Page 10

Addicted to love?

I snort, which earns me a curious glance from the blonde sitting in front of me.

People are addicted to books. They’re addicted to caffeine. To alcohol or drugs. But to love? Sweet, tender love?

How can someone love too much?

But apparently when you violate your restraining orders three times, they have no sense of humor. It wasn’t even my fault. The first two times,hetexted me and wanted to hook up while continuing to keep our relationship a secret. The third time…I thought I was doing him a favor by protecting him from his crazy ex.

If you were to ask me why I went to such great lengths to violate my restraining order knowing that I would get in trouble, I would answer:

I love him.

He needs me.

We belong together even though “forces are standing against us.”

The last twopoints were his words, not mine, right before he broke up with me.

He even defined our love as “star-crossed” and claimed he’d be with me if “the circumstances were ideal.”

Point is: I’m not planning on letting a stupid therapy center ruin what we have.

I stare out of the window and realize my life’s not as bad as it looks. At least it’s not cold out here, and the world hasn’t ended.

Located off the northeast coast of North Carolina, this place is still near land. About four hundred years ago, a colony got lost and settled here. Until now, no one knows what happened, but it’s all very tragic and mysterious. It’s as if Roanoke Island is some kind of undiscovered Bermuda triangle no one knows about. Roads are not marked well, and from what I hear from the driver, the GPS is spotty at best.

Sure I’m going to miss my phone.

All right, I have a confession to make.

Maybe I do have a bit of a stalking tendency. Maybe thoughts about Bruce have been consuming me lately. But I’m sure I don’t need therapy to control “those urges,” which make me wonder all kinds of things such as whether he’s thinking of me.

To me, it’s all the more proof that I love him.

As we near the building, the chatter around us increases in volume. At last, the bus halts and a woman holding a microphone in her hand gets up. Her hair, dyed a scarlet red, makes it hard to guess her age. I realize it’s the same woman who took my papers when I boarded the bus. She must have traveled with us.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she starts, and I bite on the inside of my cheek. There are no men in the bus, so I assume it’s one of the many standardized speeches she is going to hold. “Welcome to the LAA center.”

She pauses for effect.

It works.

Everyone is sitting so still you could drop a pin and hear it.

“This is going to be your sanctuary for the next few weeks. It’s a place where we don’t judge you. A place that will offer you redemption. With the help of the finest psychologists and renowned… blah…blah…blah.”

My mind trails off.

Blame it on my attention deficit disorder, if you want.

I’m far away mentally, thinking of Bruce.

What’s he doing right now?

I hope he isn’t back with his ex. I’m pretty sure she’s the one responsible for my restraining order, because I know my Bruce would never do that.

I’ve barely caught fragments of the woman’s long talk when people stand, and I follow suit. Everyone seems excited, like they’re about to go on a trip to the Bahamas.