Recovery

by Nicole Dykes

  He raises an eyebrow. He’s fucking delusional if he didn’t realize this is a big deal. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know I had to go over every part of my life. You didn’t fucking ask.”

  I fold my arms over my chest, infuriated. “I didn’t realize I needed to ask if you were a goddamn junkie. I saw you drinking alcohol. Are you using again? Did you ever stop?”

  He looks at his phone, making me want to throttle him. “Look, I have to go. I can’t be late. I’m sorry. We’ll talk later.”

  “No. We won’t.” He looks confused and maybe a little hurt, but I don’t care. I’m pissed the hell off.

  He studies me and starts toward me, I think to kiss me goodbye, but I move back away from him.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “Are you fucking kidding?”

  “No.” I stand up, looking for my clothes and haphazardly pull them on. “This was a huge mistake.”

  “Mya, what the fuck?”

  I hear him, but I'm already out of his room and heading toward mine.

  How could he not tell me?

  How could I not have known that?

  I have no idea what the fuck just happened. I fucked Mya bare, and then she flipped her shit. I mean, maybe I should have grabbed a condom. Maybe it freaked her out, considering we only met a week ago. But I thought we had a connection.

  It unnerved me when I saw her staring at my trophies, but once I realized why she was really there, I couldn’t have been happier.

  I wanted her so fucking bad.

  Thinking about her all fucking day. Her tight pussy was wet and ready for me. So fucking inviting, but afterward . . . Jesus. She looked like she fucking hated me.

  All because I didn’t tell her about attending NA meetings?

  I did today. A week after meeting her. That’s quicker than I've ever let anyone in. Ever.

  “Hey, man,” I say to Spencer as he approaches the old church where they hold meetings. He looks like shit, run down and way too fucking tired for seventeen.

  “Hey,” he grunts.

  “You okay?”

  “No, but I'm here.”

  I smile and wrap an arm around his shoulder and walk inside with him. “That’s good.” I’m still pissed and confused about earlier with Mya, but I'm relieved as fuck to see the kid.

  I’ve been his sponsor for a year now, since he was sixteen and drove straight into oncoming traffic in his brand-new Mustang. Somehow he only managed to plow into a street sign and not another car, but he still did some fucking damage.

  After the fancy rehab his wealthy father sent him to, he wound up in the same meeting as me. I have nothing in common with the kid—well, except reckless behavior, but I mean upbringing—and yet . . . I felt an instant connection with him.

  Just like Mya.

  Fuck! I need to not think about her right now. Or the way she looked sick to her stomach when I told her where I was going, how she instantly turned cold and looked like she hated me.

  “Tell me what’s up,” I keep my voice quiet, leaning into Spence.

  “Nothing. Just fucking numb.”

  I hate the vacant look on his face. “Nah, that’s what the pills do.”

  “At least they felt good.”

  “Until they didn’t,” I shoot back, but he doesn’t look at me. He just stares straight ahead, looking at the podium as people crowd in.

  “I can’t handle this shit. I fucking hate school. I hate everything.”

  I hate everything.

  And I'm back to thinking about Mya.

  “I know you think that, but you’re fucking young.”

  “What the hell does my age have to do with it? You’re twenty-five. You’re young, but I know you hate life too. You put a smile on your face, but I fucking see it.”

  I recoil, hating the kid’s words because they’re accurate. I try really fucking hard to appear carefree, but I fight demons every day. I sit up straight in my chair, my long legs stretched out. “Fine. Be fucking pissy.”

  “I will.”

  Broody motherfucker.

  We sit through the meeting in silence, neither of us sharing today, both stewing in our own pissed-off feelings. I’m supposed to be the mature one though, the one he can talk to about anything, the shoulder to lean on.

  So, when the meeting ends and we walk outside, I don’t let him off easy. “Spencer, talk to me. Did something happen? You’re less pleasant than your normal sunny self.”

  His jaw clenches, and I nearly laugh at how angry he looks. “Fuck you.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Talk to me.”

