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The sun is out, bright as ever, like it didn’t even rain earlier. No sign of any storm having had passed. As if I imagined it all.
Maybe I did.
I was so blinded by panic and my need to get off this island in any way that I could, that for all I know the storm that rushed in and out seemingly out of nowherewasjust a mental manifestation of the tempest ripping apart my insides.
It’s still there, despite the sun shining brightly back at me from a partly cloudy horizon. An itch clawing at the back of my head I can’t ever seem to scratch.
My gaze drops to the line of trees blocking off the beach. From up here, I have a clear view of the white sand. The glittering teal ocean. The surrounding rocks and cliffs.
I can’t see the cove though. It’s hidden by thick foliage.
But I know it’s there.
If I went back, would I find him? The rugged man with the frown, grumbly voice, and lonely green eyes…
Would he be waiting for me?
I freeze, the thought catching me off guard, eliciting a sharp intake of air.
Blinking at the haloed sun reflecting over the rippling sea, I bite my lip until it burns. Until I taste a hint of iron.
No…
No, there’s no way I imaginedhim.
But something tells me there’s no way he’d be waiting for me either.
Why would he?
I’m just some fucked up, spoiled rich kid with more privilege than he knows what to do with. That’s all he saw.
That’s all anyone ever sees.
CHAPTERTHREE
NOLAN
The kid’s watching me again.
Huffing a quiet grunt, I slouch further down in my metal folding chair. I kick my legs out, and cross my arms more tightly, dipping my chin toward my chest as I willfully ignore the dodgy glances that keep bouncing my way from the seat directly across from me.
So much for him not being an addict.
I don’t even know why I’m surprised he lied. It’s what we do. Lie, lie, lie until it kills us.
If he thinks I’m going to acknowledge him, he’s got another thing coming. As far as I’m concerned, yesterday, down at the cove, didn’t fucking happen.
Long, dark strands of hair slip free from behind my ear, falling over my face, and obstructing my vision. I don’t bother to push them away.
I need a trim, but things like haircuts aren’t exactly a priority these days. Not that I’m sure where I’d even find a barber here, but this island supposedly has everything you could ever need, so I imagine it wouldn’t take much effort to find one.
Everything I need, and yet nothing I want…
Kevin, the counselor leading today’s group therapy session, drones on about accountability from his spot three chairs down from me. There’s eight of us today, gathered in a circle in the center of the empty room. Not the biggest group I’ve been a part of since I arrived a little over three weeks ago, but bigger than most. Based on how many gaunt, unfamiliar faces I see hunched around me, I take it we must’ve gotten a new batch of intakes recently.
For rehab, that is. The mental health wing, or whatever they call it, does their own thing. We’re kept separate for the most part. Sure, we overlap a lot, but our treatment plans are a little different.
After all, most addicts you meet struggle with mental illness. If they don’t, then odds are they’re only here ’cause they got caught fucking shit up. Like crashing daddy’s car because they decided to go on a little joyride.
