Dear Life

by Meghan Quinn

  Already, after only a few days with Amanda and Matt, I’ve realized how extremely sheltered I’ve been. I’ve always been happy, never once did I feel neglected or like I was missing out on anything, but then again, that’s probably because I didn’t know what I was missing.

  And boy, have I been missing out on a lot. TV shows alone are blowing my mind, not to mention the gossip magazines, the access to anything by the touch of your phone—yeah, I just got a cell phone for the first time. No clue how it works. The world sits in the palm of your hand.

  I don’t blame my grams for sheltering me. I know she taught me what she knew, but now that I’m living with Amanda and seeing the abundance of opportunity right in front of me, I want to take advantage of it. I want to learn, I want to feel free. I want to live. Break free.

  And Dear Life sounds like it might just help me do that, along with the brilliant check from my estranged father.

  It’s funny, when one door closes, there really is another door open, ready and waiting for you.

  CARTER

  This is my fucking nightmare. Literally, God popped out of his cushiony throne of clouds, decided to fuck with my sanity, and put me in this love-thyself group. Absolute nightmare.

  According to my uncle, I only have myself to blame for the reason I’m drinking stale coffee and sitting in a circle of sad and unfortunate souls. But I beg to differ.

  I have a few people to blame. First, I blame my asshat uncle for making it practically impossible to claw my way out from under his watchful and suffocating eye. Second, I blame Sasha, the evil bitch who stole all my money—and I’m not going to lie, a little piece of my heart—but I’m not going to get into those bullshit feelings right now. Third, I have Ryan to blame for getting in my way behind the grill, which led to an all-out brawl in the kitchen. I’ve told him time and time again to get the fuck out of my way but he didn’t listen. I made sure I got him out of my way myself, by punching the shit out of him. Not going to lie, the dude has a killer right hook because he blasted me a few times. And fourth, the final nail in the shit-tastic coffin I’m lying in right now belongs to Hollyn, my co-worker, the demanding waitress with the bright red hair. She suggested this godforsaken program to my uncle who jumped on the bandwagon immediately.

  Yesterday, I was brought into his office and offered up two opportunities: I could either attend this Dear Life program to completion so I can, as my uncle put it, get my life in shape, or I can continue to work at the restaurant but add three more years to my “sentence” to pay off the damages made during the fight.

  Three more years.

  No way.

  Three more years in the hell I’ve already been living in seems like a life sentence. That’s why I’m here, partaking in the infamous Dear Life program that’s been sweeping all the granola-headed, kumbuya freaks in the Denver area, stewing in my own hatred and anger.

  When I first arrived I spotted Hollyn, who annoyingly waved at me. Clearly not interested in talking to her since she is one of the reasons I’m here, I ignored her and grabbed some coffee. Now I wish I didn’t because my mouth tastes like a stale coffee-coated asshole.

  And to top it all off, I had to sign my life away when I walked into this dank church hall. Yeah, I had to not only sign a non-disclosure, but I also had to sign a contract stating I’ll attend every single meeting, follow through with the program, and write letters as described in the program leaflet. And if I don’t? This free program that’s offered is immediately switched over to something of cost. Yeah, if I decide to quit, I have to ante up one thousand, two hundred thirty-two dollars to the church we’re meeting at. Where they came up with that number I have no clue, but since I’m now broke, I have no way of paying my way out, not that I could because that would mean three more years at my uncle’s. How the fuck did my life spiral down so quickly?

  As I was told by the chipper debutante with her grossly high-styled hair at the front, the money portion is to ensure everyone entering the program is serious about it and committed. Little do they know, I will be skirting my way through the entire thing, ticking down the days until I’m done.

  Throwing the trash coffee out, I take a seat in the round circle—shoot me now—and stare down at my hands that are clasped in front of me. Right about now, I would be found being anti-social with my face buried in my phone, but of course, would you guess that they confiscated our phones when we first got here? Yeah, like I said, fucking nightmare.

