Fall to Pieces: A story about addiction and love

by Shari J. Ryan

  He didn't get it. He didn't realize he had said those same words to me repeatedly throughout the years.

  "I can't do this anymore."

  He stepped into the shower with his clothes on, wrapped his arms around my neck, and cried. "Please. You're my world, August. I can't live without you."

  I can't live without you.

  He pulled away, took my face within his trembling hands. "I still love you. I need you," he whispered before kissing me.

  I felt nothing through the exchange of our interlocked lips; no warmth or comfort. It was as if I was kissing a dead body.

  "You're going to have to figure out how to live without me," I promised myself I wouldn't do this to him—leave him when he was going through a low point in his life. He had been through enough with his family and personal turmoil. It's why I was still with him. I feared who he might become without me. I was worried he'd fall deeper into a hole he would not be able to escape. I felt responsible for his well-being.

  I couldn't do it anymore.

  "Let's talk again when I get home from work, okay?" I said, running my hand down the side of his face.

  "Please, don't leave me," he begged.

  I felt pain for him. I knew he couldn't change who he had become. The disease took over his brain, stole his personality, and his heart.

  For a while, I thought about moving out. Then things felt like they were evolving in a new direction. Yet, it was always a motion of revolving in an endless cycle of disaster. Still, I'm not one for drastic decisions, and I knew we would need to have a long talk before the next step.

  "Just focus on work today and try and relax. We'll talk more when I get home. Okay?" I didn't want to push him to overdo the drinking that day, so I tried to alleviate his stress and pain by masking the situation with a fake smile and a hug.

  "Promise me, we'll work this out?" he asked.

  I don't lie. I sometimes cherry-coat the truth, but I will not lie. I wouldn't lie.

  "I can't make that kind of promise, Keegan. Just like you can't promise me you'll stop drinking."

  A tight-lipped smile stretched across his lips, and he kissed me on the cheek. "I understand. We'll talk more tonight."

  "Sounds good," I told him.

  "I love you, Auggie," he said, leaving me to my shower.

  I didn't respond.

  He left this world, believing no one loved him.

  No wonder he didn't want to stay.

  "I can't live without you," he said. "He told me the truth, and I ignored it," I tell Chance.

  "He made the decision," Chance replies.

  The pain of remembering that morning wipes out the last of my remaining energy, and I fall asleep to the beeping sound of a heart monitor and the white noise of Chance's calm breaths.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chance

  The details of what happened between August and Keegan are sporadic but enough to help me understand their story. August was his caretaker, and when she couldn’t do it anymore, he gave up on the only thing he was hanging onto.

  Now, she must live with that demon.

  Even as a small child, there were years when I took the blame for my parents’ death. I even blamed myself for not holding my mother’s hand because I wouldn’t have had to shoulder the burden of their deaths if I had died along with them. The guilt doesn’t go away. It becomes silent in the far corners of the mind, but it’s always there, waiting to whisper haunting words when you’re not strong enough to handle the truth.

  I didn’t have the option to deal with my pain the way August is. Although, I’m not sure how I would handle feeling responsible for someone’s death at my age now. I guess I’ll never really know how August feels.

  As much as I tried to rest overnight, sleep didn’t come easy. I should not complain since I offered to stay, but the chair didn’t feel much better than a slab of bricks. I got a bit of shuteye, but the sun is now bleeding in through the blinds.

  I stretch out, feeling the damp sensation of denim rubbing against my skin. My shirt feels like wet cement against my chest. I probably look and smell like a swamp right now.

  She’s alive, though.

  I’m curious as to how August will feel when she wakes up. They gave her an IV last night, so I’m hoping that flushed the whiskey out of her system at least. I’m not sure if there can be a lasting impact on the body after enduring oxygen deprivation.

  The beams of light pouring into the room wake August up, as well. Her eyes clench, and she shifts around under the white sheets. She reaches for her head before opening her eyes and squeezes at her temples. I take it she isn’t feeling that great, plus she only got a few hours of sleep on top of it all.

  “Dang,” she groans through a rasp. “I feel like a truck ran over me.”

  “I can only imagine,” I tell her. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Thank you, Chance. I mean it. You didn’t have to stick around. You’ve already done more than I’d ever ask of someone, especially someone I hardly know.” I feel like we’ve exchanged enough words at this point that I can say I know her more than just a little, but I don’t think she’s there yet. “All I did was sit in a seat all night,” I tell her. “It’s hardly worth mentioning.”

  “You’re a good person, Chance Miller.”

  “It’s better than being a jerk, right?”

  A doctor walks in, interrupting our light chatter. “Good morning, August. The rest of your test results came back clear, so I’m submitting my discharge papers for you. How are you feeling?”

  The doctor is an older man with a broad white mustache that curls at the ends, a matching mop on the top of his head, and squinty eyes, accented by a pair of narrow, red-framed rectangular glasses. He seems more interested in whatever is in his records than what August is saying, but I guess all that matters is that all her tests came back clear.

