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Her words echo, making me wonder if I'm truly settling into a new routine or merely skimming the surface of a new reality. "I've gotten used to it," I add, hoping my words convince both her and me this act is progress.
Dr. Wilburn nods, her expression holding a touch of skepticism. "Remember, healing isn't a race, Enzo. It's a journey of self-discovery and acceptance," she advises gently, her words steeped in the wisdom of experience.
"Thank you, Dr. Milburn. I'll keep it in mind," I reply with a grateful smile.
She means well
Dr. Wilburn and I walk side by side down the hallway, her gaze lingering on me. "Enzo, beyond the center, how are things with work? Are you managing both?" she inquires.
I hesitate for a moment, contemplating how much I'm willing to reveal. "I've taken a break from the corporate front," I confess, my voice tinged with a mixture of relief and apprehension. "There's an acting CEO handling things for now. He keeps me updated sporadically," I continue.
It's a break I needed.
"I needed the space and the time to focus on what matters," I rationalize, my tone trying to convince not just her, but myself as well, justifying the necessity of this hiatus.
Dr. Wilburn nods understandingly, her expression a blend of comprehension and concern. "Taking time for yourself is crucial, Enzo. But remember, confronting your challenges is equally important," she advises.
She understands.
"I swear on healing," I affirm, my voice resolute, even though doubts flicker like shadows at the edges of my resolve.
The conversation ebbs as we near the exit. Dr. Wilburn nodded encouragingly.
"Thank you, Dr. Wilburn," I say, expressing my appreciation as we part ways. I step outside in the bustling world, a twinge of unease gnawing at me. Dr. Wilburn's words linger. Reminder healing demands more than the comfort of a routine.
I glance at my phone to check the time. I should be heading to the community center. I hurry over to my apartment: a small studio I’m renting, furnished with just enough to make it cozy. I've immersed myself in the role of a janitor, veiling my past as I commute to the community center, shutting the world out as I grapple with my demons. My apartment is only a bus ride away, so it’s not long before I arrive.
As I reach the community center, taking the front door keys out of my pocket, I spot Ruben standing there. I frown as I approach. Ruben and Laurel always arrive early, but Ruben is alone today.
The young man looks up as he hears me approach. “Hey, Mr. Lombardi,” he mumbles tiredly.
Over time, we've grown closer, but he hasn’t accepted me yet. He’s usually polite enough, but always ready to tell me to fuck off. Somehow, today, a subdued air around him is quite unlike his usual self.
"What's wrong?" I ask, grabbing the bucket. “Why the long face?”
Something’s wrong.
Ruben’s voice carries a heavy weight as he speaks, causing my chest to tighten.
"Something happened to Laurel, Mr. Lombardi," he begins, the unease in his voice instantly grabbing my attention. He looks torn, struggling to articulate the turmoil brewing inside him.
My heart quickens with worry. "Is she okay? What is it?" I ask, my voice laced with concern.
Ruben shifts uncomfortably, his gaze wandering. "Her stepfather... he's been put in prison," he explains, his voice trembling slightly. I can sense the gravity of the situation.
“Is she alright? Did he hurt her?” My concern is palpable, the gravity of the situation gnawing at my conscience.
"Yes," Ruben continues, his words heavy with remorse. "He gave her a black eye, but the bruises on her wrist and her arm... they thought it was her stepfather who did it, but it was me. I didn’t know I hurt her… I’d just been pulling her to go with me to the police… and I was angry…"
His confession hangs in the air, thick with regret.
Wait, what? Ruben hurt Laurel?
I'm taken aback by the revelation. My mind races, trying to make sense of the unexpected confession.
"I've been hating myself ever since," Ruben confesses, anguish evident in his words. "The police believed it was something the stepfather did, which means what I did is just as bad. I don't even know how to look at myself… or at her."
This is serious.