  “It’s everything. Like I said, I want to fucking use every single day, and you know what? My dad wouldn’t give a flying fuck if I did, as long as I don’t embarrass him.”

  I have no idea about the kind of pressure this kid is under. His dad is wealthy and in the public eye, a rock star of sorts. His kid landing in the news isn’t great for his image even if he has a bad boy persona. It’s bad PR for his teenage son to be fucked-up on drugs.

  “I care.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  “I do.” It’s easy to say because I do.

  He sighs, dragging his hand through his blond shaggy hair. “I hate him.”

  “I know.”

  “I hate this.” He waves toward a car parked on the side of the street where a man with a camera is perched, not even trying to hide it.

  “You hungry?”

  He nods his head, and I wrap an arm around his shoulder, flipping the camera off behind my back as we walk to the car. “I can’t tell you it’ll get easier, kid.” We climb into my car. “But you’re doing well. Don’t mess it up as a personal fuck-you to your dad.”

  “It was easier when I was high. I didn’t give a fuck.”

  “It’s no way to live.” I pull out of my parking spot and head downtown to grab a burger, still thinking about Mya but glad I have the kid to distract me for a bit.

  He’s a good kid, and he deserves better than he got.

  Never in a million years did I think I’d say that about a rich kid.

  I take a shower and wash Jase off me, scrubbing away the betrayal but still feeling sick to my stomach.

  Am I officially my mother now?

  I mean, my dad was a white tattooed junkie. From the jumbled up story I got from her, she was working and trying to save for college when she met him, fell for his shit, got hooked, and then he bailed.

  Never to be seen again. I’ve seen one picture of my father that she keeps tucked away in a drawer, hidden from the world, trying to shield her heart from the pain he caused her.

  Not that she was an innocent victim. She chose drugs and dick over everything else. She let him in.

  Just like I let Jase in.

  Jesus. Fuck! I let him come inside me.

  I get dressed and go down to the bar, still seeing red and feeling ill. I see Quinn behind the bar and try to keep my cool, but I'm so damn hurt that she probably knew and didn’t tell me. “How could you keep that from me?”

  Her blond eyebrow arches as she studies me with caution. “Keep what from you?”

  “That Jase is a fucking junkie.”

  I fold my arms over my chest, waiting for her explanation, but she just laughs at me and waves me off. “Jase isn’t a junkie.”

  “He goes to NA meetings.”

  She nods her head now, and it’s clear she was privy to that information. “I know.”

  I stare at her, dumbfounded, feeling like I'm on a completely different planet. “Quinn, we go way back. You know me. You know all about my mother. How the hell could you not tell me that?”

  “That Jase goes to NA meetings twice a week? And has since I've known him?”

  “Yes.” I throw my hands up in frustration. “People don’t go to those meetings for fun, Quinn.”

  She wipes the bar with a rag, her face saddened. “No. They don’t.”

  “So how could you not tell me that?”

  “Why are you so worked up?”
She studies me again with guarded caution because yeah . . . I’m sure I seem a little unhinged right now. I’m out of my mind with fury.

  “Because I fucked him!”

  She looks at me with surprise, but no judgment. “Well, who the hell told you to do that?” She’s almost laughing, and I could scream.

  I plop down on the bar stool and put my head in my hands. “He’s gorgeous. And fucking charming. So charming.” I lift my eyes to meet hers, and she doesn’t argue. “I mean . . . I just thought he was safe.”

  “He is safe. He’s a good guy, Mya.”

  “He’s an addict, Quinn.”

  She lifts a shoulder, gnawing on her bottom lip. “Maybe he is. Maybe he isn’t. But he is a good man. We wouldn’t be friends with him—hell, Logan wouldn’t employ him—if he wasn’t. But he is. He’s proven himself.”

  I shake my head and drop my hands to the bar. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

  “Well, I didn’t tell you to sleep with him. And you know, maybe some get-to-know-you questions would have been a good idea before falling into bed.” She shrugs her shoulders. “But whatever. What’s done is done.”

