Page 4 of The County Line
“Yes, there’s only one center that currently has openings in Whitewood Creek, and since the county line is your limit, NewBeginnings Counselingwill be the location you receive these services at. I do have to warn you, I called in advance and the only therapist they currently have available to take on newpatients is a student. Just give them a call when you leave here and make sure you ask for Liv Brown. The sooner you can get on her calendar, the sooner the eight weeks of therapy can start.”
Great.
Just what I need is a student who’s still learning trying to poke around in my fucked-up brain tohealme.
But all I say is “Okay.”
She smiles. “Great! Well, I think that’s it, unless you have anything else…?”
“No, think I’m good. Thank you, Ms. Smith.”
She nods, then pauses. “Oh, wait. One more thing—part of your parole requirements includes weekly community service.”
Dammit.
I forgot about that one.
“Okay.”
She flips through her stack of papers, searching for something until her face lights up with youthful enthusiasm as she hands me another sheet with a big smiley face on it and a bunch of words that I already know I won’t enjoy reading.
“There aren’t many opportunities in Whitewood Creek, but this is the one the judge thought would be best for you. They’re in desperate need of big brothers and we think you could make a real difference.”
I inwardly groan, catching the headline:“Boys and Girls Club of Whitewood Creek, North Carolina.”
It’s not that I don’t like kids. I adore my nephew Beckham, even though in my mind, he’s still the six-year-old I left behind when I went to prison. Now he’s a tween, in that awkward, too-cool phase with baggy clothes and shaggy hair. But spending an hourevery week with some random kid at the community center? Doing what? Homework? Talking about school? Chatting about their little crushes?
That’s just not how I would prefer to spend my limited free time.
“Alright,” I say anyway, because fighting lost its purpose years ago when survival meant doing as I was told and keeping my head down.
This is just another box to check on the road to “freedom.” But can you ever really be free with a felony on your record, a reputation in the gutter, and four years of your life gone?
My emotions are muted, my feelings almost nonexistent. I've kept my body in fight-or-flight mode for so long that I don't know how to turn it off. I’m not sure I even know what disappointment feels like anymore.
“Okay, they’ll be expecting you tomorrow after school at the community center.”
“What time is after school?”
She giggles again. “I keeping forgetting that you’re not married or a father, so you don’t know when they are let out.”
Why’s that relevant?
My eyes shoot down to her ring finger, something I probably should have done earlier.
Oh.
Married.
I wonder if she’s a mom with a kid in school, too.
She twists the diamond ring and band absently as she talks about times, expectations, and activities at the club, but I’m already checked out, completely ignoring her. I’ll read the paper she’s given me on my own to figure out where I need to be andwhen because if there’s one thing that I don’t have patience for it’s cheaters.
“Alright, I think that’s it, Mr. Marshall. You’re free to go. Well not free...but...” she laughs again.
“Thank you.”For reminding me of my glaring lack of freedom.
I push back my chair and extend my hand because though this woman is belittling while she eye-fucks me and is married, she’s still someone I need to like me for at least the next eight weeks until I’m no longer being watched by the state.
