For a while, they sit and listen to the sound of the thickening snow gently tap against the window. The warmth of the tea eases the strain in her throat and soon her tears recede like tideline.

“It feels good to sit and talk with you,” she says. “I felt the same way after the meeting. I was so nervous before, though, I almost didn’t go. But I’m glad I did.”

“Now that you’ve had some time to digest it all, how did you find your first meeting?”

“It was intense. When we were in the circle, I was shaking. I felt so exposed. I was scared of being judged. I guess that’s happened a lot lately. But after, when everyone was so receptive and kind, I felt relieved. This morning, though, I felt like crap. And I had terrible nightmares last night. Now I know what you mean by a therapy hangover.”

“Consider your initiation complete.” He pauses, thinking. “Group’s complicated that way. You share your pain, which can be great, but you also open yourself up to the pain of others, and there’s no telling what you’re going to get or how it’s going to affect you. I guess for those of us that stick with it, the benefits outweigh the costs. But it’s not for everyone.”

“I can see why.”

He hesitates for a moment. “I noticed that your husband wasn’t there last night. Do you think he’ll come to the next one?”

“I tried to include him. I thought it might help us communicate. But he wasn’t interested. Talking isn’t really his thing. Lots of people are like that, though. It’s not his fault. It’s just how he was raised. I know because I was raised like that, too. He said he doesn’t need group, but he supports me going.”

“He just doesn’t want to have to be there.”

“Something like that.”

“That sounds lonely.”

“I suppose it is.”

The awkwardness of this admission makes Kavita almost fidget. Thankfully, Hawthorn diffuses the tension by declaring, “I think these mugs could use a little warming up.”

He pours hot water into their cups and sits back down. Then he pushes up the sleeve of his sweater, exposing the yin/yang tattoo underneath.

“I told you I got this about six months after Sequoia died.” He extends his inner forearm toward her so she can get a closer look. “I remember lying on the couch watching a movie. I don’t remember which one anymore. But I can still picture the scene that got to me. The characters were all dressed in black, standing around a grave. As they left the cemetery, it hit me that the tombstone was one of the only things that testified to the dead person’s existence, and there it was, off to the side, in the cemetery. I realized I still had my whole life to live. I was going to meet new people and they would never get to know Sequoia. I couldn’t stand that idea. She’s a part of me. My other half. So, I got this tattoo. I think of it as a tombstone on my arm. It’s my way of testifying to the world about Sequoia’s life. It’s how I stay true to my inner skin.”