"I'm really proud of you for doing this," Mom said, pulling out of the hug with a smile on her face. "Talking about what happened will be good for you. It'll be a weight off your shoulders."

She seemed so sure about that. Like telling a room of complete strangers about how sad I was feeling would somehow make me feel better. It all seemed like a waste of time to me.

I kept those comments to myself. After the stunt I pulled yesterday, I felt I should do something to show her I was serious about making a change in my life.

So, despite every inch of me wanting to stay in bed all day, I told Mom I was ready for counseling. Being her over-emotional self, she cried, going into Proud Mama Mode on steroids.

I looked up at the plain, beige building as the feeling of dread enclosed me. Westbrook Wellness was spelled out across the top in big red, glossy letters. It sounded more like a gym or yoga studio than a mental health center.

Also, the fact that this place was wedged between a beauty supply and a dollar store made me even more skeptical about it.

"I'll pick up at four," she told me.

Focusing my attention back to her, I nodded. "Okay," I mumbled, opening the car door. Before my foot even touched the pavement Mom pulled me back into another hug.

"I love you," she hummed, squeezing me tightly.

"I love you too, " I said, trying to wiggle free. "But you're strangling me."

She finally let go and I was able to breathe. Once I was out of the car, I waved to her as I watched her drive away.

The inside of the building didn't match the outside. While the outside was drab and boring, the inside was bright and colorful. Clearly designed to make younger kids feel less anxious.

The mural of happy animals on a playground that was painted on the wall wasn't working on me, though. Maybe because it was being blocked by a couple of kids my age who looked as unhappy to be there as I felt.

"Hello." The receptionist smiled as I approached the desk. "How may I help you?"

"I'm here for the grief group," I told her.

She nodded, placing a clip board on the desk in front of me. "Sign in here," she said, cheerfully. "And the group is meeting in room five. Go down the hall, make a left and the grief group is the first door on the left."

The room was easy to find. The hard part was actually going in. The decision was only made harder when the glowing, green exit sign caught my eye.

Naturally, I wanted to run, but my mother's broken face from yesterday burned in my brain. I never wanted to cause her that pain again. If sitting in a circle and talking about my feelings would prevent that from happening, maybe I should go in.

Or I could throw some more dirt on top of it, burying it and hoping it never resurfaced again.

Before I knew it, I was pushing the heavy metal door open. The slight October breeze hit my face as I stepped out, letting the door close behind me. Pulling my beanie down further to cover my ears, I started to walk. I didn't know where I was heading, I just didn't want to be near the Westbrook Wellness Center.

My tour of the town came to an end when I reached the infamous June's. It was a barn-themed restaurant with cow print on the seats and chicken shaped salt and pepper shakers.

It was cute, but not where I expected people from school to hang out.

At that moment the diner had only a few patrons inside, while the bulk of the customers opted for the drive-through.

The red, barn shaped clock on the wall said it was 3:18. Since the grief group didn't end until four I had some time to kill until I needed to head back to the center. So, I ordered a burger and a shake and got comfortable at one of the tables.

As I waited for my order, a familiar face walked in. Vivian. She was with an older woman who had her phone pressed to her ear, looking bored as she spoke to whoever was on the other end.

Vivian didn't notice me until after they put in their orders and grabbed the table next to mine.

"Hey," she greeted.

"Hey."

Seeing people outside of school was always kind of awkward. Especially since the last time Vivian and I talked was at the sleepover where she offered me drugs.

"Where did you get those jeans?"

I looked over to see that the lady Vivian came in with was done talking on the phone and was now talking to me. Her eyes were fixated on my pants and I suddenly felt self-conscious.

"I bought them." That was a lie. One that I couldn't back up when she asked a follow up question.

"From where?" she asked. "I've been to every mall, boutique and online store and I've never seen anything like those."

Glancing down at my jeans, I couldn't understand what the fuss was about. They were just jeans. Well, a pair of jeans and some shorts sewn together.

"I made them," I confessed, feeling like an idiot.

The woman's face lit up when I said that. She stood from her seat. "Stand up, let me get a better look at them."

I did as she said. Regardless of how weird I thought it was.

"Ma," Vivian groaned. "She clearly doesn't want you bothering her."

Her mom looked at me with a blank expression. "Only she would think giving someone a compliment was bothersome. How did you make these?" she asked, circling me as she examined the jeans.

"Uhm, well, I cut the front thigh part of the jeans out and replaced it with—" I paused, shocked at the clicking of her phone camera. That was definitely weird, but I shook it off. "—the front of a pair of shorts."

She took a few more pictures, including one of my face before she allowed me to sit back down. She did the same before asking, "Do you make clothes for yourself often?"

"I guess."

"Would it be possible if I could see some more of your designs?"

I was a deer caught in the headlights. A random lady asking to see my clothes had me stunned. My thirteen-year-old self would have jump at the opportunity to show off my designs. The self I was now just wanted to jump up and leave.

"Number twenty-two?" the young man at the counter called out.

"That's me," I announced, getting up to grab my food. When I took my seat once again, Vivian's mom had even more to say to me.

"You have a nice figure, a pretty face and the gap is nice a touch. Makes you eternally young," she gushed. "Have you ever thought about modeling?"

The back of my neck was on fire from the unwanted attention. Even more so when I noticed how pissed Vivian looked as she glared at her mom. God, that was awkward.

"No. Never," I said with absolute certainty.

"Well... what's your name again, honey?"

"Loren."

"Loren," she repeated, sliding a black card, with fancy white writing onto my table. "Here's my card. I'm Victoria Hernandez, the chief editor of Beauteens, and I like your style. We're taking on interns for next year. Give me a call if you're interested."

"Number thirty-two."

Vivian practically ran to grab their to-go order and was out the door just as quick.

"I hope to hear from you soon," Victoria said before leaving to follow her daughter.

Examining the card, I wondered what it would be like to work at the Beauteen headquarters. I read their magazine religiously when I was younger and visited their website daily when they moved everything online. Working alongside like-minded people, having my designs featured in their designer spotlights, meeting celebrities. Having celebrities wear my designs.

It would be a dream come true. It would also be highly unlikely to happen considering my track record. I had pissed someone off in a past life and I was paying for it now.

"How was the group?" Mom asked during dinner.

I had been waiting for the question since she picked me up. Maybe she was giving me a chance to bring up it myself?

Stabbing at the piece of chicken breast on my plate, I shrugged. "It was good."

"Yeah? What did Mr. Mullen talk about?" she asked.

"Just the typical speech about how life is short, so don't waste it," I said, taking a bite of my food.

"I thought the grief counselor was a woman," she said.

I could feel her eyes burning into the side of my head. She set me up.

"Also, Mr. Mullen was the name of the last counselor," she stated. "You said that you'd go this time."

"There were hopscotching ponies on the wall," I told her, in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"Loren," she sighed. "You need to talk to someone."

"I talk to you."

"I swear, you're just like your father," she said, shaking her head. "And look at where that got him. That's where your 'ignore it until it goes away' method will get you."

I looked down at my food as I let her words sink in. She was right. He never talked about anything that bothered him and he ended up spending his nights getting drunk at random bars. I didn't want to end up like that. Like him. The thought made me sick to my stomach.

"I know that talking about the accident is really hard for you," she said, her voice low and soothing. "But carrying that weight around with you will be so much harder."