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“No, I do.” Working always helped, no matter how mindless the task.
Not seeing anything else to say, she took a breath and reached for the door.
“Celia?” Malcolm asked, his hand on her arm making her pause.
She looked back at him.
“The precinct mentioned the man who came in didn’t look too hot. Did you…”
She shook her head. “Trenton punched him.”
Malcolm’s mouth fell open. “Trent?” He closed it again, his lips pressing together. “I guess that means I don’t get to.”
“Violence doesn’t solve anything.” Though she hadn’t been sad to see Daniel a bit worse for wear.
“Now you sound like Trent.” Malcolm let out a soft chuckle. “Or how he usually sounds.”
“I think he felt bad about it,” she said. The memory of what came after, while she bandaged his hands, hummed through her. And not just the sex. Trenton had said he wanted her.
“I’ll bet,” Malcolm said, but his voice sounded distant.
She slid out of the truck to hide any expression she might be making. A goofy smile would worry him more. As she approached the double doors, any urge to smile faded. Sometimes she could fool herself into believing she was beyond the sessions, but she never would be.
The coffee was never good, but she’d learned that it helped to have the cup in her hands. She didn’t bother adding anything to it since she didn’t intend to drink it.
The woman behind her must have had the same thought, as she also left it black.
“Are you both new?” another woman, this one a decade or two older, asked them.
The woman behind Celia, who had long, dark hair and bruises on her neck, gave a simple, “Yes,” and moved to a seat.
Knowing sitting too soon would make her anxious, Celia focused on the older woman. “To this one, but I’ve attended others in the last city I was in.”
“Oh, where are you from?”
“Well, here originally.” Celia never liked to give out too many details, but that answer seemed safe enough. “I just moved back.”
The older woman slipped into small talk, which let Celia drift into the motions of group counseling again. It turned out that Malcolm had also done almost all the paperwork for her, even her employment at The Last Shot. She wondered if he’d added her new information earlier that day.
When the counselor arrived—another woman—Celia chose a seat next to the other newbie.
Malcolm had found a good group, she was relieved to see after the first half hour. No one made less of what the regular attendees shared, even if it was obvious they’d shared it all before, probably many times. There was simply understanding and support if and when it was wanted.
“I see we have a couple of new faces today,” the counselor said. “It’s fine if you are only here to listen, but if you have anything you’d like to share, we’re here to listen as well.”
The dark-haired newbie next to Celia shook her head, then stared down at her lap. The bruises on her neck weren’t that old, but Celia knew it wasn’t her business to pry.
She took a breath, her hands tightening on the Styrofoam cup. “I will.”
The eyes of the others in the group settled on her, but not in a judging way. This was why she preferred group. Having so many people around to listen and understand made her feel less alone.
“I’m Cece,” she said by way of introduction. She had found early on that a pseudonym helped to give her the distance she needed to speak. “And most of my story is from a while ago. It became hard again because—” Her throat threatened to close and she swallowed. “Because I told someone one of my memories and they used it against me.”
The group was mostly quiet, with a couple of sounds of commiseration.
“So I thought I would share the story with you to help me remember that it’s not”—she swallowed again—“all my fault.”
“An important thing to remember,” the counselor said, her gaze lingering as it scanned the room. “Blaming ourselves is a struggle that many have.”
