Page 24 of Played
Fifty minutes alone with him.
What could possibly go wrong?
Thankfully, the drive is rather uneventful, just as it should be. I'm proud of myself — I kept it cordial and polite—did not flirt once… I don't think. But I did steal a few glances at his beautiful profile—just couldn't help myself.
I can do this. And this meeting could actually be good for me. I've been so on edge lately.
The church basement smells like old Grandma smell and lemon furniture polish. It hits me hard, unexpectedly—Dadi's house. Her tiny living room crammed with photo frames and doilies. I swallow against the ache.
She's been gone three years, but the grief still ambushes me.
"You okay?" Julian whispers.
"Yeah. Just… the smell. Reminds me of my grandmother."
His expression softens. "Good memories?"
"The best."
A woman approaches, mid-thirties, warm brown skin, kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. Her cardigan's buttoned wrong, and somehow that makes me like her immediately.
"Hi, I'm Tara. I'll be facilitating tonight." Her smile's genuine, practiced but not fake. "Go ahead and grab a seat. We'll start in a few."
The room's small, cozy. Folding chairs arranged in a circle. Against the far wall sits an old upright piano, wood worn smooth, keys yellowed with age.
I nudge Julian as we sit. "You should play. Entertain the masses."
He glances at the piano, then back at me. "Absolutely not."
"Come on. Show off a little."
"This is group therapy, not open mic night."
"Missed opportunity."
Two people already occupy chairs—a middle-aged man staring at his hands, and a younger woman scrolling her phone. More trickle in. An older couple. A guy in a hoodie. A woman clutching a travel mug like a lifeline.
My palms sweat. I wipe them on my jeans.
"Nervous?" Julian asks quietly.
"Terrified."
"Same."
He pulls a small notebook from his jacket pocket, black leather, pages dog-eared.
I blink. "Did you bring homework?"
"Notes. For the book.”
"You're taking notes at a trauma support group? I don't think that's allowed."
"If something resonates, yeah." He shrugs, no apology in it. "I'll be subtle about it. I'm sure it'll be okay."
It should feel weird, invasive even. But there's something honest about it. He's not pretending this is purely altruistic.
"As long as you don't write about me."
