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My father kept his head down and my mother answered instead. “Almost two years. We were at the point where we were going to have to try rehab when your father agreed to go cold turkey. We told you and your brother that he got an infection when really he was going through withdrawal symptoms.”
“But how did you get them? I mean, was your doctor just writing you a prescription?” That didn’t seem right. My father had hardly any pain after his last surgery. What doctor in their right mind would continue to prescribe him super addictive pain medication?
This time my father spoke, “When you’re a powerful man, drugs aren’t hard to come by. And honestly, for someone like Dillon, he was probably spacing them out. Only feeling like he needed to use them before a fight. Or maybe he was getting them on the street. But then he was in even more dangerous territory, because they could be fake, or he could be getting them from someone who could really hurt him. Either way you don’t want to mess with someone who’s on pain killers. Addicts are dangerous.”
“You’re not dangerous!” I protested. I stood up and walked over to my father, kneeling down in front of him. “Even now I don’t think you’re dangerous. And I really appreciate your honesty. I’m glad that you told me. It gives me a whole new perspective about what Dillon is going through. I know what it was like for you to lose the governor’s position, and that’s how Dillon feels about fighting. It’s his passion; his whole life is built around it. If he felt like he couldn’t fight anymore, he would do anything to make sure that he could.”
“I thought that I would do anything, but then I realized I had what was most important to me. My family and my life. If that bullet had hit me any higher”—he paused, sucking in a deep breath—“I wouldn’t be here. I am lucky that it was a bad shot, paralyzed or not. I’m just lucky to be alive. And Dillon should feel the same way. We read the article about the fighter getting beat almost to death. I had no idea it was him, of course, but he barely made it out of there.”
I tried to chase away the tears that I felt stinging at the corners of my eyes. But they were right. In that moment in the ring I had thought I lost him. Part of me felt like I had willed him to live, and he had been so lucky. “But he pushed me away. He told me he was no good for me, that he couldn’t be with someone like me.”
My mother had a sad smile on her face. “Honey, he did that to protect you. Your father asked for a separation at least three times while he was involved with drugs. He wanted to keep me safe, it had nothing to do with him. Dillon just doesn’t want to see you get hurt.”
“But he doesn’t control what I do. I do.” I slowly stood up, giving my father peck on the cheek as I did so. I have to go back and see him.”
“We know. But you can eat dinner with us and stay the night, give him some time to think about it. Maybe he’ll come to you,” my mother said optimistically.
“Maybe.” I chewed on my lower lip as I thought about Dillon walking into my grandiose home. He would feel so out of place here. It would prove his point of us not being right for each other. I would have to get to him first. It was the only way.
I stayed the rest of the weekend with my parents, just waiting for Dillon to call. But he didn’t. On Sunday afternoon I drove back to campus and did homework for the rest of the evening to prepare for my classes the next week. I then pulled out my résumé and looked up some internships online. Anything that would get me a job after college, even if it didn’t pay very much. I applied to a couple and was just filling in one of the final references when my phone rang. I grabbed it, praying it was Dillon, but it was a numb
er I didn’t recognize. I answered it anyway.
“Is this Berkley?”
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“It’s Leo. Dillon’s manager. He asked that I call you.”
My heart leapt up in my chest. “He did? Is he okay?”
“He’s going to be. He told me about his problem.” I could tell the words were difficult for him to get out because he kept pausing at awkward points. “He’s in rehab. And he’s going to be there for a couple weeks. He wanted you to know.”
So he was getting help. Did this mean that there is a chance for us? “Did he say anything else about me?”
“No honey, I’m sorry. I won’t bother you again.” And with that he hung up. Dillon was in some type of rehabilitation facility and I was sitting here updating my résumé. Maybe we were both moving in the right direction, even though they were different ones.
I didn’t hear from Dillon at all while he was in rehab. I went to class and made phone interviews, just did my own thing. There were a couple good parties in there, too. I would miss those after college. But I checked my phone obsessively and got nothing. It had been almost three weeks when I finally heard from him. And it wasn’t in the way I was expecting.
“Someone’s here for you, Berkley!” I heard one of my sisters yell up the stairs. We pretty much had an open door policy for friends on campus, so it had to be someone that they didn’t know, or family.
I walked out of my bedroom and down the flight of stairs to see Dillon, still bruised, standing in the door holding a dozen roses. “What are you doing here?”
He stepped across the threshold and pushed the flowers in my face. “I’m really sorry if this isn’t okay. But part of my therapy is to make amends with the people I hurt. And that sounds like some bullshit, which it totally is. But I have to do it. And I hurt you Berkley. And somehow by hurting you I hurt myself. So here are some flowers, and I’m sorry. I will never bother you again.”
He turned to leave when I reached out to him. “You’re not bothering me. Why don’t you come upstairs?” Away from all of my sisters’ prying eyes. “I want to hear about everything. Please come upstairs and tell me.”
Naomi stood in the kitchen where I could see her, and she simply nodded at me. An unspoken rule about having boys over: your roommate stays out.
We walked into my bedroom, and I perched myself on the edge of my bed holding the flowers up to my nose. They smelled amazing. “These are really beautiful. They actually told you to buy these in rehab?”
He shrugged, looking around my room. He was almost pacing but slower, like being here made him anxious. “They didn’t say anything about flowers, but you seem like the type of girl who likes flowers.”
“Well you are right about that. So how was it?”
He turned around and looked at me, his piercing blue eyes boring right through me. “It kind of sucked. Withdrawal isn’t really fun, especially when you’re already in pain from getting the shit kicked out of you. But after the symptoms ended, I was okay. But then last week we had to talk about our feelings, and then I wasn’t okay again. But I haven’t used, not once since you left.”
“Why haven’t you?”
