Ten, seven, three, one.
Our clinic sat on a block that always looked exhausted by afternoon. A paper sign taped on the old brick facade by the buzzer asked for patience. Inside, fluorescent light gave its best effort as coffee stung the air. Somewhere in the ductwork, the building cleared its throat.
The hallway funneled me toward a room where I was supposed to be the calm one, the objective one. Though I was normally a few minutes late, today I arrived early.
Too early.
The kind of early that reeked of anxiety instead of professionalism.
The room was already set up; chairs in a circle, neutral paint, and a potted plant that was faker than the smile I slapped on my face.
I circled the chairs twice, adjusted them ever so slightly, straightened papers that didn’t need to be straightened.
Denny walked past me with his fresh coffee. “You’re awfully twitchy today.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I am professionally composed.”
I glanced down and noticed my palms were sweating so I wiped them on my pants, but it didn’t do any good.
Relax, I thought.Chill. Breathe.
Denny glared at me, not buying a word I said.
“Blair, you color-coded the sign-in pens,” he said with a smirk.
A fact I had not realized until he’d pointed it out.
“You’re welcome,” I muttered and forced a grin.
The first few attendees arrived right on time. Ramon joked about dreary weather, Edgar gave me a stale protein bar he likely found under his car seat, and Ben asked if the chairs were new; they absolutely were not.
Next in was Travis. He’d been here before, but he never looked willing. This was his second attempt at anger management after he’d missed too many sessions the first go-round. Big guy, fully shaved head, sleeves of tattoos and a chip on his shoulder the size of a dining table. He dropped into a chair with a grunt and didn’t make eye contact with anyone, including me.
Same as always.
Last session I logged Travis’s boundary violation during group. He screamed in another participant’s face and planted himself in the doorway after two prompts to move out of the way. Conduct noncompliance. Per policy, I notified my supervisor, and the note was flagged for probation review.
Travis was aware of the same rules I tell every court-ordered client. Aisles and doors stay clear, and no staff contact outside scheduled group.
So today, Travis’s participation was conditional. Attendance verified, behavior documented. The clinic’s snapshot goes to parole officers regularly. Wording mattered. Travis knew it, and I knew it.
But no matter how angry Travis seemed, my mind couldn’t help but wander to Colt. The clip I’d seen was enough to leave a lasting impression. I counted the minutes as they passed and wondered when he’d enter the building.
Then, at 9:08, the door opened.
And Colt Mitchell walked into the room as if the floor should part ways for him. The room tipped a few inches toward him, and I corrected my posture as if it would fix the floor.
He was even taller than he appeared on video. Broader. His sweater couldn’t hide that he was built like a man who moved refrigerators recreationally.
Colt carefully scanned the room, passed over everyone else, mere background furnishings to him, and landed on me.
I smiled but it may have come out as a grimace.
Colt didn’t smile back. Instead, he sat in the chair furthest away from me and angled it away from the group.
“All right,” I said, pretending I didn’t need a paper bag to breathe into, “let’s get started.”
Group went mostlyas I’d expected.
