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“Mia, why don’t you go next?”

My head jerks up, my mind completely blank. I can’t remember what memory I was going to share.

“What are you thinking about?” urges Ruben.

I cross my legs. Then uncross them and bounce my knees. “The first time I ate kielbasa sausage. I got the stomach flu that night. To this day I can’t stand the sight of the stuff.”

There are soft chuffs of laughter around me. Ruben’s dark eyes regard me knowingly; they don’t have the piercing power of Chastain’s icy blues, but they’re in the ballpark.

“And what were you feeling the night you jumped into the pool after-hours with Preston?”

I chew my lip. “Antsy. Hot.”

“And?”

I glance at Callum, who gives me a little nod of encouragement.

I mutter, “Annoyed.”

What I don’t say—can’t—is that I was out of my head with jealousy after seeing Nora blushing at a smiling Chastain.

Stupid, Mia. So stupid.

“Do you see any parallels in your life of similar occurrences?”

I sigh, resigned. Of course I do. I’ve never been accused of lacking brain cells. Every time I’ve done something reckless, it’s because I’m feeling something I don’t want to feel. I don’t skydive when I’m happy.

“Yes,” I answer, not elaborating.

Ruben, either sensing my unease or that he’s not going to get more from me, shifts his attention to Preston.

I listen to the rest of the stories with half an ear. Preston was caught jerking off in the shower by his dad, who told him he’d never fuck a real woman. Kinsey fell on her face during her first red carpet walk as a teenager and had to deal with weeks of tabloids exploiting the images. Callum was bullied at school for being too tall and skinny.

Very different lives, same story. Shame, secrets, and humiliations that shaped our self-identities. That led us to starvation, self-harm—Preston showed me his arms—and love addiction.

My personal poison doesn’t fit in any of the standard boxes, but it’s nevertheless real. A corrupt seed was planted in me on that rainy night when instead of crying from loss, I’d jumped off the roof and felt, for brief seconds, close to my mother and brother.

Escaping reality is my ultimate high—chasing that elusive feeling until I achieve my goal. Freedom from memory. From pain.

Do I want to die? No.

Do I want to live?

That’s harder to answer.

By the time group therapy wraps up, a bad idea is firmly embedded in my mind.

14

SCOURING

DAY 10

At 9:00 p.m. on the dot, the head of the cleaning staff, Margaret, meets me in the Fish Tank. She’s a no-nonsense woman with dark hair slicked back in a tight bun and frown lines bracketing her mouth.

Having clearly played this part in a resident’s punishment before, she gives me perfunctory instructions. Where to dump and refill the water—in a back room she unlocks for me—how much time I should spend in each area—twenty minutes—and a warning—she’ll be inspecting my work in the morning. She finally looks me up and down, huffs, and saunters away with the keyring at her waist jingling.

I actually don’t mind the labor. It soothes the burn in my bones, though doesn’t entirely suppress it. By the time one hallway is done, and the Fish Tank’s floors gleam, I’m sweating, my hair curling damply against my temples.