The Art of Losing(53)

I nodded, processing.

“So having someone in there, judging us, like an outsider? It can be a little uncomfortable. It makes some people edgy. But it’s important.”

“You said ‘us,’” I said. “Are you calling yourself an addict?”

He glanced away. “If you ask Elaine, I am.”

“Is she your sponsor?” I asked. I knew that was an AA thing, but Raf had never mentioned a sponsor before.

“She was. In rehab I had to have a sponsor. They insisted on it because they really wanted me to embrace the program. But when I got out and told Elaine I wasn’t sure I was an addict, she said she couldn’t help me work the steps if I couldn’t even accept the first one. So she’s still there if I need her, but she can’t be my sponsor until I’m ready.”

His expression grew pained. He was wrestling with something. It almost hurt to look at him.

“What do you think would help you decide if you’re an addict or not? Do you need to ‘hit bottom’ or something? Is that part of it?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t have to hit bottom to know that I don’t want to. But I think maybe it’s possible to have an addictive personality without being addicted to one thing in particular . . . yet. Was I addicted to avoiding the real world by hanging out with my friends, getting drunk and high?”

I wanted to reach out. I wanted to smooth those worry wrinkles and lines. No teenage boy’s face should be that world-weary and troubled.

“Are you saying that’s true?” I prodded.

He laughed again. “Absolutely, yes. And I’m pissed about it.”

He sat on his bed, and I sat beside him.

“I know,” I said. “I mean, I get it. I’m pretty pissed at myself, too. I used to just push it down, focus on something else, and act like everything was fine. But nothing is fine now, and I have all this anger that I don’t know what to do with.”

Raf leaned his shoulder against mine. “Keeping it all pent up probably isn’t helping,” he said without looking at me. “Just saying. I’ve learned that at least from AA. And all those years of therapy.”

I squirmed uncomfortably. I didn’t want to talk about this. I didn’t want to dig into what my anger meant. Because the last time I’d gotten angry, Audrey had almost died. I knew it wasn’t a direct result, logically, but I would have to live with the fact that I’d never know what she would have done if I’d just confronted Mike at the party instead of storming off. Maybe Audrey would have spent the night at Neema’s. Maybe Mike would have driven off alone.

“I’ve been waiting so long to be mad at her,” I whispered finally. “I was waiting for her to wake up first and then we could deal with the whole Mike thing. But now . . .”

There wasn’t anything left to say. There wasn’t a “now.” Audrey might never remember what happened that night, but I would never forget it.

“It’s not your fault,” Raf reminded me. “Being mad isn’t going to affect whether she gets better. Whether she remembers or not, you’re allowed to feel betrayed.”

He was right, of course, but that didn’t make it any easier. My chest felt tight with guilt and anger, and something more: a longing for the days before the party and the accident.

“I just miss her so much sometimes. Even though Audrey is still alive, she’s not the same. She will never be the same,” I said. “And sometimes I feel like maybe she deserves it.” My voice quivered with shame.

Raf was quiet. For an instant, I worried that he was judging me, but he shifted closer and put his arm around my shoulders, hugging me against his side. I rested my head on his shoulder and drew a shivery breath.

“I wish I didn’t have to see Mike on Saturday,” I said. “I’m scared of what I might say.”

Raf squeezed me tighter. “I’m sorry you have to do that. But I hope it helps you get some closure.”

“I don’t want closure,” I admitted. “I want to hate him for the rest of my life. But I also feel guilty about wanting that.”

“You don’t have to,” he said. “You recognize your feelings for what they are. That’s more than most people do.”

Then he was quiet, waiting for me to respond.

But I didn’t want to talk about Mike anymore. I didn’t want to talk at all. I picked up Raf’s hand and slowly lifted it to cup my cheek. I leaned into his palm, placing a kiss at its center. He raised his eyebrows in a silent question as his long fingers tilted my face toward his. When I answered by lifting my lips to meet his, he slipped his arm around my waist, pulling me closer against his side.

I had missed this—the comfort that came from being desired, from being able to make someone want me. Of wanting someone in return. Of that intensity. How it blotted out every other thought . . .

But then Raf stopped me.

I was reaching to unbuckle his belt. I looked up at him as he placed his hand on top of mine, stilling it. I wanted oblivion; I wanted to forget how I was feeling. I needed to think about something else. Someone else. And Raf seemed to know that.

“Just give me a second,” he said. He took a deep breath in. “I really want to keep doing this, but I . . . I feel like you might regret this later. And I don’t want to be something you regret.”