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Instead, I turn my focus back to the horizon and ask, “So why are you in rehab? Not to be rude, but shouldn’t you be in the mental health program they have? I feel like, well, that would probably better suit you.”
He inhales deeply, and I sense him nodding. “Yeah. It would. But my parents took out a conservatorship on me when I OD'ed. They make all the decisions, and they decided I was an addict. So here I am.”
I stare blankly at the rippling sea. “A conservatorship? Like that thing Britney Spears had?”
A short, hoarse laugh escapes him. “Yeah, exactly that.”
I shake my head at a loss. “Why? You’re eighteen.”
“Exactly,” he whispers. “And I nearly killed myself. In my parents’ eyes, I’m unfit to take care of myself. That, combined with everything else…”
“What do you mean?” I prompt when his voice trickles off again.
He shrugs. “N-nothing. They just…they don’t listen.”
“Right,” I whisper gently. Something tells me it’s a lot more complicated than that, but I urge myself not to push it. It’s none of my business.
A moment passes before he speaks again. “They told me if I go to rehab, get clean, and prove I’m cured and no longer a liability, they’ll dissolve it. Otherwise…” his voice shakes. “Otherwise they might have no other choice but to…to put me somewhere.”
Eyes wide, I swivel my head toward his. “Like, what, a mental institute?” Even to my own ears, my voice is rough and layered with outrage. “What the fuck? You’re not…” I shake my head, at a loss of how to word it without being offensive.
His throat bobs and he lifts a shoulder. “It d-doesn’t matter what I am or what I’m not. I’m…a liability.”
I make a face at that word being used again. It’s clear he’s just repeating what he’s been fed. “How so?”
He stares at me, that glimmer in his eyes pulling at me once more. All I can do is stare back, begging silently for some kind of…I don’t know, solution. It makes no sense, and yet I just…fuck, I hate this for him. I don’t even know him, not really, but hell, if I don’t feel protective of this kid, enraged at the idea of someone locking this boy away and for what?
He’s not a liability. He’s fuckingsad.Since when is that a crime?
“You’re mad,” he whispers, brows furrowing like he’s confused.
“Fuck yeah, I’m mad,” I growl before I can help it. I throw a hand out, and he flinches.
Grimacing, I mutter a sorry and lower my hand in my lap, clasping it with my other. “How the hell can they do that? How can anyone do that to their own kid?”
Head hunched between his shoulders, he shrugs. “It wouldn’t be a mental institute, exactly…more like a long-term care facility. I’m not…crazy.” He shakes his head, frustrated, his cheeks heating. “I mean, I’m not—“
Scowling, I shake my head. “You know they’re in the wrong, right? They fucked up, not you.”
He stills, his eyes going wide. And he just stares at me.
Goddamnit.
“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Blowing out a harsh breath, I look away. “As a parent, it just enrages me. I can’t fucking wrap my head around it. Shit. Shoot, sorry. I keep curs—”
“I’m not a kid,” he grouses for what feels like the umpteenth time. “You can curse around me. Fuck, fuck, fuck. See? I curse too.”
I cut him a wry look, a short grunt of amusement escaping me, relieved at the much needed moment of levity. Brief as it lasts.
His lips twist together, eyes lowering to peek out from under his thick lashes. And I feel a great sinking in my chest. Like someone just pulled the rug out from under me, and I’m here falling, flailing, lost to…to something I can’t name.
Hell, if he doesn’t look soyoungin this moment. Young and innocent and just… screaming for someone to swoop in and save the day.
And oh how that reaches right into my chest, pulverizing me.
How the hell I can look into this boy’s big, sad brown eyes and see not only myself, but see the man I wish I was is a mystery. Not only do we have fourteen years dividing us, but a whole landmine of vastly contrasting experiences. It makes no sense why I suddenly feel this sort of…I don’t know, kinship to him?
It’s got to be the guilt. What I did to Abby—what Ialmostdid…
