Page 152 of Stalkers Anonymous

“Says the man who runs six-minute miles,” she replies, completely out of breath but grinning so wide it makes my heart stutter.

“Only when I’m chasing you.”

Hailey just rolls her eyes, still smiling, and reaches for my hand again.

That’s the thing about healing. Eventually, you can laugh about the very things that once threatened to destroy you. Maybe the person you thought you lost learns to trust you again. The darkness inside you becomes just one part of who you are—not the whole story.

…

Everything looks exactly the same as it did a year ago—fluorescent lights humming overhead, metal folding chairs arranged in a familiar circle, the persistent smell of old carpet and coffee. But walking down these stairs tonight feels completely different than it did that first time, when I couldn’t stop cursing the assholes who’d forced me to this particular ring of hell.

Tonight, I’m early on purpose.

“Matthews!” Tyler calls out as I enter the room. He’s messily arranging papers on Tracey’s usual seat. “Perfect timing. Help me with this banner.”

I grab one end of a handmade banner that reads Congratulations Cole—One Year! in what I’m pretty sure is Jessica’s handwriting. The sight of it makes something tight and warm expand in my chest.

“You guys didn’t have to do this,” I say, though I’m grateful they did.

“Are you kidding? This is a big deal.” Tyler beams, securing his end to the wall. “Twelve months ago, you walked in here pissed off at the world and convinced you didn’t belong.”

“I wasn’t pissed off at the world,” I protest. “Just at mandatory group therapy.”

“And Tracey. And me. And pretty much anyone who suggested you might need help.” Tyler grins. “Good times. But none of that matters now that you got the girl and your job back.”

I can thank Tracey for that. After I’d spent several months of searching for a new job with very little luck, Tracey reached out to Jack Morrison and vouched for me. She explained how much I had changed and how hard I had been working toward managing my addiction. She even had each of the group members write letters of recommendations, which Jack still occasionally teases me about.

Grant arrives next, camera bag slung over his shoulder as usual, followed by Austen, who’s clutching a small white box. Jessica enters with Zach right behind her, both of them smiling when they see the banner.

“This is so nice,” Jessica says, setting down one of her signature charcuterie boards. “I brought a board.”

“Fuck yeah,” Zach asks, suddenly more interested. “Does it have the tiny pickles?”

“Obviously. What’s a celebration without cornichons?”

Tracey enters last, taking in the decorations with her usual composed expression. She even graces us with a small smile that almost reaches her eyes. “Well, this is lovely.”

She settles into her chair and pulls out her ever-present clipboard, but tonight it feels more like a prop.

“Cole,” she begins, “how does it feel to reach such a milestone in your recovery?”

I think back to that first session—how hostile I felt, how convinced I was that everyone here was different from me. And then I think of the day we apprehended Lars Winters as a team, which Tracey still doesn’t know about.

We’ll be taking that one to the grave, along with whatever shenanigans find us in the future.

But I’ve changed so much over the course of a year with the help of friends who’ve become family. I’m not where I want to be yet, but I’m well on my way there. And I’ve got the best support group behind me every step of the way.

“It feels incredible,” I say honestly, earning smiles around the circle. “I owe it to all of you. I couldn’t have done it without the group.”

Tyler stops me before I can continue. “You did the work. We were part of your journey, but you are solely responsible for everything you’ve done. We’re proud of you, man. Really fucking proud of you.”

“Thanks.” The word comes out more emotionally charged than I intended. “I’m just so grateful to be here.”

Austen hands me the white box, which I open to find a leather-bound journal with my initials embossed on the cover. “From all of us,” he says, when I look up to thank him.

“Thank you,” I manage, my voice rougher than I’d like. “All of you. This group saved my life, even when I was too stubborn to realize I needed saving.”

Tracey reaches into her bag and pulls out a small velvet pouch. “Cole, in recognition of your one-year commitment to this program and the growth you’ve demonstrated, I’d like to present you with this.”