She'd met men like Ryan King before – all the time in fact. Every little thing he did seemed preordained to piss her off. Like when he called Lauren "Laura." She'd taken great pleasure in sneaking up behind him and scaring the living shit out of him at two paces.
His little "March Sadness" game was admittedly a little fun. Even when she lost miserably to Sonia's cat-death.
Watching Fausta celebrate so joyously when she won, smiling and laughing and dancing, it was oddly inspiring. Like seeing a little crack of light break in the very dim worldview she could feel herself slipping into.
Then Lauren had walked through the door. Lauren in her form-fitting skirt and that sweet silk blouse fluttering lightly as she came to a horrified halt in the doorway of the group room.
Anne felt her heart drop. She hated disappointing Lauren. And she suddenly felt absurdly guilty about being a part of King's commandeering of the session.
But as guilty as she felt, she couldn't think of anything to say to Lauren. So she sat rigidly in her chair and waited for Lauren to reboot the meeting, for Yolanda to deplorably kiss ass the way she always did, for Owen to shut down again, and for King to sit in his chair aimlessly nodding, absolutely reeking of an overinflated ego.
She supposed part of her felt she had to despise King because he reminded her a little of herself when she'd first joined the group. She'd emitted those same incredulous stares in her first few weeks, ashamed of any notion of admitting pain, eager to run from the room at every mention of Lauren's "exercises." She'd had the same cynical tone to every response she shared.
But eventually it had been easier to adjust, easier to let go and admit things. She'd realized there was comfort in honesty when she'd finally convinced herself to admit things, to describe Patti, to talk about her kids and what they were going through alongside her. She'd broken down, and the rest of the group had broken down with her. Slowly, she could feel herself building up again.
And there was no way she was going to let some jackass sports dude come in and ruin what she had with Lauren. Or rather, what she had with the group. Anne pursed her lips a little.
That was the only thing holding her back. Her stupid, stupid, senseless, goddamned crush on the distractingly lovely group leader. Lauren was a little spastic sometimes, a little overdramatic other times, especially with that little golden gong of hers. But she was also adorable, well-dressed, well-read (as their lengthy conversations had come to reveal) and had a spectacular smile.
It hurt at first, the idea that she could have feelings for anyone after Patti. Just the thought of her wife still managed to throw her alternatingly into a fit of tears or a fit of rage. Usually the latter. The former only came in the safety of her own home. And one time in the safety of Lauren's arms. That was what had really cemented her affection for the younger woman.
She'd texted Lauren at 2 a.m. one night in a grief-induced wine binge. It had been too late to reasonably be bothering a part-time, informal, grief counsellor and she'd immediately regretted the words as soon as they were sent. More wine seemed the only answer.
Much to Anne's surprise, Lauren had shown up on her doorstep not twenty minutes later, her clear eyes filled with concern and comfort. She'd sat with Anne on the couch (Anne's current sleeping quarters), fetching her several glasses of water and some Tylenol for the impending headache.
And then she'd held her as she cried, Anne's small frame wracking with sobs, desperately trying to keep quiet so the kids would stay put in bed.
In that horrible moment, what she considered the worst of her grief so far, Lauren had been with her. Anne couldn't help the little attachment she'd formed that night. And unfortunately, that little attachment had only become stronger in the months since.