  “I let him inside me.”

  She looks sympathetic. “That’s always a risk. Did he tell you anything about it?”

  “No. Just that he was going to a meeting. Like it was no big deal.”

  She seems to think that over and then places her hand over mine. “Talk to him. Let him tell you about what happened.”

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “You should.”

  “I’m leaving, Quinn.” My eyes level with hers. “As soon as I can.”

  She nods her head, taking that in and holding her head high. “I’ve known you for a long time. I’d never put you in danger. Ever. Jase is not bad. I know what your mother was like. He’s not that.”

  “Addicts are liars.”

  “Trust me.” She implores me to listen with her gaze.

  I nod my head, conceding and standing up as I take a big breath. “Okay.”

  She walks out from behind the bar and gives me a hug which I lean into, grateful for the comfort.

  When I go back upstairs, I go straight to my room and wait. An hour later, I hear Jase’s booming voice talking to Finn in the hall before walking into his room. The door closes, and I take several deep breaths. I should just let it go.

  I should go on with my plan to stay invisible. Stay away from everyone. Work and save. But Quinn’s eyes flash in my mind, and I think about how sincere she looked.

  I wait a few more minutes and then go to his door, knocking lightly. He opens the door, a curious look on his handsome face, not flirty like he was earlier, instead almost cold.

  “What?”

  Okay, so that’s how it’s going to be. I guess I was a little aggressive earlier. “Can we talk?”

  “You going to call me a fucking junkie again?”

  “Are you a fucking junkie?”

  His eyes narrow. “No.”

  I don’t believe him, but I don’t have the right to call him a liar. Not really. Not yet. “Can we talk?”

  He moves out of the way and allows me into the room, closing the door before turning to face me. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “If you’re not an addict, why do you go to meetings every week?”

  “To remind myself to not ever fuck up again like I did when I was younger.” His eyes remain serious but then soften slightly. “And to go with the kid I sponsor who really, really needs help right now.”

  Don’t fall for it, Mya. My heart wants to melt at the mention of him helping a young addict.

  “How did you fuck up?”

  He moves past me and lies on his bed, one arm tucked under his head. “Don’t worry about it, Mya.”

  “I am worried about it. I’m confused.” I point to my chest, pleading with him to tell me what the hell is going on. “You say you’re not an addict, but you’re a sponsor and you go to meetings. They don’t just let anyone in.”

  His eyes dart to the trophies on the wall and then to me. “I’m confused. Years later and I’m still fucking confused.”

  I sit on the edge of the bed. “Just tell me, Jase. Please.”

  I don’t like begging him, but I need to know because my stomach aches thinking about letting a junkie into my life. I promised myself I’d never do that.

  Not that I think they aren’t worthy of love or understanding, but to guard my own heart . . .

  I just can’t.

  I look at Mya as she sits on the edge of my bed, pleading with me to tell her everything. I’m worn out from the day and from life in general. I don’t want to rehash this shit, but the way she’s looking at me right now, it’s like I can’t resist.

  “I had a happy childhood until I was eight.” She watches me, her eyes less judgmental and cold than they were earlier today. So I continue, “My dad was a fireman, my goddamn hero. And then he died.”

  I see her visibly gulp, but she stays silent.

  “I’ll never forget my aunt picking me up from school that day. They pulled me out of class. I hadn’t seen her for a while because she lived in Oklahoma. But she picked me up and told me what happened. That my dad died in a fire.”

  “That’s awful.”

  I nod, trying not to let myself go fully back to that day. The memory is too painful. “My mom lost it. He was the love of her life. They were childhood sweethearts. She tried.” I think about my mom, zombie-like, sitting on the couch and staring at the wall for hours. I try to shake that thought away. “Everyone said I just needed to give her time, but time didn’t help her. It was like she wanted to die with him. I had to remind her to eat.”

