New Life by Bonnie Dee Page B

If I could tell her about the accident, I could certainly tell these
guys.
    “Most of you know I was in a car accident
that left me with some permanent injuries. There’s not a lot to
tell. I got drunk and drove, hit a guardrail and flipped the car.
Got thrown from the car because I wasn’t wearing a seat belt, and
ended up with some head injuries and other stuff,” I blurted fast
like ripping a bandage off a wound, then exhaled in relief.
    But Maxie wasn’t finished with me yet. “Those
are the details of what happened to you physically, but what are
the aftereffects? What do you feel about the accident? Isn’t
there more you’d like to say?”
    Not really hovered on the tip of my
tongue. I shook my head. “Not today, if that’s all right.”
    “When you’re ready.” Maxie smiled. She really
was a sweet lady. “Anyone else have something they’d like to
share?”
    The spotlight moved on, and I felt as
exhausted as if I’d run five miles. I’d hardly said anything, but
it was a start. From Rob’s little sneer, he didn’t agree. The guy
really despised me.
    As I listened to the others pour out their
grief or talk about their road to recovery, I started to really
want to tell about my date with Anna. It was too big to keep to
myself and made me realize I had no close friends I could call just
to shoot the shit with.
    When I’d first been in the hospital, I’d had
visitors, or so my mom said. I was in a coma, so I didn’t know it.
By the time I was working through rehab, the visits, calls, and
texts had dried up. Friendships I’d made in college were too new to
weather that kind of crisis. Old friends from high school were
scattered far and wide and focused on college life. Katie used to
read me notes people left on my Facebook wall, but most of the
names meant nothing to me, and by the time I was able to read
again, those messages had stopped. It’s pretty easy to fall off
people’s radar. The closest thing I had to “friends” now were the
homeless gang that hung out in the park and this group of survivors
struggling to reclaim their lives.
    I glanced at Rob and tried to imagine hanging
out with the guy. Shit, why not? Maybe I’d uncover the reason for
his deep-seated loathing of me. When the group broke up after an
hour of talk, talk, talking, I approached him.
    “Hey. Wanna grab a beer or something?”
    He stared at me as if I were the stupidest
person alive. “I’m an alcoholic , which you’d know if you
ever listened to what people say in here.”
    “Oh right. I forgot. How about coffee,
then?”
    His eyes narrowed. “What’s up with you
today?”
    “Nothing. Maybe I’m hitting on you because
you’re so hot.” I grinned. Should’ve known better. Rob doesn’t have
a sense of humor. He kept staring at me with pale gray eyes that
could’ve shot a freeze ray.
    “Kidding,” I said. “I just thought it was
time to start being friendly with some people. I haven’t been
exactly social since the accident.”
    He shrugged. “Okay. When?”
    “If you don’t have anywhere to be, how about
now? I don’t work until later this afternoon.”
    “I guess.” Rob put on his jacket and picked
up the messenger bag he always carried with him.
    It was all I could do not to make some
smart-ass comment about the mysterious, ever-present bag. Yanking
Rob’s chain was too easy. The guy was tightly wound. But I minded
my manners and made small talk about the weather as we walked out
of the building and down the block to a café.
    Rob sat at a table, clutching his bag in his
arm as if it held state secrets he expected to have stolen at any
moment. He was a funny-looking guy, the kind who seemed to be put
together from spare parts that didn’t quite match: limbs gangly,
ears too big for his small head, and of course that slicked-back
hairstyle did him no favors.
    “What do you really want?” he demanded
abruptly.
    “Nothing. Jesus!” I was starting to wonder
why I’d bothered. If I was going to