Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(70)

My house has been doing a fine job of that since the day Hunter died. I got sober, I did the steps, I built the house, but I forgot about the doors and windows. And the foundation.

Forgiveness.

You have to be willing to forgive yourself in order to truly open yourself up to recovery.

I know this by heart, have heard it repeated time and again at meetings. It just never felt relevant to me. As if by some magical element I’d be able to get there without having to enforce this one fundamental step within myself.

It works for a reason—because it simply works.

Whatever I would’ve found with Melody, had she stuck around, wouldn’t have lasted in the long run. I was trying to skip the biggest step to get there.

With enough punishment, maybe I can find redemption. Then maybe I’ll be willing to forgive myself. Until then, it’s best to let her go and move on. At least I know what I want now, and that’s something. It’s more than I had before.

These thoughts swirl my head as I dive just a second too late, and the fist nails me in the temple. My world spins.

Black covers my vision.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll work on that foundation part. Or cutting some windows into the drywall. Or opening a door. And then maybe I’ll beg Jacquie mercilessly until she reveals Mel’s location. I’ll find her; but first I have to find myself.

The foot to my forehead finishes me off.

I’m thankful for the sleep.





Melody

Only when selfish hearts break



NEW YORK CITY IS not my first choice of destination on a soul-searching quest—but for this particular journey, there’s one person who may help.

Last I read in one of her emails, Sam moved into a brownstone in East Village near NYU. She made her wish of going to the college of her dreams come true. And I’m truly happy for her, but glad I took a minute out to skim through her letters before I tromped through the low country of South Carolina looking for her.

I about shit when I saw her words in bold: New York City! Holy hell, that’s a long bike ride.

Truth is, this visit is long overdue, so I summoned up the strength to make the ride. I left her hanging for too long, no word from me, no explanation for my sudden MIA, and that was a shitty thing to do.

Regardless if I had a reason or not.

I just wish I hadn’t taken off on a full-blown hangover.

But Sam deserves to hear about Dar in person, not over the phone. Or in email, or a text. And I need someone who I can count on to give it to me straight. She’s the only other woman in my life I deem worthy of advice besides Dar—and I can’t lose Sam, also.

Giving it some more gas, I push the engine of my new bike harder as I climb the bridge. The New York City skyline opens up around me, buildings piercing the fluffy white and blue, soaring higher and higher as I coast over the bridge. I didn’t think I’d even make it to the halfway point of this trip.

I’ve always prided myself on the fact that I was a loner. A one-percenter. The road my companion, and all that jazz. That’s because Dar was always more a part of me than a separate person altogether. This is the first time since I escaped my hometown that I’ve traveled any real distance on my own.

Even if I had to stop a couple of times—get a room, shake off the panic. Sleep, talk myself into continuing on—I’ve gone this whole trip solo.

When it became too much—the cravings for a line, the need to lose all consciousness in a bottle—I about put down roots right in some little out of the way town in Virginia, just took up with this pintsized old lady who ran a bed and breakfast. Her husband had recently departed, and she asked if I wanted a job.

I stayed a whole day there, helped her out, made some quick cash, and truly struggled with whether I wanted to leave. It’s the first time I didn’t know what I wanted. Would I stay out of fear or because it would be a smart, fresh start?

Was I afraid that I couldn’t hack it out there on my own?

Would I regret violating parole, being on the run forever? Avoiding Florida like the plague?

It’s as if some alien set up shop inside me, turning and cranking levers in my brain, confusing the hell out of me. My own feelings and thoughts so foreign; I decided, finally, that if I didn’t yet know myself, then I couldn’t stop there.

I had to keep going.

And that’s a f*cking scary thought; not knowing your own damn self. Your true wants, needs, fears. Out of every messed up thing in my life, I thought I had that one covered. But I’m discovering it’s the illusion, the idea of who I thought I was that I projected to the world.

Not the truth of me—I wasn’t ready to look that deep. Not yet.

Besides, the thought of never seeing Boone again frightened me—possibly more than the discovery of Hunter. Whether he can forgive me for bailing on him, though, I don’t know. I don’t deserve any forgiveness, or his empathy for my pathetic freak-out, but I still have to see him, to know he’s all right. Eventually.

I just don’t know how to process all of it—that he’s mourning a dead child. How can two recovering addicts really help each other through that kind of pain?

I need to get my head straight before I can move forward. But I want the option to do just that. For that maybe future for the both of us.

After exiting the bridge, I swing a right down the first road I come to and make a pit stop at a gas station. I want to splash myself with water, wake myself up, get myself together somehow before I just show up at Sam’s front door.