11 Chase, Leave Me Alone

Trista nods and pats Chase's back. She's talking to him, and to the group. But I can't take my eyes off him.

He's staring right at me, like that last comment was about me.

What the hell?

I want to hate him for it—he doesn't know me. But the expression on his face isn't judgment, or anger. It's a mask of concern.

I'm not giving in to my cravings! I'm not relapsing? What's his problem?

I shake my head and look away. Chase sighs and goes back to staring at his hands, clasped in front of him, nodding at what Trista's telling the group. I can't take in the words because my head's spinning.

All the stories are like that—the girl who saw her ex-boyfriend with someone else—and the girl was high, so she knew he was doing the same thing to this girl that he'd done to her. How she was a coward and didn't say anything. Now she hates herself.

The guy who's seething about his Dad telling him they won't pay for college now that he's a drunk—even though he's been sober for almost a year. So he'll have to go into the service because there's no other way he can afford to become an engineer. He's scared he'll be deployed and die. And he's scared if he doesn't die, he'll get so stressed he'll give in to the cravings and drink—which, in a warzone, would improve his chances of dying. That one freaked me out.

There's the guy who woke up and had a flashback and for a second, he thought he was high again. It made him feel great. And now his hands are shaking as he talks, with tears in his eyes, because he wants to get high so badly he almost didn't come today. Resisting gives him anxiety attacks. He feels weak, and terrified that at any second he'll surrender.

Trista jumps on that, crossing the circle to sit next to him and hold his hand. She asks the group to tell him all the reasons he wants to resist. And why he'll be so glad he did.

Voices pipe up from around the room as people reassure him—tell him the cravings will ease with time. How he'll be so proud of himself if he stays strong. How sick he'll feel the day after he get high and has to go through withdrawal again . . .

Chase doesn't look up from his hands, still clasped in front of him. His thumbs rub against each other, deep pressure, slow and strong. He's tense. Probably craving. And I can't quite reconcile that with the image I have of him. It's like . . . like if Amy was an addict. It just doesn't compute. I shake my head.

"You disagree, Kate?" How Trista knows my name, I'll never know.

I snap my head up and gape at her. I have no idea what she's talking about. She must figure that out, because her eyes twinkle and she tips her head.

"We were talking about how to avoid triggers. You shook your head."

"It wasn't . . . I didn't mean the conversation," I stumble over the words.

Trista nods. "So, what were you thinking?"

Chase turns his head and catches my gaze. My anger at him thinking I'm in danger surges in time with a freshly honed craving. I narrow my eyes and hold eye contact.

"I was thinking about how sick I am of being judged. At home my parents always expect the worst. And even though I get it, it's like it's this . . . this thing hanging over me. People who don't even know me look at me like there's something wrong with me. But they don't have a clue!"

Chase's eyes widen and I tear myself away from him to stare at my hands.

My heart races. I hadn't meant to speak. I scan the circle, silently pleading with someone to add their two cents. Get the attention off me.

Chase sits up straight, frowning. "I've, uh, I've learned that sometimes it's easy to think people are judging you when they aren't. Sometimes people . . . care."

I cut him a dark look. "Is that what you tell yourself you're doing?"

His brows press down. "You were talking about me? But I don't—"

I look away, shake my head. "You were talking about me before, right? But what makes you so sure you know that I'm going to give in faster than anyone else? Like you're perfect? You just said you get cravings too. Doesn't mean I assume you're going to fall off the wagon."

Chase rubs his hands on his thighs, his jaw twitching. "I wasn't—"

"Let's look at that, Kate," Trista breaks in. Chase frowns at her, but doesn't talk. "You sense that people who don't know you are judging you. What gives you that impression?"

"Well, Chase gave me a look when he was talking about people in danger. And his friends look at me like I'm going to hurt them, or something. And give me a wide berth. They don't even want to touch me by accident."

Trista nods. "But what if that isn't judgment? What if it's fear? Or simple discomfort? What if they know they don't understand you, so they avoid you to avoid the awkwardness?"

"They don't seem to have trouble with other people." Like my sister.

I love Amy. I mean, I love her. But she's the most perky, perfect, ridiculously cute and kiss-ass kid I know. I can't deny that she looks like she belongs with Chase and his crowd. But what if they turn that judgment on her? Because of me?

I curse under my breath and rub my face. I don't want to talk about this.

"Kate, what are you afraid of?" Trista asks in a firm tone.

The question send a bolt of adrenalin through my system. I snort so show her how wrong she is. "I'm not afraid."

Trista's lips purse. "I don't mean afraid of them physically. I mean, something about these people makes you uncomfortable. Can you pinpoint what it is?"

I scan the group, using my gaze to plead with each of them to distract her. But they stare back at me with looks of interest.

I roll my eyes. I'm definitely asking my parents to find a different meeting.

But Trista waits patiently. So clearly I have to answer.

I swallow. Fine. What makes my skin crawl when Chase and his friends are close?

I look at Chase. Even though he's leaned forward next to me, he's turned his head to watch me. His eyes are golden chips glinting in the grass.