“I can stay here. We can talk some more,” I said quietly, placating.

Clay took a deep breath and his face relaxed and his teeth unclenched. He gave me an embarrassed grimace.

“Stop it, Maggie. You need to go and be a college student, not worrying about your f**ked up boyfriend,” he said sadly.

I felt instantly defensive. “You stop it, Clay! Don’t say shit like that! It’s not fair,” I ground out.

Clay lifted his hand and touched the screen, bowing his head down. “It’s not. I’m sorry. Go. Please. Have fun for both of us. I’ll be here tomorrow. And every day after that,” he swore. And just like that my irritation fell away.

I pressed my own hand against my computer, willing myself to feel his skin. “I love you, Clay. Don’t ever forget that,” I said more harshly than I intended.

Clay looked up at me, his eyes boring straight into mine with a love that would never burn out.

“You have my heart, Maggie. Keep it safe.”

3

I tapped my pencil against my thigh and looked out the window into the parking lot beside the Rose Heights office building. I was waiting for Roberta to come back with the paperwork from the local community college that I needed to fill out.

September had already come and gone and now I was walking into October with a plan of action. Roberta, for all of her scary drill sergeant ways, kicked serious ass as a case manager. I had never been so focused and on task in my entire life.

She had already helped me to navigate the government red tape in order to get my housing subsidized. Next on her list, she had me going to a community job fair where I sat down and interviewed for not one, not two, but three different jobs.

Funnily enough, the one I had decided on was as a part time library assistant. Mr. Young would be either proud or shocked.

We had discussed my long-term goals and I had mentioned wanting to become a counselor. Roberta hadn’t seemed remotely surprised by this. She told me that a lot of counselors went into the field because of a personal connection. I guess if anyone could understand how to navigate through the crazy, it would be someone who had experienced it first hand.

She encouraged me to enroll at the local community college. “Just take a few classes, see what you think. No pressure. If you don’t like it, no big deal,” Roberta suggested. And I couldn’t fault that irrefutable logic.

Over the last month, I had come to realize that there was no arguing with Roberta Silva. Her brusque personality, while at first had made me want to hide under my bed, now was almost reassuring. I knew she’d give it to me straight, no sugar coating.

I couldn’t help but give myself an internal fist pump at the way I had transitioned into the group home. Sharing your space with three other people, particularly people who were dealing with their own level of bullshit and trauma wasn’t ideal, bit it wasn’t so bad either.

Ryan and Kyle continued to keep to themselves. I rarely saw them. I knew that Ryan worked at the grocery store down the road; stocking shelves and kept strange hours. Neil was going to school at the community college as well. He was getting a bunch of tech certifications and spent most of his time in his room in front of the computer. And when they were home, they were playing Call of Duty until all hours of the night.

The only person I interacted with on a semi regular basis was Oscar. But his extreme paranoia and social phobias made it difficult to have a lengthy conversation with him about anything beyond the weather.

The only time I really talked to all of them at the same time was three times a week for group meetings.

It was just as well. I wasn’t there to make friends. And most of the time it felt like I had the place to myself. The staff checked in twice a day but for the most part, we were left to live as independently as we were able to.

Roberta came back into her office and shut the door behind her. Her steps heavy as she walked around to her desk and had a seat. She pushed a pile of papers towards me. “This is the registration packet. One of your goals for this week will be to call the school and set up a time to go to sit down with the registrar. Sort through this paperwork, see what financial aid you’re eligible for. We can talk about what you learned at our meeting next week.” Roberta wrote down some notes on the pad of paper she kept on hand.

I picked up the papers and shoved them into the folder on my lap. When Roberta was finished writing, she handed me a slip of paper with a list of three items that I was tasked with accomplishing for the week. Visit community college. Fill out paperwork. Research financial aid options. Seemed easy enough.

I signed off on the goals and put my copy, with the college stuff, in the folder.

Roberta folded her hands and leaned on her elbows. “How are things going at the house? Any issues I need to be made aware of?” she asked me, raising an eyebrow. She had a way of asking things that made me feel like I was sat in the principal’s office. It wasn’t me Ms. Silva! I didn’t do it!

“Not that I know of?” The statement came out as a question. Roberta clicked her tongue.

“I haven’t heard of any problems, I just like to ask,” she said with a small smile. I got the distinct impression she liked to make people squirm, particularly me.

“Don’t forget your art therapy starts tomorrow morning. And support group is tonight at six. If there aren’t any concerns, let’s call it a day,” Roberta got to her feet and went to open her door.

I followed suit and went through the doorway, giving my case manager an easy smile. “Thanks Roberta, you know I appreciate it,” I said oozing just enough charm to crack through her prison guard persona.