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After six months of attending group, Newt was confident enough to say; It bloody sucks.
Being a student—and an English major, at that—meant that Newt couldn't afford a proper therapist. Short of selling his soul, it was just financially impossible. But Zart had a friend whose mother knew someone and their co-worker could help by asking—Newt stopped listening at that point. Sometimes Zart took the group role of Mom too far.
Strings were pulled, stones were upturned and off Newt went to Group Therapy. Well, it wasn't really group therapy; more like an awkward conglomerate of people who sometimes talked about their feelings and always complained about the coffee machine. This "group" was led by a short woman called Peggy, who ran the weekly meetup as a tribute to her late husband. Newt thought she fit the volunteer therapist role well; an ineffable smile, unassuming voice, and maternal warmth.
Newt's approach to group was to speak as little as possible while listening to every word. He didn't want to talk about himself—if he did, the pity party might never end—but listening to the struggles of others, the similarities, the difference, all helped to level the spinning in his head.
He wasn't the only one to take a hands-off approach. Of the seven regulars, only five talked. They bounced their thoughts off Peggy and rallied behind each other.
Newt's cohort was a distracted girl. She drowned herself in oversized hoodies and tapped her shoes against the ground.
Like clockwork, this girl would arrive minutes late and drop herself into the last seat, beneath a faulty light. She'd look at Peggy—never anyone else—and say something offhand in a quiet voice, "I'm Rowena and I brought a sheet of fridge magnets today."
Peggy nodded. "Good, good. Welcome back, Rowena."
Rowena didn't reply and group continued.
Newt's mandatory introduction was a quick, "'Lo, I'm still Newt and I paid off my overdue library fee today."
To which Peggy clapped her hands together, "Excellent! Pick up any new reads?"
After a tiresome back and forth, Newt excused himself and limped towards the refreshments table tucked into a dark corner of the room. Muted voices drifted behind him.
A small table, with wobbly legs and a scuffed top, held the coffee machine and a row of pristine white mugs. A post-it note tagged to the machine read: 'Out of Order! Sorry, this machine is a nightmare. Will fix in the morrow!' in Peggy's quick hand. Newt shook his head, hair flicking into his eyes, and turned to the basket of goodies. He picked up a bag of instant coffee, shut with a yellow clothes peg, and got to work.
“You swear funny.”
Newt didn't jump out of his skin, but his tea spoon hit the mug with a sharp clink.
Rowena was standing behind him, hands stuffed into the pockets of her hoodie. It looked warm and comfortable, a strong contrast to Rowena's stiff posture and grimacing expression.
“I do.” Newt replied lightly. He put his cup down and reached for another. “Coffee?”
“Black, thanks.”
Newt could see Rowena shifting; rising on her toes and rocking back. She glanced back to the circle of seats, perhaps wanting to flee.
“It’s not a British thing, though.” Her voice is rough. She cleared her throat twice. She doesn't speak often.
Newt shook his head, lips twitching, and passed the girl her fresh coffee. Why she drank black, Newt would never know. He'd had never seen her up close either, at least not with the hood down. Her eyes were shadowed with sleeplessness and her lips looked chapped. Newt supposed they looked alike in that respect.
“What’s klunk ?”
“Shit.”
“And shank ?”
“Friend, I guess.”
Rowena looked up at him, meeting his eyes for the briefest second. Her nose was scrunched up in confusion. “That’s ridiculous.”
“It is. My friends and I made up our own slang.” He shrugged, feeling abashed. “It’s silly.”
“It is.” Rowena nodded. She raised the cup to her mouth but didn't drink. “Nothin’ wrong with silly, though.”
Newt half-smiled, watching the girl carefully. She didn’t watch him, mostly she stared at the cup held close in her hands.
Normally Newt would return to his seat, mug in hand, but he stayed in the shadowy alcove, listening to hushed voices and the kettles constant boiling. Rowena did the same, shuffling and speaking rarely.
Coffee drunk and conversations had, Newt was home within the hour. He opened the door to his apartment and saw Minho sitting cross legged on the lounge floor, guitar resting in his lap.
"Hey, N. How was group?" Minho called out. As much as group irritated Newt, he wouldn't turn away his friends attempts at help. He wasn't that much of a prick.
“I met a girl," Newt said airily as he shrugged off his jacket.
Minho’s gaped at him, striking an off-key string. “Yeah?”
Newt hummed. “Yeah, at group.”
“What’s she like?”
He paused for a moment, then said, “Bit weird.”
"Come on then, spill!" Minho grinned, suddenly delighted, and waved for Newt to join him. He turned his head and shouted, "Zart! Come here! Newt's got a girlfriend."
Zart was often slow to move, but his bedroom door was flung open. Newt sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. "Bunch of gossips, you lot."