Losing Track (10 page)

“Hey.” My jail mate walks in and sits on the floor, leaning her back against her bed. “You didn’t feel like going, either?”

I shake my head against the pillow. “Nope. Heard one tale of woe, you’ve heard them all.”

I see her smile from the corner of my eye as she ties her curly dark hair back with a hairband. She’s this tiny, skinny, frail thing. Granted she’s sweet, but I can see some major rage boiling under her thin surface.

“Right,” she says. “I’m feeling the same tonight.” She digs between her mattress and tweaks out a black and white marbled notebook.

I instantly think of Dar and her journals. While Ari scribbles something along the margin of her page, I turn on my side.

“You write poetry or something,” I ask. It’s the first time I’ve inquired anything of anyone here—and that’s not like me. I’m all about meeting new people, finding out about their lives. It’s a part of the road I love; learning the different walks of life.

But in here, all I’ve wanted to do for the past week is contemplate escape. I don’t care to get to know any of them. I’m scared they will tether me more securely to this place. Make me one of them. That I’ll never get out.

Ari shakes her head. “No, not poetry,” she says, and reaches under her bed and grabs another journal. “Here.” She tosses the notebook onto my bed beside me. “It helps the time go by faster. And ironically”—she taps her head—“it helps you get out of here.”

“Yeah, thanks.” I pick up the black and white journal and trace my finger along the fabric of the spine. Memories flood my mind, my senses. I can smell the stale mothball scent of Darla’s old trailer.

Forcing those painful reminders aside, rather, I dredge up the memory of the musty poem books that lined my bedroom shelves as a girl. They’re the only thing I regretted leaving behind when I left. Maya Angelou. Edgar Allan Poe. Lord Byron. Victor Hugo.

It would be comforting to have those old friends here with me now. But it’s damn hard to cart around piles of books on a bike. A sacrifice made.

“I used to write poetry,” I say, kind of out loud, mostly to myself. “I wrote it in my head while on the road. Just cool things I saw and wanted a way to remember.” I glance at her. “Can’t always stop to snap a pic while on a bike.”

She squints one eye. “Wow, Mel. That’s deep.” She smiles to let me know she’s effing with me. “Well, in here, it’s better to put it in writing and get it out of your head. You don’t need mental snapshots of this place.”

“True,” I agree.

I go to reach for my pen and stop. Look back at Ari, curiosity making me nosy. “You don’t seem like you have a drug problem.” I make air quotes with one hand. “Why are you even here, Ari?”

Pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, she looks like she’s considering whether or not to give me the real story. Then, “I don’t have one. Not technically. I’ve had an eating disorder since I was in middle school, and last year I got caught with speed. At my college.” She diverts her eyes from me. “I wasn’t addicted or anything. I just used when…when I felt extra bad. Like I needed the help.”

I feel my forehead crease. “So you…put yourself here?”

She shakes her head. “Nope. My parents did. They’re the type who don’t like dealing with embarrassing issues, and until my transfer for a new school comes through, they don’t want to be burdened.” She makes her own air quotes at this.

“But wait. You’re not a minor. They can’t force you into treatment, can they?”

She sighs. “It’s complicated. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Okay.” I give her a quick nod. I get when it’s time to back off.

As she delves off into her own world, I give her some privacy and crack the journal. I stare at the crisp blank page. And the first thing I see in my mind’s eye is Boone. He was the first person I took note of when I arrived here, and he’s been the one to pull the most emotion from me since.

Whether it’s good or bad emotion…I guess it still counts.

Makes sense. He’s so infuriating. He’s the epitome of a recovery junkie. Those walk-the-straight-and-narrow asshats who force everyone around them to either join their occult or listen to their stories until your ears bleed and you off yourself.

Normally, I’m not this judgmental, and a straightedger like Boone wouldn’t have even registered on my mocking radar—but hell, it’s been a shitty month. Even I need an emotional punching bag once in a while.

I reach for the pen on the little table beside my bed. Boone might as well be where I start my own story. Or rather, the
detour
of my story.

Only as I begin to write, remembering our convo about keeping our secrets from each other, I find myself wishing he could have met Dar. Maybe that’s why I’m so off my game—she’s the other half of me, the part he or anyone else in my future will never meet. There’s nothing I can tell him of myself without her.

Are you listening, my grudge?

Do you hear her silence?

Whispers of thoughts never voiced, failed heart echoed off the void,

Down into the deep,

She haunts.

I stare at the words until they blur and bleed off the page. Then I turn off my bedside lamp and bury my pain so far down, it will take an excavation to unearth it again.

She’s in the pages now.

Boone

Tears stain, corrode, and beckon evil sprites

MELODY DIDN’T COME TO guest speaker night. I don’t know why I even noticed, or why she’s on my mind now, other than while being around her, for however short a moment, I’m not thinking about Hunter.

Even though that comes with its own confusing dose of guilt, I can’t help but crave that brief reprieve. Have one second where the weight of it all isn’t crushing me.

She’s a distraction.

An addicting one.

I trudge down the hall on my way to sign in my volunteer time at Stoney Creek. The heat from outside is seeping in through the walls, the windows, the roof. You can almost smell the blistering sun baking the asphalt outside through the ventilation system. The heat index for today is above 110.

