hard to be believable.

With arms crossed over his chest, Cole chuckles. He looks lazily at Honey, eyes softening at her twisted face. He turns in his chair to face her and leans his elbows on his knees so he can really look at her.

“This is a safe space, Honey,” he says quietly. “The people in this room have seen every version of me. The good, the bad, the ugly. My whole point for mandating these sessions for you is so you can have a sense of camaraderie. Everyone here has a story to share.”

Not me, but I don’t bother correcting him.

No one really understands why I show up to these meetings, and I can never explain it well enough.

Honey crosses her legs, so close to kneeing Cole in the face as she turns away from him. She picks at another place on her pink dress, and I’m drawn once again to howout of place she looks. How she doesn’tlooklike an addict. I know that sounds bad, and I try so hard not to judge a book by its cover.

But Honey carries herself differently than anyone I’ve ever seen.

Like she’s important. Worthy of the eyes she holds and the stares she captures.

Her platinum blonde hair is perfectly curled and framing her face. Her makeup looks flawless, like her skin is airbrushed, and there’s a thin gold chain with a single pearl around her neck that she’s been fidgeting with occasionally. She’s wearing a bright pink dress that hits her mid-thigh and nude heels that look like I’d snap my neck if I tried to wear them.

Don’t even get me started on the huge, brown-leather tote she’s carrying with her. I imagine her entire life is in that bag. I briefly wonder if she keeps almonds in a mint container like I’ve seen in the movies.

She’s beautiful. Elegant.

Like her namesake–Honey.

So yeah, she’s so out of place sitting with this rag-tag group that it’s almost comical.

By contrast, my light blonde hair is in a ponytail on top of my head with a few bumps along my scalp that I couldn’t be bothered to smooth out and enough grease to start a small kitchen fire. Thank god, it’s hair washing day today. My face is bare of makeup, not even lip balm–not that I wear a ton of makeup to begin with–and there’s not a trace of jewelry on my body.

I rolled out of bed this morning with crusty eyes and drool on my cheek. It took me approximately six minutes to throw on an old t-shirt Cole gave me when he moved into his own place a year ago and a pair of cut-off denim shorts. It took me another five minutes to make a cup of scalding hot coffee I ultimately leave in the kitchen sink and try not to spill it as I hopped around the entryway shoving my feet into my tennis shoes.

Jogging to the town square where Cole rents out a basement unit under the municipal building from my house takes eight minutes, and I manage to do it three times a week.

Don’t let me fool you. I am not a runner. Honestly, I’m barely a walker, but the jog is good for me. It wakes me up in a way coffee just doesn’t.

The short sprint wakes me up physically and gets me ready to tackle the day. Whereas my travel mug of sweet, hot coffee wakes up my mind and soul so I can be a kind person throughout the day.

I wish I could say that over time I’ve come to enjoy the trek, but my short legs rejoice as soon as I enter that dingy room and collapse in a chair. My route consists of jogging down my street and cutting a hard left through Hollow Graves Cemetery where I say a quick hello to Old Man Jenkins–may he rest in peace–then almost kill myself on the slight hill that leads up to Main Street.

My chest always heaves, sweat dotting my brow, and lungs on the verge of collapsing, yet I continue to do it.

Actually, instead of developing a love for running, I’vedone the opposite. I have an intense hatred for it. I shoot disgusted looks at anyone I see running these days. Sometimes I flick them the middle finger.

In my head, of course.

I don’t think I’ve ever actually given the finger to anyone.

I’m a nice girl. Always have been.

Fishermen down at the docks brag about what a good kid I am whenever I buy from the market. The Old Coots Brigade as Cole has affectionately named them—who hang out on the square like Magnolia Hollows very own vigilantes ready to make a citizens arrest at any moment–smile and tell me what a good girl I am every day when I pass by.

I don’t even do anything!

And let me just tell you that’s not the way I want to hear those words.

None of the women in the books stacked all over my room and on my shelves get called a good girl by the grannies in their hometowns for just existing and not causing any trouble.

But that’s how I’m known around The Hollow.

Just a good girl that doesn’t make a ruckus.

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