Page 36 of Hunter

I swallow hard and keep my voice flat. “Yeah. Figured I’d give the whole ‘talk about your shit’ thing a real shot tonight. See if it sticks.”

Tim nods slowly, that gentle smile never wavering. “That’s all any of us can do. One honest hour at a time.”

My eyes drift back to the empty chair across from me. The duct-taped one. Charlie’s chair. I can already picture him sliding into it soon—ripped jeans showing fishnet at the knees, smudged eyeliner, a baggy sweater swallowing his frame, looking way too soft for everything he’s been through. The thought settles low and warm in my gut, the same way it did yesterday when I watched him disappear into his sketchbook like the ghosts couldn’t find him there.

I know exactly why I showed up early on only my third time here.

It wasn’t Tim’s calm cult energy or some sudden burst of faith in group therapy.

It was the chair across the circle.

And the soft, broken kid who fills it.

I lean back, arms crossed tight over my chest, burns stinging under my shirt, and wait for the rest of them to trickle in. Robby’s voice is already a little quieter.

Chapter 15

Charlie

I skip the therapy meeting entirely.

I can’t even make myself walk in that direction. The thought of stepping into that third-floor room with its ugly tile and mismatched chairs makes my stomach twist. Mostly because I know Hunter will be there—he mentioned it was court-ordered—and mentally, I’m nowhere near strong enough to sit across from him after that nightmare. Not when I can still feel the weight of those adult hands on my shoulders, still hear the low chant, still see Hunter standing just outside the circle, watching. Not helping. Not stopping it.

So I stay away. I text Tim a vague excuse about feeling under the weather, then turn my phone on silent and spend the evening drifting through the city instead.

By the time I meet Lucy for dinner at our usual little Thai place on 29th, the sky has gone full dark and I’m running on fumes and caffeine. She’s already at the table when I slide into the booth, and the second her eyes land on me, her brows pull together.

“Jesus, Charlie,” she says, leaning forward. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

I force a tired smile and pick up the menu, even though I already know what I’m ordering. “It’s normal. I’ll crash eventually. Always do.”

She doesn’t buy it. She waits until the server takes our order and then fixes me with that sharp, no-bullshit stare she’s perfected over the years.

“You were doing better,” she says quietly. “The last couple weeks you actually looked like you were getting real sleep. What happened?”

I shrug, tracing a finger along the condensation on my water glass. The nightmare flashes behind my eyes again. I shove it down.

“Bad dream. Old stuff. It’ll pass.”

Lucy reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers, thumb brushing over my chipped black nail polish. “You know I worry. You push too hard and then you crash hard. Let me come over tonight. I can stay on the couch, keep an eye on you while you sleep. Just in case.”

The offer is soft and genuine, and for a second, it makes my throat tight. Part of me wants to say yes. Part of me wants someone there so the ghosts don’t feel so loud when they come back. But the bigger part—the part that’s still raw from the dream—needs to be alone with it.

“I’m good, Luce. Really,” I tell her, squeezing her hand before pulling mine back. “I’m gonna hit the pole studio for a solo session after this. Tire myself out until my body has no choice but to shut down. It always works.”

She studies me for a long moment, lips pressed into a thin line. I can see the concern still sitting heavy behind her eyes, but she finally nods.

“Okay. But if you change your mind, you call me. Anytime. Even at 3 a.m.. I mean it.”

“I know. Thank you.”

The food comes, and we shift to lighter things—her latest dating disaster, the new book she’s working on, Mrs. Lovelady marking out another batch of slightly damaged supplies for me. I laugh in the right places, eat enough to look normal, but the exhaustion sits bone-deep, and the nightmare still lingers at the edges of all my thoughts.

When we finally hug goodbye outside the restaurant, Lucy holds on a second longer than usual.

“Be careful with that pretty head of yours tonight,” she murmurs against my hair. “And text me when you get home, even if it’s late.”

“I will.”