  “Jesus, Jase. That’s terrible.” No one ever knows what to say when they hear this part, and her voice is quiet.

  “Yeah. It was. She lost herself the day he died. She wasn’t really my mom anymore. I was angry, but my life went on. I found football and threw myself into it.” My eyes drift to all the trophies on the wall and then back to Mya. “Finn and I played football together, and he was right there through it all. I was okay.”

  “What happened?” She sounds almost afraid to ask.

  “The town built me up like some fucking football god, and I let it get in my head. I thought I was the shit.”

  Now she looks over at the trophies. “I’d say you were.”

  I smile sadly, unable to look at them again. Instead, I focus on Mya’s beautiful face. “I was good.” And I was. State and national championships don’t lie. “I thought maybe I could go pro. That somehow that would pull my mom out of it.”

  Her voice is a caress, a soft whisper from the end of my bed, “Jase, what happened?”

  “My senior year of high school, the first fucking game of the season . . .” I look away from her, toward the door. “I ended up in a pile of players. On the bottom of the pile with my knee bent all the way back.” She looks pained for me. “The hope was that it was just twisted, maybe torn. But the fucker was broken and bad.”

  She doesn’t say anything still.

  “I had a couple of surgeries, but it was over. The games went on without me, and I never fully recovered from it. I still fucking limp sometimes.”

  “I haven’t noticed.”

  I smile at her now, but it fades. “The doctor who handled everything for me was a former player. He prescribed Oxycontin. I’d never taken anything like that before, but he said it would help. I trusted him, and I was in pain.”

  “You got addicted.”

  She says it as a statement as if all the dots are connecting now.

  “I don’t know.”

  She looks confused now, maybe a little angry. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

  “I mean I was pissed, so fucking pissed-off. I had no one and nothing. I had Finn, but he still got to play, go on with his life. And I resented him for it. I pushed him away, so I really had nothing.” I still can’t believe the fucker forgave me for that
shit. “I started partying a lot, and I mean a lot. I have no idea how I got through my senior year, but I did graduate. And graduation night, I popped a couple pills and drank a shit ton.”

  She’s watching me nervously now.

  “I drove myself to a party, and I thought I could drive home.”

  She covers her mouth, shaking her head, preparing herself for something horrible.

  “I almost made it but crashed into the stop sign by my house.”

  “Were you hurt?”

  I shake my head. “Not really. The airbag split my cheek open, but that was it. I did get a DUI though. It was my first offense, and I was the hometown fallen football hero, so I got a slap on the wrist. Community service.”

  She looks slightly appalled, and she should be. I think back all the time on the what ifs. What if I’d have killed someone that night? What if they’d have been harder on my first offense? What if I hadn’t wound up underneath all those big motherfuckers in that game?

  None of it matters. Not really.

  “Anyway. I didn’t stop. I kept drinking, partying. Mixing it all with the pills they kept refilling because I told them I felt pain that I didn’t.”

  Her hand falls to her stomach. She looks sick, instinctively knowing there’s more to the story. And she’s right.

  “On the Fourth of July, I went to a party out at the lake, the one they had every year. I got so fucked-up, I don’t remember anything except being loaded into an ambulance and seeing two other stretchers. Smashed-up cars.”

  Her eyes flutter closed, and I see a tear fall.

  It’s ripping me apart going through this again and knowing she won’t ever look at me the same, but it’s my reality. It happened. “I broke my arm that time and my good leg.” I swallow, “and when I got to the hospital and my casts were put on, I was greeted by two officers who told me the couple in the other car should be okay, but the girl was in surgery.”

  She just listens to me. The silence in the room is sickening.

  “Turns out, they were in the class below me. Good kids. I probably never noticed them because they were the smart kids. They weren’t drinking. They went to see the fireworks. He broke his nose. She . . .” I still see their crushed car in my mind when I close my eyes and quickly reopen them. “She had a pretty bad cut on her side and broke her arm too. She needed surgery to correct it, but she was okay. They lived. I lived.”