I sneezed into the tissue again, wishing I could go home and crawl into bed. A heating pad and ten hours of solid sleep sounded as close to heaven as I could imagine. “It’s going. I haven’t done much. Kristie runs a pretty tight ship, no need for me to mess with the system,” I wheezed.

Brooks seemed revolted by my state of deteriorating health. It was a good thing he hadn’t decided to go into medicine. His bedside manner sucked. He shoved a box of tissues into my hand and took a very obvious step away from me.

I coughed in his direction, without covering my mouth. Just to be an ass**le.

Brooks made a face of complete and total disgust and pulled a bottle of hand sanitizer out of his jacket pocket, squeezing a dollop in his palm and rubbing furiously. Apparently I wasn’t the only one with OCD tendencies. I’d remember that the next time he felt the need to make fun of my cleaning regimen.

I knew I looked horrible. I had purposefully avoided the mirror this morning while getting ready to go out, knowing what I would see: Long blond hair, limp and lifeless. Brown eyes, dull and tired. Dark circles and sallow skin. I had a virus, plain and simple, though from that description I could quite possibly be turning into a zombie. I was grossing myself out.

Watching the group members start to filter into the room, each looking less than enthused to be there, I realized that the support group was becoming less and less enjoyable. The initial meeting had been promising. Kristie had been optimistic that the group would turn out to be interactive and receptive. But with each group meeting, I knew that even her hopes were fading.

Some members had become more combative and defensive. Others had shut down entirely. Evan and April, the couple in need of some major social skills, were downright nasty.

And then there was Maxx Demelo. I knew Kristie thought he walked on water. You know the saying; if you want to look pretty, hang out with ugly people. And Maxx was doing his damnedest to be the belle of the druggie ball.

He was the only one who made a point of answering questions when they were asked. He volunteered personal information—though whether it was factual might be another story—and he seemed just oh-so-engaged each and every time he came to a meeting.

And while Kristie and I were barely tolerated when we spoke, Maxx Demelo reigned supreme. People listened when he opened his pretty little mouth, no matter what drivel fell out of it.

He was so full of shit.

He was one big ol’ pile of fake, and the way he played it up drove me nuts. I had tried to bring up my concerns about Maxx’s sincerity to Kristie several weeks ago, and she had blown me off.

“Aubrey, I can tell that Maxx is one hundred percent dedicated to his recovery. He is an example for every single person in the group. I’m so thankful to have someone like him to show the others that there is a light at the end of the tunnel. In fact, I’m thinking about talking to him about providing peer support to some of the more troubled members. I just know he’d help them so much,” Kristie gushed, and I had stopped bothering to discuss it. It was useless.

But even while I was regularly overcome with the urge to call Maxx out, I couldn’t help but be fascinated by him all the same. It was like watching an actor on stage slip into a character. And honestly, it made me determined to see what really lay beneath his cool and confident exterior.

I had seen how he was with his brother in the commons. I had seen him embarrassed and angry. And some sadistic part of me wanted to see that side of him again.

I attempted to observe him clinically. I had myself almost convinced that he suffered from some sort of personality disorder.

Or maybe I was completely delusional and projecting my own issues onto this poor guy in the group I was supposed to be facilitating.

“God, could they look any more miserable?” Brooks whispered, eyeballing the group members as they made their entrance, taking seats after grabbing their free cup of coffee. Their routines were the same each and every week. Eat a cookie. Drink some coffee. Mumble monosyllabically when asked a question.

This was supposed to be a voluntary group, aside from Evan, April, Kyle, and Maxx, who were court-ordered to attend. Yet the attendance of the others felt forced. In recovery groups, there were usually the one or two who took to their sobriety with the ferocity of a newfound religion.

Not in this group. And I felt like a failure for not figuring out a way to snap everyone out of it. It irked me even more that Maxx alone was the only one to arouse any sort of response from people. In fact, it often felt like he had taken over the group and was the one running it. And Kristie let him.

But the thing about Maxx was that he was a hard man to refuse, and I was learning that there were times when even I didn’t want to refuse him. That worried me. A lot.

I turned to Brooks and nodded. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but this group is a hard sell. I thought it would be . . .”

“Easy?” Brooks laughed, and I smacked his arm.

“Not easy, just not so difficult,” I complained, realizing how silly I sounded. Therapy wasn’t supposed to be easy. Groups were going to be a struggle for everyone involved. I had read the case studies, I had devoured the textbooks. I should know this stuff. But I had dreams of walking in and saving the world on my first try. I was an idealistic moron.

Kristie started handing out packets to people as they made their way to their seats. She gave me a pointed look, and I knew that was my cue.

“Okay, you’ve got to go.” I turned Brooks around and pushed him toward the door. Out in the hallway, Brooks chanced a quick hug.