  “I have a bit of a headache, and my stomach hurts,” she says.

  “Drink at least sixty-four ounces of water a day, and quit drinkin’ like a fish.” His expression doesn’t falter. I wonder how many alcoholics he has treated or how many stomachs he has had to pump throughout his career. I’m sure he has experienced more than I can imagine.

  “Oh, I’m not a drinker,” August tells him, waving her hand at him as if she’s shooing him away.

  The doctor widens his eyes and peers over the top of his glasses. “Miss, with all due respect, non-drinkers don’t typically come in here with a blood-alcohol level as high as yours was last night.”

  There isn’t much August can say. He has a point. “It was situational,” she says, clearly trying to defend her behavior.

  “I see. Well, next time you’re looking for a nice night out, I might suggest drinking water in between your intake and lessening the number of alcoholic beverages altogether. It only takes one time to drown, Miss Taylor.”

  “I slipped off the bridge,” she counters.

  “In any case, give your liver a break after last night’s bender, okay?”

  “Okay, doctor,” she says. Her voice sounds strong through her direct response, but her tell-all rosy cheeks give off a different impression.

  When the doctor leaves the room, she calmly rolls her eyes and begins to scan the area. “Could you grab my bag of clothes over there?”

  I stand up to reach for her bag, but at the same time realize she almost drowned with the only clothes she has here. Her shirt and pants are in a sopping wet ball within the plastic bag.

  “You know what ... let me see if I can snag a pair of scrubs for you. There’s no way your clothes are dry enough to wear out of here.”

  After a trip to the hospital gift shop on the first floor and a quick purchase of sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt, August will be able to go home in dry clothes. The staff didn’t have extra pairs of scrubs to give out like they did years ago.

  I called an Uber and got us back to our vehicles still parked behind Kenny’s. We’re lucky we didn’t get ticketed. The
sheriffs don’t appreciate overnight visitors in these back lots. After the Uber takes off, we make our way over to the side of her Jeep, and I grab her gently by the elbow. “Are you going to be okay?” My question is general, but I mean it in a broader sense. Nothing about her has pointed to a healthy mindset in the past week, and while I’m sure she’ll give me the good ole’ smile and nod, I know better than to believe her.

  August’s fingertips curl along the ends of her long gray sleeves, seeming cold or just uncomfortable. I had no idea what size clothes to get her, but I guess I could have gotten something a few sizes smaller.

  “I’ll be okay,” she says.

  “Mind if I check in with you here and there to make sure?”

  I’m surprised when her lips curl into a small smile. “I’d like that.”

  “Okay then,” I tell her. “Call me if you need anything, even if you just need someone to talk to.”

  “Thanks,” she says, glancing down between our feet. It seems like she has something to say but can’t find the words.

  She points to her car door. “I’ll see you,” she says. “Thanks again for helping me last night.”

  She looks so damn sad, and all I can figure is she’s going home to sit alone on her couch, thinking about what she’s done, what Keegan did, and all while going around in circles wondering if it was somehow her fault. August needs to know her life isn’t over just because Keegan decided to end his. I wish I could make her see that she’s more important than what she must assume. She has a purpose. People need her.

  My move might be bold or even out of line, but it feels right. While taking August by the elbow again, I pull her in against my chest. I wrap my arms around her shoulders, and her arms comply. I didn’t think she’d reciprocate, but she’s embracing me back, nestling her head beneath my chin. August is small within my hold, but she fits perfectly somehow.

  I’m the first to let go because I need to forget what I feel for her at the moment. I can’t deny the level of attraction I feel for her, but it’s consuming me—my desire to help her in any and every way. She needs a hug for more reasons than I can count, but I’m not sure if any of them correlate to anything more than the need for a friendship.

  In any case, I place a quick, friendly kiss on her cheek, then sweep it away with the pad of my thumb. “My phone is always on, you hear?”

  Her cheeks brighten, looking a bit sun-kissed in this early morning light. August smiles and opens the door to her Jeep. “Mine too, Chance.”

  After we’ve both strapped ourselves inside our vehicles and let the rush of the moment subside, I realize it’s highly unlikely that either of us has a working phone. It’s the first thing I check before I pull out of the lot. It doesn’t look too promising because the screen is full of different colored dots, but I’m surprised there is any power at all.

  I try to search for Luke’s name in my contacts to make a call and test it out, but there are no contacts, and when I call the phone service number, there’s nothing but static.

  Crap. All I can hope is that the phone store can retrieve my contacts. It’s undoubtedly going to be my first stop before doing anything else today. Thankfully, they’re already open.

  I make my way inside, through the glass door, the bells above me sending a shrilling sensation down my back. I wasn’t expecting it to be so loud.

