Page 119 of I Blame the Club

Nico turns and winks at me, “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

I laugh and catch Mo’s amused gaze in the side mirror. He’s loosened up a lot since I first met him, the stiff exterior and forced charm eventually giving way to genuine thoughtfulness. I can see how some people might find Taber’s lacrosse legend intimidating, if not downright rude, but I can also see the caring person underneath. The one that Nico feel in love with.

If there’s one thing life has taught me, it’s to always look beyond the surface.

Glancing back at the graphic scene splayed out in front of me, I let out a sigh. The heroine just finished her second orgasm and the couple haven’t even gotten to the actual sex part yet.

Unease creeps over me as my eyes skim the first moment of entry, the moment when the man enters the woman, and I have to shut the book before the discomfort gives way to darker, more sinister thoughts.

It’s pathetic, really. I’ve been reading romance novels since I was thirteen years-old and I still can’t get past the sex scenes. At first it was because I felt awkward reading them, the typical young girl reading things she shouldn’t be, but now it’s for an entirely different reason.

“You ready for today, mi amor?”

Nico glances at me with concern, something that has become a routine between us every time it’s his turn to drop me off at therapy. If it were up to my brother, he alone would do all the driving, but after spending the first week of university dodgingare you okay?questions, I knew I had to put my foot down.

Wesley means well but there’s only so much sibling protection I can handle.

“I’m ready to grow and take on my next adventure.” I quote the words with a smile, thinking about the sunshine tissues my therapist hands out.

Nico grimaces from the passenger seat, “Babe, you sound like a bad car commercial.”

I smile, looking out the window as the passing prairies gradually turns into the dainty shops of Silverwood. Known as Taber University’s biggest lacrosse rival, the town is a half hour drive east of Taber and the closest place with a certified therapist.

Truthfully, the town is a lot cuter than Taber, the little mom and pop shops a welcome change from the sad country bar and gas station our university town offers. I haven’t had the chance to explore the town much, given the school rivalry and the tight carpooling scheduling I’m on, but one of these days I would love to explore Silverwood and discover what hidden gems are buried here.

The car rumbles to a stop outside the nondescript white building that takes up two hours of my week, every week. Unbuckling my seat belt, I lean forward to give Nico a peck on the cheek.

“I’ll see you in a little bit.”

Nico studies me intently, the same way he always does before these sessions. I give him a reassuring smile and get out of the car.

Sometimes I wish my life wasn’t so routine. That people weren’t always walking on eggshells around me. It feels like I’m stuck in this limbo where I’m not the girl I once was but not quite brave enough to be the girl I want to be.

So I stay the broken girl.

The one who tried to commit suicide after her boyfriend dumped her.

Releasing another sigh, I follow the pathway to the front door like I always do. I ring the doorbell upon arrival and turn to admire the bellflowers creeping along the edge of the property. The purple, star-like shape holds a simple beauty that makes me want to steal a piece and transplant it for my collection back home.

Maybe next week I’ll work up the nerve.

As I turn back to the door, a flash of yellow catches my eye. Abandoning my position by the door, I creep closer to the row of flowers, trying to pinpoint the location of the anomaly. It takes me a few minutes to find it, the tip of a yellow cloth sticking out from a pile of stones hidden beneath the mass of green leaves.

Heart pounding with excitement, I carefully extract the thin piece of material, watching it unfold in front of me.

Happiness is not by chance but by choice.

My excitement starts to fade as I read the sunshine tissue, the familiar black script screaming at me from the bright material. Someone must have lost it on their way out.

I hold the tissue up to the sky, comparing the bright rays to the artificial colouring of my therapist’s signature tissues. I squint against the sun, trying to pinpoint exactly what drew the tissue’s inspiration when I see it.

The black text bleeding through.

Bringing the tissue back down to eye-level, I peer at the material, but the black text is nowhere to be found. I frown, flipping the material over and let out a gasp of surprise.

But what if that choice doesn’t belong to you?

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