That alone is why Jose wasn’t too happy about letting me off early so I could get my community service time. Half the guys on the crew were complaining about the heat, asking to either come in hours earlier or later in the day. Not wanting to chance a heat stroke. If he lets me off, he has to do the same for them.

But I only have so much room for guilt. If this job tanks, I can find another one. Pool boys are a dime a dozen in Florida. I usually go through at least two companies a year.

At the sign-in counter, Doris smiles. “Boone, you’re just in time for your appointment with Doctor Carly.”

Shit. I forgot about Jacquie setting this up. She works quick. “Thanks, Miss Doris. How’s the fam?”

“Fine, just fine.” Her southern accent is thick, and she drawls the words out. “Bryn is graduating this year, and about to drive us all batty with trying on gowns.” She shakes her head. “Lordy.”

My lips twitch. “Women, huh?”

She nods. “Bless your heart, Boone. When you find yourself one to settle down with, I’m sure she’ll be a keeper.” She jerks her head toward the side door. “You can go on back.”

Her words fade into the background of my thoughts. Doris, though sweet, has no idea about the women in my life, or what they’ve put me through. A dress issue is so foreign compared to what I’ve dealt with.

Rapping my knuckles on the door, I clear my throat. Put my guard in place. Counselors—
all
counselors—no matter the type or their beliefs, have one thing in common: they probe the shit out of you. Trying to keep them out of your head and your emotions in check is exhausting.

The door opens, and an older woman with thick red frames and graying short hair eyes me closely. “Boone, I presume. Come on in.” She opens the door farther and motions toward the sofa against the wall.

Wow. She’s old school. I haven’t seen a shrink sofa since…never. Only in movies, with the distraught person lying down with a pillow covering their face. This feels pretty cliché already.

I take a seat. Prop my booted heel on my knee. Run my hands over my jeans. Look at the plaques and pictures on the walls. She’s in one, maybe twenty years back or so, on a cruise ship with a guy standing next to her. His arm around her shoulder. Smiling. Sunset. It screams happy couple.

Nice. I love it when a shrink’s office has constant reminders of how mentally healthy
they
are. A reminder to patients about how well adjusted we are not.

“My husband,” she says, nodding toward the picture. “Down on a cruise in the Keys.”

I nod slowly. Normally, I don’t mind listening to people tell their stories. I actually like it, like getting to know people. I’m not an outright asshole. Unlike my actions with Miata Guy the day before suggest. But she’s not some nice lady I met at the supermarket. She’s going to try to strip my walls down and tell me about myself. She wants to cause me pain.

I’ve had enough of that for the rest of my life. I just need to get through these meetings, make Jacquie happy again, and not fuck up. I’ve been
mostly
sober since about a month after the “incident.” That’s what Jacquie refers to it as. And that shit yesterday on the highway was just…blowing off pent-up steam.

My body showcases a few new bruises from last night, so the rage should stay checked for a while.

“So, Boone, Jacquie says you’re one of her special cases. I don’t usually treat people who aren’t admitted to Stoney Creek, but she’s a good friend, and I respect her opinion. She thinks maybe we can work through a few things before your court date.”

My attention perks up. “She already has a date?”

Her lips spread into a bright smile, but I can tell it’s forced. She’s dealt with all kinds of delinquents. I’m sure she’s used to them only being concerned about one thing: themselves. Probably doesn’t make her job any easier.

“Yes, but I’ll let her discuss that with you.” She smiles again, and I take the hint. We’re moving on to why I’m here.

“I’ve read some of your file.” She pats the manila folder in her lap. “But why don’t you tell me why you think you’re here.”

Straight to the point. It normally takes them a couple sessions to get to this question. However, the state’s not footing this bill. So I appreciate her not padding the tab.

“I lost control. Got angry at a driver, and let my emotions get the better of me.” I run a hand through my hair, feeling the messily sculpted spikes bounce back into place. “Afterward, I felt awful. Like I knew what I was doing wasn’t right at the time, but I just lost my temper for that moment.” I smile wanly, lay on a bit of charm. “At court, I plan to apologize to the guy. I didn’t get the chance to do so before.”

The creases around her mouth deepen as she nods and smiles. The weathered lines on her face suggest she’s had a lifetime full of them, and she’s been smiling this whole time. “Well, it seems you’re very observant of your behavior.” I nod, agreeing. “And also plenty full of shit.”

My head jerks to a halt.

Her eyebrows raise as she opens the file and dives in. “I’m sure you’re quite the charmer, Boone. I’ve heard your speech here a couple of times, and I see how well you handle the nurses and the other counselors. You really know how to give people what they want.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. Then, “I do understand what I did, Misses…”

“Just Carly. I don’t need the reminder of my age.” This time, I smile. “And yes, I believe you do understand. That’s why I’m not letting you slip right out of here so easily.” She thumbs through a couple of pages. “Since I’ve been at this for a long time”—she eyes me—“and you’ve had enough therapists to counter my years, let’s skip the beginner stuff and jump right into the fire, shall we?”

Although what she’s suggesting should scare me shitless, and it does, I can’t help but appreciate this feisty lady and her candor. “Shoot,” I tell her.

For the first time, her smile falls. And I know she’s going in for the kill.

“Tell me about Hunter.”