“Wise girl.”
“I try.”
Brooklyn shifted in the chair, accidentally sending it back against the house with a smack. He rubbed his palms on the thighs of his shorts.
“I want to start with I’m sorry, and I’m an idiot.”
I nodded, and after a moment, he looked at me expectantly.
“I’m sorry, did you want me to tell you you’re not?” I chuckled.
“Guess I deserved that one.” He sat back in the chair with a faint smirk.
“All joking aside, the only thing I want right now is an explanation,” I said to him. “God, I look back at some of the things that happened, and I wonder—”
I knewwhatI’d seen, but that didn’t make reckoning with it any easier for either of us. As much as being lied to hurt, sometimes the truth hurt too; it just hurt in a different place.
“I feel like you see right through me and all my bullshit,” he muttered.
I wanted to reach over and squeeze his hand, but I kept mine wrapped around the stems of flowers. “Let it out. Like ripping off a bandage.”
“I want you to understand that I’m not like seeking any of this out, you know? I’m not going out looking for it, and I swear that’s the only thing I’ve done since I’ve been clean.” His voice splintered, and he paused, desperate to mitigate the damage. “I used to buy from Dalton. He and a couple of guys had a few grams of coke, and I couldn’t help myself. I thought I could handle it.”
All I could do was listen. It was about all I knew how to do at this point.
I could see his hand tremble as he rubbed the side of his face. “I wanted to fit in so badly. To prove I didn’t have these kinds of problems and that I could be the Brooklyn people think I am. But I lost control, and the next thing I knew I was so loaded I couldn’t see straight.”
“Ironic, isn’t it?” I said softly.
“Yeah, and I hate it,” he grumbled. “Anyway, at that point I gave up. I knew I’d relapsed, and I felt like shit about it. I didn’t want to push you away like that, but I couldn’t even imagine that once you found out you’d want to be with someone like me anyway.”
I finally gave in and reached for his hand, and he took it, his hand clammy and still shaky.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Brooklyn’s breaths caught as he tried to hold back whatever storm was brewing inside of him. He rubbed at his eyes, glassy and on the verge of tears. “This was a slipup. That’s all, I swear.”
“It’s going to be all right, Brooklyn,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. It was hard not to cry when watching someone else cry, but one of us had to keep it somewhat together. “You can’t lie to me anymore. I want to help you, but there’s no way I can if you keep pushing me away.”
He nodded and brought his hand up to my face, wiping away a stray tear from my cheek with his thumb. “I promise. No more lying. No more pushing away. Just me and you.”
“Me and you, huh?” I asked, giving him a tired smile.
Brooklyn replied with a chuckle. “I’m not good at this, Nat. Any of this. I haven’t had a real girlfriend since high school, and that was a disaster. I don’t bring girls flowers, get into fights over them, or—” He took a deep breath and his cheeks reddened. “Or beg them to forgive me when I know I don’t deserve it. But you? You make me want to be good.”
“Youaregood. You don’t have to try,” I reassured him. “But there are things you have to do. Not for me, for yourself. For one, you need to go back to group therapy. It helps my sister, and I can’t imagine why it wouldn’t help you. I’ll even go with you, if you want.”
“I get stuck thinking my problems aren’t as serious as other people’s. Like I’m better than it all or something.”
“I admire your self-awareness.” I chuckled. “But you’re wrong.”
Was I trying, like I told Mom I would? Maybe. But Brooklyn needed someone to prop him up right now, and if I didn’t, who would?
Nineteen
Everything at Otter House always felt clean but not sterile like a hospital. Instead, it was more like when we expected company growing up and we cleaned the house more than we usually did for our weekend chores. Everything had a place, and it smelled like citrus disinfectant.
This room for group therapy was similar, but it seemed like it hadn’t seen company in a while. There was a circle of mismatched chairs that might not have had a place anywhere else in the facility, and some of the colorful motivational posters stuck to the walls were peeling at the edges.
However, I’d come to find that the people were always the same, no matter what room you sat in. It was people who, despite looking like a similarly mismatched group, were trying to salvage something from the wreckage of their current situation. Like my sister, and like Brooklyn.