  “Is this seat taken?” a small voice asks from behind me. Glancing back, I see a blonde, porcelain-skinned girl wearing a long-sleeve turtleneck with snowflakes decorating the fabric. Added to her appearance are frumpy, acid-washed overalls, creating a mom pouch in the front that I know she doesn’t have by the look of her petite frame. Yikes.

  The circle of chairs around the room are not quite full, she could have chosen a different seat, but I guess it’s better to sit next to snowflake than it is to sit next to the heavy breather marking his territory around the sugar packets.

  “Nah, go ahead,” I answer her, nodding my head at the chair.

  “Thanks.” Taking a seat, she turns toward me and holds out her hand. By her approach, I would say she’s outgoing and very social, but by the way her hand is shaking, my guess is this is all new to her. “I’m Daisy.”

  Daisy. Yup, the name fits her perfectly. Innocence brands her with her sweet smile, rosy cheeks, and wide blue eyes. Her milky complexion gives away her embarrassment. By the way she’s dressed like a seventy-year-old woman and twitches nervously, I’m guessing she’s more than just shy.

  She’s pretty though. Looking past the frumpy clothes and thirty-year-old clogs on her feet, she has a very beautiful face, a stark contrast to Sasha’s dark and strong features. And whereas Sasha would be hanging off my arm—all the confidence in the world when it comes to her sexual appeal—Daisy shows no signs of confidence, and what little she attempts to show comes off as complete and utter nerves.

  I wonder what she’s here for.

  No, scratch that. I’m not here to make friends or carry other people’s burdens on my shoulder. I’m here to listen, do the minimum, and get out. I don’t care what she’s here for.

  “Hey,” I nod, not wanting to make small talk.

  “Hey,” she answers back awkwardly.

  Pressing my lips together, I nod and turn away. Okay, that was uncomfortable.

  “Carter, I’m surprised to see you here,” Hollyn says as she struts toward me, her bright red hair smoothly hanging by her shoulders. I thought about asking her out before I started seeing Sasha but when I found out she was engaged, I kept my distance. And then when she lost her husband, I took an even bigger step back, not just because she was grieving, but because she turned into a raving bitch.

  I can’t stand the woman and can you guess it? She can’t stand me either. Maybe it’s the combination of two volatile people coming together that makes us rather explosive. My uncle knows better than to have us working the same shifts, and if we have to, we are separated as much as possible. Why he keeps her around, I have no clue. My guess: he feels sorry for her.

  “You know why I’m here,” I say back as she takes a seat next to Snowflake, who is fidgeting with the straps of her overalls.

  “Never thought your uncle would follow through with his threat.” She talks over Daisy who is awkwardly between us.

  “Bullshit,” I seethe. “You suggested this hoax of a program just to fuck with me. I’m just wondering why you’re doing it?”

  “If we can all take our seats, I would like to get started,” the lady from registration cuts in, putting an end to the short conversation between Hollyn and me.

  Leaning forward for a brief second to catch my eye, Hollyn says, “Just stay away from me.”

  “Easy enough, I’d rather not catch the venom seeping from your pores anyway.”

  Hollyn rolls her eyes, huffs some retort under her breath I can’t quite hear, and leans back in her chair, arms crossed.<
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  Snowflake taps her feet on the ground, her hands on her thighs now, rubbing them nervously. “So, it seems like you two know each other,” she announces awkwardly.

  “Perceptive,” I mumble sarcastically as a man in a baseball cap and glasses sits next to me. His body is quite broad, taking up a lot of the space between our chairs. I find myself leaning closer to Snowflake so I don’t have to be kissing shoulders with the guy.

  “Welcome. My name is Marleen, and I’ll be your mediator for this course. Under your chairs you’ll find guidance packets for each and every one of you. These materials will help you through this program for the next few months. In there you’ll find pens, letters, envelopes, and a task booklet. Please do not lose these materials or share them, they are for you and you alone.”

  Everyone is bending over to reach for their packets so I do the same because, hell, I want to know what kind of free pen I get. Enter sarcasm here.

  “Oh, what lovely stationery,” Snowflake coos next to me, running her hand over the notepad found in the packet. A pocket full of sunshine, this one.

