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“Nice move, jackass!” I yelled at the idiot who cut me off, almost taking my front bumper with him. I laid on my horn, and he replied in the usual, friendly D.C. fashion by flipping me the bird. Ah, the joys of being back home in rush hour traffic. My phone rang, and I pressed my Bluetooth to answer. “Hello.”
“Morning. How is your return to the real world?” Mike asked.
“Just grand. I’ll tell you what, I did not miss this traffic. I got your text. How late were you at the office?”
“I left around ten. I’m sorry I didn’t get back over to your place.”
“Don’t worry about it. I figured you’d be late, and you also had to unpack.” I heard heavy breathing. “What are you doing? Jogging?”
“More like a fast-walk. I’m running late for a morning meeting and the Metro got held up for ten minutes in one of the tunnels. What are you doing tonight?”
I paused. Rick’s open invitation to attend Silverthorne’s support group was on my mind. While I didn’t feel as run down as I did when I left for Mexico, there was still . . . something—a sadness that came over me last night. I’d spoken to Jillian and Mom, telling them nothing about the mask fiasco—keeping things upbeat. When I hung up, I realized I didn’t really tell anyone about how I’d been feeling. Not Mike. Not my mom. Not Jilly. Maybe it was time I did.
“K.C., hello? Are you still there?”
“What? Oh, I’m still here. Sorry, I was paying attention to traffic. I’m not sure what I’m doing,” I hedged.
“It’s Tuesday. Are you going to take Rick up on his offer?”
Wow, did Mike read my mind? “Yes, I was thinking about it.”
Considering all the crazy crap that went down in Mexico and Silverthorne’s part in it, I wondered if Mike would now be against my going.
“I think you should give it a try.”
Will wonders never cease. “Okay. I’ll do that.”
“Great. How about dinner tomorrow night?”
“I’ve got yoga at six. If you want to meet afterward, I can do that.” I halted at a red light. “There’s an Indian restaurant across the street from the gym.”
“Text me a time and address. I’ll meet you there. I’m heading into the building. We’ll talk later.”
****
I PULLED UP TO THE callbox and waved to the camera. “Hi, it’s Karina, I’m here to . . . uh . . . attend a group meeting. Um . . . Rick said I could come.”
With a clackety-clack, the metal gate rolled back, and I drove through.
Rick opened the front door as I stepped out of the car. He wore a navy polo with the Silverthorne logo on it, and jeans. “You look” —his gaze narrowed as he surveyed me— “tan. And rested.”
The fresh scent of Irish Spring soap teased me as I walked past him. “How are Josh and Hernandez? Recovered from our Mexico escapade?”
“They’re fine. Josh is here, you can ask him yourself. What about you? Josh said you got pretty banged up. Said you broke a rib?” He frowned.
“It’s just a bruise. Dulled now to a very unattractive boiled-egg-yolk green.”
“That’s descriptive.”
I waited in the reception area for him to lead the way.
Rick continued to look me up and down. “How was the trip?”
I crossed my arms. “Well, the ending was much more relaxing than the beginning.”
“Josh told me Mike showed up.”
“He did.” I waited for that zing that I’d felt before I left for the trip. So far, nothing.
“I heard Craig escaped custody.”
“Wow, you really are plugged in.” I waited for Rick to explain how he’d gotten his information. He didn’t satisfy my curiosity. I sighed and dropped my protective stance. “Well, you’re correct. He did escape custody in Mexico, but he was kind enough to be waiting here when we arrived home.”
Those dark brows furrowed deeper. “Waiting where?”
“In my building. He stopped to pay his aunt a visit. Apparently, he’d sent her some valuable stamps and wanted them back.”
Rick’s mouth pinched.
“Luckily, Mike was on hand to . . . ah . . . apprehend our fugitive.”
“Then it’s finished?”
“I believe so,” I replied with a sharp nod.
He didn’t say anything more but continued to study me. I chewed my lip and fiddled with my earring. I didn’t understand what he was waiting for. Did he want to say something else? Was this a power play? Did he realize my attraction to him at our last meeting? My face blazed at the thought.
Finally, I checked my watch. “Isn’t the meeting starting?”
“C’mon.” He went through the motions to call the elevator and we went up to the second floor. I trotted down the long, gray-carpeted hallway behind Rick, getting more and more nervous as we went. Rick stopped at a door labeled Conference Room D and waited for me to catch up. He paused with his hand on the knob. “Have you ever been to a support group meeting?”
I shook my head.
“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. Be respectful of those who are speaking.”
I nodded, and he opened the door.
Four men sat around a large wooden conference table with chairs enough for ten and a handful of water bottles in the center.
Joshua sat at the foot of the table and greeted me with a wave. “Karina, nice to see you.”
Rick pulled out a chair for me in the center of the table. “Everyone, this is Karina. You know Jin.” Jin, on Joshua’s left, nodded at me. “That guy across the table is Radhesh.”
He pointed to a dark-skinned man missing an arm and with scarring along the left side of his face that looked as if he’d met with an industrial-grade cheese grater. Mentally, I cringed, wondering what happened to have created such an injury. Outwardly, I gave Radhesh a finger wave, which he acknowledged with a nod.
“And the guy at the other end of the table is Terry.” Joshua indicated a black man with a bald head that gleamed beneath the fluorescent light. He had a diamond earring in one ear and wore an Army sweatshirt.
I indicated Terry’s sweatshirt. “Army ranger?”
“Delta Force. Welcome to the group,” Terry replied.
“Thanks for having me.”
Rick took the seat next to me and reached out to grab one of the bottles. “Water?”
I nodded.
Terry leaned on his forearms. “I heard some bad stuff went down in Mexico.”
“I suppose you could say that.” I gripped the bottle in both hands.
Terry’s head bounced up and down. “Josh said you took a beating. He patched you up?”
Josh pinched the bridge of his nose and scrunched his eyes shut.
“Um . . . yeah . . .” I stared at my water bottle, twisting and untwisting the cap, kind of hoping someone else would start talking. When no one did, I blurted out in a rush, “I was trampled by a stampede of frightened tourists.”
“Jesus. That’s messed up,” Terry said.
He was right. I looked up from the bottle, straight at Terry, and said, “Yeah. It was.”
“Want to talk about it?” His golden-brown eyes regarded me.
I didn’t know this man at all. There was interest and sympathy on his face, but no censure. If I replied in the negative, I had a feeling he’d simply move on to someone else. It would be so easy for me to decline. But . . . I came to talk about my feelings. If I refused now, wouldn’t it be harder to say something the next time? If I wasn’t going to talk, what the hell was I doing here?
“The smell of grass and dirt used to hold childhood memories. Good memories. Now it holds fear,” I admitted. “I’d like to get past that.”
The End