Okay

.29.

I'm sitting next to Mo, in a cold folding chair as we listen to a guy talk about his gambling and alcohol dependency. How his wife took their two kids and left him. How he lost his job and wound up couch surfing before he finally had the revelation that if he didn't do something now, he would likely end up officially on the streets.

I want to point out that no matter what I do, ending up on the street is unlikely. I would have to choose that. There's too much money. And for some reason my parents won't cut me off.

My eyes shift to the window, the blue skies and sunshine that beats through even though a shade is drawn.

I don't want to be here.

In fact I'd prefer to be anywhere but here, more specifically tomorrow night. Birdie and I are supposed to see each other and I'd be lying if I said she hasn't been over taking my thoughts. It's a nice change of pace than my normal. And I'm actually looking forward to something for once.

The room erupts in clapping startling me back to the present. Slapping my palms together, I'm late to the game and can feel Mo staring at me. He knows I wasn't listening.

Peter, the head of the group, quiets the clapping as he stands from his chair. He's older, his hair gray and balding, a weathered face but a big genuine smile that he wears more often than not.

"Thank you Mike, for sharing. You're an inspiration." He tells the recovering alcoholic gambler before looking out at the rest of us dotted through the folding chairs. "Would anyone else like to share?"

I can feel Mo trying to raise my arm with his mind as he stares holes through me. But I'm not sharing. Now or ever. I'm not an alcoholic. I don't have a story to tell.

The meeting is dismissed shortly after and I stand to go but Mo pulls me back down.

"What?" Irritation tries to fill me up.

"You should share." He says.

I roll my eyes, a dry laugh rumbling in my chest. "I'm not an alcoholic."

He stares at me, his eyes searching mine and all I want to do is look away but I'm not going to give him that satisfaction so I stare back.

"Fine." It's short and curt. "Maybe a different group then. A self-harm group."

I snort. "No".

"There's no shame in seeking help Drew." I've already heard it, I'm not ashamed. I've given up, there's a difference. "You know I still go to anger management classes and I see a therapist once a month. And Holt, look at far he's come."

Tilting my head back, I groan. "Groups aren't going to fix me Mo."

None of it has.

Unease trickles down my spine as we continue to sit. I want out of this building before I have to talk to anyone other than Mo. I'd even take being trapped in Mo's truck over this at the moment.

"Do you love her?" He asks and I freeze, gaping at him with wide eyes. "Birdie, do you love her?"

Clearing my throat, I try to focus on anything other than the fear that has my heart slamming in my chest. I know Birdie is old enough to make her own choices but I'm pretty sure I'm the last guy Mo would ever want her to be with, maybe except the last guy she dated.

"She's one of my best friends, of course I do." I try to seem nonchalant like I didn't kiss the shit out of his daughter in a park the other day, our bodies pressed together as we lay in the grass under the shade of a maple.

He laughs, but it sounds more like he's got a Royal Flush and I just went all in with a pair of aces. In other words he's got the upper hand and I'm fucked.