  “Since we have such a large group, we’re going to break off into smaller circles.” Well, isn’t that great. “I’ll section you off.” To my horror, Marleen starts grouping everyone together by where they are sitting. Mapping off the room in my head and the pattern Marleen is making, I realize I’ll be grouped with not only Snowflake, but Hollyn as well.

  “And you four,” Marleen says, pointing at the guy next to me, me, Snowflake, and Hollyn. Yup, just when I thought I’d hit rock bottom. “Now, within your groups, form little circles and introduce yourselves. Please remember the NDAs you signed earlier and be friendly, your group will also be your support circle.”

  Fantastic.

  Chairs scraping echo in the church hall as everyone forms their own intimate circles. I make no attempt to move, because I’m a dick like that, and force everyone to form around me. Awkwardly, we all shift our eyes from one another to see who’s going to start, everyone besides the guy in the baseball cap who doesn’t seem to want to interact just as much as me.

  “I guess I’ll start,” Snowflake says after a bout of silence. “Um, hi. My name is Daisy. Do we have to say why we’re here?”

  Marleen overhears Daisy’s question and answers, “That’s entirely up to you. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

  “Oh.” Daisy acknowledges Marleen and turns back to us, her hands twisting in her lap. “Um, I’m here to start a new chapter.”

  Vague. Anyone could really say they’re here to start a new chapter but I won’t call her out on that because I will use the same bullshit line. Key to making it through this program . . . faking it.

  Looking around, Hollyn points at herself and asks, “My turn?” We don’t answer so instead she sits up in her chair and says, “I’m Hollyn.” We wait for her to continue but she doesn’t. “That’s it. I’m Hollyn. Move on.”

  From the corner of my eye, I can see Snowflake blush. Is she embarrassed for saying why she’s here when Hollyn didn’t?

  Peeking up from under the bill of his hat, the stranger acknowledges our group for the first time. Recognition hits me before he can say his name.

  Jace Fucking Barnes, the shortstop for the Colorado Miners. No wonder they made us sign NDAs.

  “Hey, I’m Jace and I’m, uh,” he pulls on the bill of his hat clearly uncomfortable, “I’m in a bad place right now and need a way to get through it.”

  Visibly affected, he leans forward, hands clasped together, forearms resting on his legs, and his head down. Growing up in Denver my entire life, I’ve become a diehard fan for my local teams, the Colorado Miners being one of them. I watch as many games as I can and am immersed in each team, to the point that I know an embarrassing amount of information about the players. I know Jace is a pretty easy-going, fun guy. He’s a prankster and very casual in his interviews. However, that’s not the Jace I’m seeing right now. The Jace sitting next to me looks tortured.

  What the hell could he be going through?

  “Your turn,” Hollyn rudely says in my direction. Her arms are crossed over her chest, radiating bitch vibes.

  Slouching in my chair, I take a casual stance and say, “I’m Carter, and I can’t wait to write some fucking letters.”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Jace nod his head, a slight chuckle in his shoulders. Hollyn and Snowflake look less than thrilled by my comment. Snowflake seems like she wants to shrink into her ill-fitting overalls.

  “I hope you’ve had time to introduce yourselves,” Marleen cuts in with a clap of her hands. “You will become well acquainted with one another over the next few months, leaning on one another for support and guidance.”

  “Great,” Hollyn mutters under her breath, eyeing me up and down.

  Feeling is mutual, sister.

  Getting serious, Marleen folds her hands in front of herself and says, “We are all here for a reason, whether you want to talk about it now or not, that’s up to you and your comfort level. But you are here to make a change, to explore something new, to find acceptance for your past, and create a new future.”

  God, I’m so not interested in this right now.

  For the next half hour, Marleen lays out the groundwork for the program, what we should expect and what’s expected from us. There will be a series of challenges we must complete and write about—joy—and we’re required to attend all meetings.

