Page 42 of Deliverance

“See you next week, Drew.”

I end the call, toss the phone on the table, and squeeze my eyes shut. A breathy “yes” escapes my lips.

See, it wasn’t that hard, Drew.

I spend the entire next day in my studio, working on a project for a Dutch client who requested to see the initial proofs at the end of the week. By dinnertime, my head hurts so much from staring at the computer screen for hours on end that all the colors blur into one and I can’t keep my eyes open anymore. Knowing the amount the eccentric club owner is paying for the job, I indulge myself with an upgraded Uber Black option to get back to my loft. The car’s a sleek SUV with a driver who knows to keep to himself, and despite the madness that reigns on the city roads during the evening rush hour, the ride is surprisingly pleasant.

Cocooned by silence, I relax against the leather of the back seat and absently stare at the colorful landscape that passes behind the tinted windows.

Despite the extra workload, I’m calm and even a little excited.

Fear starts knotting my stomach when I’m home, taking a shower. As always, it comes out of nowhere.

There’s a chill in my bones and panic in my chest, wrapping around my ribs like an invisible rope and pulling them against each other with every intention to fracture me.

Breathe, Drew,I tell myself while scorching hot water continues to pound against my skin.Breathe.

I’m not certain how much time I spend like this, but by the look of my pink paint-free skin, I assume it’s quite long. While my panic has subsided, my stomach is still uncomfortably tied up when I get out of the shower.

Downstairs, my phone buzzes. Once, twice, three times. My guess is that it’s Santiago. Most likely, he’s trying to lure me over to the group meeting with the promise of some birthday cake.

I change into a pair of jeans and a tank and I descend the stairs to order an Uber.

Twenty minutes later, the car pulls into a large lot edged by trimmed shrubs and pole lights. We pass a gray two-story building and reach the end of the parking, where a small group of people are congregating near the single-entry fiberglass door with a modest sign above it.

Tate Family Practice.

“Here is fine,” I tell the driver and step outside as soon as we come to a full stop. “Thank you.”

Several pairs of eyes look my way, one of them belonging to Santiago. He’s wearing jeans and a hoodie and looks nothing like the hottie who regularly strips in his TikTok videos.

“We didn’t think you’d make it.” A wide grin splits his face.

“Hey, stranger.” I return his smile and wave my hand at the rest of the group. Jack, Samantha, Yesenia, and Pam. They acknowledge me with nods and hellos. No names are said outside in the parking lot. Confidentiality is a rule that’s valued above all in Reagan’s group. Because of people like me and Jack. Although my gut tells me that’s not his real name and I’ve been mentally putting various industry names to his solemn face for months now, ever since he showed up halfway through one of the meetings, unsteady on his feet and with a huge bruise marring his jaw.

He was one of the few people who declined my offer to work with me onScars. Though somewhat hurt by his refusal, I understood why he didn’t want to have his body on display, for the same reasons I never showed Tina—or anyone else, for that matter—my self-portrait. The canvas never made it outside my studio. Wrapped in several layers of parchment, it’s still tucked away from the world in the confines of my workplace where no one can see my pain.

Because they don’t need to. Because that pain is for me only. A reminder of who I used to be and who I don’t want to be anymore and never will be again.

Once Pam finishes her cigarette, we head inside.

The meetings are usually held in the conference room, or at least, that’s what it originally was back when Reagan was starting out her practice. Unlike many support group facilitators, she’s never been in a relationship with a person who tried to control every aspect of her life. Her sister Aileen was. Sadly, she never made it. Her boyfriend killed her during one of his drunk brawls. In her home.

I shiver as I pass a framed photo of Aileen, sitting on a floating shelf next to a shamrock-like plant. Reagan hardly talks about it anymore, but the traces of torment are there—in every sharp line that riddles her aged-before-its-time face. My guess is, she’s in her late forties, but she looks at least a decade older. The only thing that gives away her spark is her voice. It’s kind but full of raging fire, and when she speaks, the world pauses to listen.

Today, Reagan is wearing a knee-length dress and a pair of flats, and her graying hair is curled into a bun at the nape of her neck. The room is buzzing and people are milling about, plastic plates with what looks like a carrot cake in their hands.

My gaze sweeps over the crowd, noting familiar faces, and a new one—a girl in a leather jacket and ripped jeans. She’s huddled in the corner, next to the door that leads to the back alley. In case she needs to flee. The tension in her shoulders and her rigid posture remind me of my first time here. I’d already satisfied the requests of my doctor and tried two different therapists, but my only takeaway was that they both seemed to use the same cheat sheet. I felt duped. I wanted the fear, the nightmares, and the anxiety to be gone. The only thing that was gone—no, lost!—was my time. The time I could have been spending creating more art.

I’m not certain where the need to play around with paint and photos came from. My father owned a film camera and I know the basics, but my real passion has always been drawing. Dare I say, I’m pretty good too. Giving it up in college due to lack of time wasn’t an easy choice, but my plan was to get back to it eventually. Then Rhys happened and my life took a sharp turn, a turn that led me to the place where this girl appears to be lingering now—the edge of the blade. One wrong move and you’re dragged back to hell.

My gaze rests on the newcomer long enough for her to notice me. She stares back, her brows drawing together.

I will the corners of my mouth to curve up and she returns the gesture.

“Drew!” Reagan’s voice steals my attention. She weaves through the cluster of people flocking around the table with the infamous birthday cake and heaps of plastic silverware. “How are you? It’s been a while.” She gives me a small smile, the net of lines around her eyes deepening, only to highlight how much her loss has worn her out, and I can’t help but wonder if anyone but my mother would have cried for me if Rhys had struck my head one too many times at some point during our marriage.

Would anyone have even noticed?

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