Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(12)
Silence, and a few grunts. Expected.
“But,” I say, switching my stance from laid back to noncommittal, “you can’t. You’ll never achieve full recovery. It’s a load of crap counselors feed you to mark some steps off in their agenda books and feel they’ve done everything possible for their patients.”
While I let this reality absorb, I take a breath, get ready to dive into my story. And a pink bandana snags my attention. The girl wearing it as a head piece over her burgundy and black streaked hair completely makes me forget my place. Her dark eyes stare right through me, and her gorgeous yet hard-as-nails face makes the words stick in my throat.
“I, ah…” Furrowing my brow, I blink, trying to force my gaze away from hers. One side of her knowing mouth quirks up; she’s made me. Dammit. “Fuck, where was I?”
This gets real laughs, and the chick actually full-on smiles. It does something to my insides. Bolstered with her approval, I say, “Recovery. It’s an ugly road that no addict ever reaches the end of. An ongoing battle never conquered.” Quickly glimpsing the bandana chick, I note her missing smile. I’ve already lost her. “So what’s the point? Why would anyone want this struggle if there’s never a finish line?”
It’s a rhetorical question. No one ever answers. But today, my bandana girl is the first.
“I don’t know, Daniel Boone, why don’t you tell us?”
My gut drops to my boots. I’m caught off guard while the room laughs, but only for a moment. What can I say? I like a challenge. Though that Daniel Boone line nearly leveled me. Good one.
I give her a curt nod. “I’m about to, Rizzo.” Her sneer freezes on her face. Mentally stashing that for later, I press on. “We choose to struggle because the alternative is worse. Shared, nasty needles riddled with disease. Waking up in strange places, forgetting and regretting what we did the night before.” I tick off on my fingers as I go. “Cheap, lame sex bought and paid for in a stupor…and you know some of you can’t deny that.”
The guys chuckle, earning glares from the women. But it’s a good icebreaker, regardless of the fact that it’s true—sadly. From here on, I have half of their attention. Not too bad.
Since bandana girl has thrown me off my game, I decide to stick to the usual shtick. Keeping it on point. The story of a boy who grew up watching his parents use, who witnessed his mother die from an overdose. Who nearly lost his own life to drugs—but who overcame it all.
As I come to the close of my speech, my gaze drifts back to her. I’ve purposely kept my eyes off her so I could get through my talk without the judging look on her face—like she’s seeing right through me—making me stumble. Only now, there’s no judgment, just disdain. Or maybe that’s her look for long endured boredom.
I cough and say, “Thanks for listening. I know most of you had much better things to do”—laughs—“so yeah. This is Daniel Boone, signing out.” The room claps, and I head to the side where Denise has been lingering.
“Thanks, Boone. And well played on how you handled our newest resident.” She glances to where the chick is still seated. “She’s a tough case, but maybe you reached her a little.”
I seriously doubt it, but I nod. “What’s her story?”
Her lips pull into a frown and she shakes her head. Her gray hair falls loose from her pony tail. “You know I can’t discuss a patient—”
I hold up my hand. “I know the deal. I just meant…” I look back for the girl, but she’s gone. “Nothing. She just seems really…angry.” And beautiful. And startling, though she probably hears that enough, and doesn’t care to hear it from me.
“You can try talking with Melody,” Denise says, gaining my full attention. “It couldn’t hurt.”
Melody. That name doesn’t match the tough girl who tripped me up at all. “All right. Yeah, maybe.” I give Denise a smile and then say, “Same time next week?”
“Of course. Take care, Boone.” She pats my shoulder, giving it a squeeze, then heads off toward the staff members circling the refreshment table.
Now I’m faced with a choice: track down glaring, snarling, bandana chick, or talk to the few stragglers who always hang around afterward to chat. Or, I could slip out and leave. Go back to my empty apartment and flip through channels. Sober. Alone.
Sucking in a breath, I plant my back against the wall. Like it’s the only steady thing keeping me upright. I’ve yet to try the last steps of my treatment. One of the biggest ones for me: making new friends. Finding new hobbies, lifestyle, etcetera. Going it alone has worked so far.
But it damn sure hasn’t been easy. Living in the same city your whole life, where friends are more like brothers, and girls call you—still—making it about impossible to escape. I could move. I could change my number. That’s part of the punishment, though, I guess. Everywhere I go, I bump into old friends who I’ve used with before, girls I’ve f*cked…people who know the truth. Reminders.
I don’t deserve to get that fresh start.
But that girl Melody, for whatever reason, is the first person to spark my interest in a long time—that makes me wish I could take that step. That I wasn’t so full of shit. She’s just the type I’d be all over, hustling to get digits and into her panties…back before. But something tells me her story is just as sorry as mine. And hooking up with a user? That’s the last thing that needs to happen.