  Marleen continues, “The point of this program is to address what life has given you, the cards you’ve been dealt. It’s not about complaining about what you’re going through, but about accepting it and making the most of the life you have. Living life with a purpose, proving your existence.” She pauses and looks around the room. Emphasizing her words, she repeats, “Prove your existence. That’s your new motto to live by. What did you do today to prove your existence, what are you doing tomorrow to prove your existence in this world?”

  Prove my existence. Isn’t that ironic. That’s what I’m fucking trying to do, but my uncle is making it practically impossible to do so with his low pay and overbearing eye. And thanks to Sasha . . .

  Continuing, Marleen says, “Proving your existence every day isn’t about making a grand gesture, or achieving a goal, it’s about the small things. It’s about getting out of bed, living in the positive, and making the most of the life you’ve been blessed with. Today, you proved your existence by coming to this program, by taking a leap into the unknown, by meeting new people. Tomorrow, it may be something as simple as writing a letter to life. Proving your existence is about the intent of taking one smaller step toward your goals in life.” Glancing around the room with her hands clasped in front of her and a sincere look on her face, she says, “I know why some of you are here. I know the struggle you may be enduring, the depression you might be in, or the nervousness of the unknown.” Marleen looks at Snowflake for a second and then addresses the room again. “Whatever brings you here today, be sure to know, you’re not in this alone.”

  Beside me, Snowflake nods her head, as if what Marleen is preaching is hitting her straight to the soul. Hmm, she wants to start a new chapter. Despite not wanting to be emotionally invested in anything, I can’t help but be curious. What is going through Snowflake’s mind? Whatever affected her can’t be that drastic. She’s far too simple and sheltered to have experienced true hard knocks.

  “Today isn’t about fixing anything though,” Marleen says, pacing the room, her one-inch heels clicking across the lacquered floors. “Today is about grieving. Today is about accepting why you’re here and being mad about it. Today is the one day in this program that you’re allowed to be angry, to lash out, to allow the pain you’ve been carrying around to seep from your soul and onto the paper in front of you. Through the course of this program, you’ll be writing to life, explaining your thoughts and feelings, like a journal. It will be a cathartic experience for those truly invested in this program.” Clapping her hands together, the sound ech
oing through the sterile cinder-block walls of the room, she adds, “It’s time to grieve. Leave it all out on the paper. Take this moment and let go of the worries, the fears, the demons. Lay it all out. Because the point of this program is to move on, to create anew, but you can never truly and freely move on until you fully feel your anger. Let your anger consume you, let it eat you up and then write it all out, leak it onto the paper. Take your time, and when you’re done, drop off your letters into the box up front.”

  What? We don’t keep the letters? Who wants some random person reading their letters? And who the hell has the job of reading them?

  “Don’t worry,” Marleen continues. “Your letters won’t be touched. They are sealed by you and will stay sealed.”

  Well, that solves that small panic. Thank fuck.

  “For the rest of the evening, you are welcome to talk to your group or just write your letters. Either way, I want you to bundle the anger you’ve been harboring and bleed it out. Please be sure to see your goal for the upcoming weeks and be prepared for the next meeting. If you have any questions, you have my contact information in the folder.”

  With that, Marleen tends to her desk where she sits down and starts sifting through the NDAs. Other groups begin to quietly chat while our circle sits in silence.

  “Um, can I say something?” Snowflake chimes in as we all stare at the blank gender-neutral stationery in front of us. No one answers her but we do give her our attention. “I haven’t really been exposed to many social settings, so this is incredibly uncomfortable for me, and I might be a little off-base when I say this, but I’m going to go for it anyway.” Turning to Jace she says, “From the darkness in your eyes, I have a feeling you’re really going through something heavy, and Hollyn, it’s obvious that you’re hurting from how closed off you are.” Turning to me she flippantly says, “And it’s obvious you don’t want to be here for who knows what reason, but I want to be here. I want to make a change, so instead of all of us sulking and being closed off, why don’t we make a pact now. Let this program be our New Year’s resolution. Let’s hold each other accountable and take this program seriously because if anything, we can at least appreciate the need for something to change in our lives.”