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“I know that.” I nod. “But you don’t have to.”
“There’s no have to about it—we want to.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I pick up the cup of hot tea beside me and take a sip. I instantly cringe. So much for hot tea, it’s cold now. “I’ve got work to do,” I tell him.
He nods. “All right, I’ll leave you alone.” He raises his hands innocently.
He leaves me to go watch TV.
I finish what I’m doing and close my laptop. I rub my hands over my face and groan. It’s not even lunchtime, and I’m exhausted. All I want to do is go to bed and sleep. I don’t seem to have the energy anymore to make it through the day.
I glance to my right at the refrigerator. The stupid phone number for the grief group. I’d ended up throwing the number away, but my mom found it and stuck it there. I haven’t moved it. It’s taunting me. My gut tells me to call, but my heart says it’s not ready to move on. Besides, I don’t know if I can handle being around other grieving people—hearing their stories, sharing their pain. I’m scared it’ll push me over the edge I’m dangling precariously from, but on the other hand, I think it might actually help.
“Call the number, Kid.”
I jump at the sound of my dad’s voice and turn to find him watching me from the family room—the TV now muted.
“How’d you know?” I ask.
“I know everything.” He taps his forehead. “Dad powers.” I look back at the phone number but make no move to grab my phone. “Look at it this way,” he begins, “if you go to one and hate it you don’t have to go back. But if you like it, this might be exactly what you need.”
I give him a small smile. “Dad, has anyone ever told you that you’re really smart?”
His dismisses my words with a wave of his hand. “That’s your momma, not me.”
“She’s smart,” I agree, “but you are too.”
As if conjured by our words, she arrives home at that moment, bumbling through the door with bags of groceries. She goes to the grocery store almost every day. I know it’s an excuse for her to get out of the house. She usually buys ingredients to make some recipe she finds on Pinterest. Seriously, the woman is a Pinterest addict. I’m expecting her to start crafting any day now.
“Hey,” she says, closing the front door, “what are you guys up to?”
“Blaire was just about to make a phone call,” my dad answers. I’m thankful that he doesn’t make a big deal out of this. If he told my mom was going to call the group she’d probably start dancing and singing, which would only embarrass me and make me not call. “Did you get me any beer?” he asks her, distracting her from me.
She answers him, but I’ve already tuned them out.
I have the number memorized, so I don’t even have to look at the paper when I enter the numbers into my phone. “I’ll be in my office,” I say, holding up my phone.
My mom nods, thinking it’s a work call.
I head upstairs and into my office, closing the door behind me.
I take a seat on the swing and make the call.
It rings. And rings. And rings. Just when I’m about to hang up, a man answers.
“Hey, hello? Sorry—hold on a second,” he says. “Cole, don’t do that. I told you not to color on the walls. Give me that.” I hear some shuffling and then, “Sorry about that, my son was trying to color on the walls. You take your eyes off him for five seconds and suddenly your walls are covered in blue scribbles.”
“Uh … sure.”
“So, what can I help you with?” he asks. His voice is deep and pleasant.
“I think I might have the wrong number,” I hedge. This certainly doesn’t sound like someone who’d be in charge of a group about grief. “I’m looking for the person in charge of … of Group,” I whisper the word like it’s something dirty.
The man chuckles. “You got the right number. I’m Ryder, and I’m the head of the group. We have a meeting tomorrow if you want to join?” he suggests.
I bite my lip, thinking it over. I know if I don’t go tomorrow I never will. “Yeah, I’ll be there,” I say. “Where do you meet?”
“We meet at the high school in the gym. Do you know where that is?”
