Page 36 of Tempt

I follow the signs to the second room on the right of the hallway, a box of cookies in my hands. The door is unlocked and I push it in.

“Hello?”

No one’s here. Chairs are stacked at one side.

“Twenty.” I turn to see a girl around my age entering. “They usually set for twenty.”

“Thanks.”

They should probably be in a circle. Promote equality and honesty and all that.

She notices what I’m carrying. “Cookies. This is an upgrade. I’m Rana.”

“Kat.”

We exchange smiles.

“Are there supposed to be drinks?”

“Coffee.”

I can’t find anyone working in the building, so I go to the pop machine and get six juices and five sodas—all the cash I have—then take them and set them on the table next to the cookies.

By five minutes before the time we’re scheduled to start, more people have filtered in.

My professor arrives, grad students attached to her sides like they’re trying to absorb her energy.

She starts to take a seat, her gaze landing on the cookies and drinks. My prof gives me a micro-nod, and I feel the glimmer of satisfaction at her approval.

“As this is the first session of the fall, introductions are in order. I’m Emily Trainor, faculty in Russell’s psychology department.” The grad students go next. When it’s my turn, I sit up straighter.

“I’m Kat. A fourth-year psych student.” Everyone has shared something about them so I say, “I’m a badass with crafts. All media, but I do my best work in ceramics and papier-mâché.”

My comment gets a few laughs.

“Katrina will be making some notes while she’s here as part of a school project. But rest assured everything you say is completely confidential.”

The professor turns to the main business at hand.

I pull out a pen and notebook to take notes.

One by one, people raise a hand to share their stories.

It’s impossible not to be affected by their tragedies.

But in that room, something happens.

There’s a softening. As if each layer of grief piled helps to melt the one beneath it.

Toward the end, most of the dozen or so participants have spoken.

Rana, the woman from the start, shifts in her seat. “My dad’s been sick. I’ve been doing all this research, phoning doctors, trying to fix it. When I go to see him, to tell him, he looks right through me. It’s as if I’m not even helping.”

“Maybe you’re not.” I speak without realizing it, and every set of eyes flies to me. “I mean…Maybe he just wants you to be there.”

She shrugs one shoulder. “I want to do more.”

“Who says it’s better to run around spending your time with doctors and data instead of with him?”

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