Page 23 of When The Noise Stops

He stared at me.

"You relinquish them back to me?" He chuckled.

"Yes," I smiled.

"But I'm serious. I have a thing."

"A thing."

"Yeah," I stood, took my plate to the sink, and headed toward the door. I needed to go home and shower.

"Bye, Grizz," I called over my shoulder.

"Bye, Sunshine."

I rolled my eyes at the new nickname and walked out.

After a quick shower and changing into jeans and a t-shirt, I headed out. The meeting was at a church my granny used to attend—Bethel Community on 54 in St. Pete. There were fluorescent lights, folding chairs, and a circle of women I'd come to know over the past few months.

The head of the meeting, Avril, asked me, "How are you doing, Lila?"

I shrugged.

"You know how I do. I'm faking my cheerfulness again," I said.

"It works until it doesn't. Last week fireworks took me all the way back. A neighbor found me by the garbage can outside; he sat with me. I can sleep with him near. I keep feeding him," I swallowed.

"I feel better now than I have in a long time, but sometimes I don't know if I'm healing or performing."

"How long have you known him?" Avril asked.

I picked at my thumbnail.

"He's lived next door to me for months."

"How long have you actually known him, though, Lila?"

"A week."

A couple heads turned.

"Don't do that," I said.

"Do what?"

"That thing y'all just did with your faces. I'm not fucking him as therapy. He's becoming my friend. Hell, I haven't even called any of my regulars in a week."

Somebody laughed. I didn't get mad. In two years, I'd met a lot of somebodies. PTSD went either way sometimes when it came to sex: hyper or hypo. I went hyper. Can't sleep, might as well catch a nut.

"I'm serious."

Avril didn't laugh.

"That is very unusual for you."

"I know, right? Very unusual. Progress."

The room erupted.