  Phones are on display across the vast technology establishment, and there’s a small counter in the back of the store where a young man, probably fresh out of high school, by the looks of it, waits on none other than August. I didn’t see her Jeep parked out front, but I guess she figured out her phone was a goner too.

  Since this is the only place in the nearby vicinity that sells phones, I’m not surprised she’s here.

  “Phones don’t swim too well, I guess,” I say aloud, hoping not to scare her by approaching from behind.

  She whips around, appearing to look surprised to see me. “I didn’t think about the phone situation, I guess.”

  “Yeah, we can’t live without them these days, huh?” I respond.

  “Guess not,” she says.

  The high school looking guy picks his head up from inspecting August’s phone. “Yeah, this thing is dead, miss.”

  “All right, well, I was due for an upgrade anyhow. I’ll go with the current model if you have it in stock.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the boy says.

  “Make that two,” I tell him.

  “Oh, uh, did you want me to take a look at your phone, as well?” he asks.

  “It’s toast. Trust me.”

  The kid looks confused but heads out into the back room.

  “I was hoping he could save my contacts. He said once I connect it to my computer, I should have everything back. Fingers crossed,” August says.

  “I’m hoping for the same,” I tell her. “Just in case we run into any more bad luck, do you mind if I take down your number the old-fashioned way?”

  As I’m asking this question and watching her eyes inspect me with wonder, I realize this morning is the first time I’ve been around her while being sober. She’s a lot sweeter without whiskey running through her blood.

  She spins around, finding a business card in a plastic holder and a pen situated by the guy’s computer. She leans over the counter, her hair falling into her face, and jots down her digits. She prints her name beneath the numbers with curly letters and a swirl looping off the end of the t. I guess no name is complete without a small heart at the end.

  She’s adorable.

  August hands it over, then reaches back for one more card. “Your turn,” she says.

  I step forward and scribble my name then my number beneath. To be funny, I finish with a little heart, as well.

  “Aw, how cute, you like to write down your information with hearts too,” she teases.

  “Only for you,” I reply.

  I like the way I can make her cheeks red with the simplest statements.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  August

  A Week Later

  It’s a little easier to breathe now, and each day should be a little less painful, but they’re not. After the lake incident last week, I took a break from my attempt at binge drinking, but when I stopped consuming whiskey and the thoughts of whiskey, the pain settled in. It sits at the bottom of my gut, gurgling like I ate something rotten. There’s an ache behind my ribs, from not eating enough, but when I put a fork near my mouth, the desire to gag follows.

  I don’t know life without Keegan, and I wish that weren’t the case, but I’m only now seeing the extent of how much I sacrificed for him. It’s a struggle to figure out who I am; August, not August and Keegan.

  I’ve been at work for a little over two hours, busy with some paperwork for an incoming child. We’ve had one space available in the house for about a week, which is the longest we’ve gone with an opening.

  This child is seven, and a neighbor found him home alone. The mother took off two weeks earlier and never came home. The child suffered from severe malnutrition and dehydration, so he was in the hospital for three days. There is no trace of his mother or any family for that matter, so we’ll be taking him in at least for the time being. Jeremy Hill. Poor little guy.

  After signing off on a couple of papers, my phone buzzes in front of me, and a smile creeps across my cheeks before I have a chance to read the text message.

  * * *

  Chance: Why can’t someone’s nose be twelve inches long?

  * * *

  Me: What?

  * * *

  I chuckle because he has been sending me the cheesiest jokes just to get my attention so he can not-so-casually check in on me.

  * * *

  Chance: Because then it would be a foot.

  * * *

  Me: Wow. ...

  * * *

  Chance: I know. You don’t have to say it. I’m the funniest person you’ve ever met.

  * * *

  I roll my eyes and wait for
the next message because after receiving his messages from last week, I have come to find that he’s a creature of habit. First, a joke, then a general, “How are you?” followed by, “How are you feeling?”

  The questions won’t stop until I tell him I’m okay and still on the mend. I’m sure he doesn’t know what I mean by my vague response, but he seems relieved.

  I haven’t seen him since the phone store, but only because I stopped going to Kenny’s. So, unless we make plans or magically run into each other again, I’m not sure what comes next, if anything.

  * * *

  Me: Will you be at Kenny’s tonight?

  * * *

  I’m not planning to drink, but it would be okay to get out for a bit.

  * * *

  Chance: I’m there every night, darlin’. Why do you ask?

  * * *

  Me: Just wondering.

  * * *

  Chance: You want to join me for a dry, dark burger?

  * * *

  Me: Maybe ;).

  * * *

  Chance: Well, maybe I’ll see you tonight.

  * * *

  Me: It’s a date.

  * * *

  Me: I mean ... I’ll plan to see you tonight.

  * * *

  Oops. Of all the words in the English dictionary, I could have chosen a different one to respond with besides “date.”