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I’d done that.
The door creaks open, the sound piercing now that the music is turned off. I look up to find Nixon and Spencer slipping inside. I’m not sure when Nixon got here or who called him because I sure as hell hadn’t, but he’s here.
I expect him to lunge at me. To punch me for hurting his sister. I’d welcome it even, but he just stands there, watching, waiting.
I lift my shaky hand and rub at my face.
She was right.
I’m broken.
No, not just broken.
A freaking addict.
That’s what I am.
An addict.
It’s not even strange she left.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I force myself to look at my best friend. Really look at him. And that’s when I see it.
He’s pissed at me, all right, but he’s still here. Despite everything I’ve done, he’s still here. And so is Spencer.
Letting go, I slump onto the closed toilet seat. I bury my head into my palms as the weight of realization settles on me.
Then I croak out the words I never thought I’d have to say: “I need help.”
CHAPTERFORTY-FIVE
PRESCOTT
“We’re here,” Nixon’s quiet voice breaks me out of my thoughts. I blink and look up, realizing that he’s right. We’re here. Back at that church he took me to a few weeks ago—a meeting place for narcotics anonymous.
I wanted to go that same day, but the meeting wasn’t for two more days. A part of me wondered if I’d make it that long. If I wouldn’t change my mind.
Nixon and Spencer didn’t let me, though. They took me to the ER, where they did an x-ray of my leg and put me back in a brace until an orthopedic surgeon could look at it because my ACL tore once again. Then they stood by as I came home, still half-drunk, and watched me toss every single pill in our apartment down the drain before the alcohol followed. Bottle after bottle, until there was nothing left.
The next morning, sober and hungover, I was cursing at myself.
In the last couple of days, I’ve come to realize sobriety is a weird thing. I didn’t even realize how bad things had become. My hands were shaking, my feet were constantly bouncing, and I was sweating even while doing small things. The pain feels more intense too.
“If that isn’t some poetic bullshit, I don’t know what is,” I scoff, running my fingers through my hair. “I’m not even religious.”
From the corner of my eye, I can see Nixon turn to face me. “I thought you wanted to come here.”
“I did,” I say, running my fingers through my hair and correcting: “I do. Doesn’t mean God doesn’t have a wicked sense of humor.”
Nixon is quiet for a moment. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
I chuckle, but the sound is bitter. “I have to do this.”
Of course, I have to do this.
“For her.”
Nixon nods absentmindedly. “But not before you’re ready. First and foremost, you have to do this for yourself. That’s the only way it’ll work.”
