Trista nods and pats Chase's back. She's talking to him, and to the group. But I can't take my eyes off him.
He's staring right at me, like that last comment was about me.
What the hell?
I want to hate him for it—he doesn't know me. But the expression on his face isn't judgment, or anger. It's a mask of concern.
I'm not giving in to my cravings! I'm not relapsing? What's his problem?
I shake my head and look away. Chase sighs and goes back to staring at his hands, clasped in front of him, nodding at what Trista's telling the group. I can't take in the words because my head's spinning.
All the stories are like that—the girl who saw her ex-boyfriend with someone else—and the girl was high, so she knew he was doing the same thing to this girl that he'd done to her. How she was a coward and didn't say anything. Now she hates herself.
