Until Tomorrow: A Flirting With Trouble Novel (15 page)

“Go ahead and spit it out, Sands,” I say.

Even in the dark, I can see he’s cracked a smile.

“All I was thinking,” he says slowly, “is that getting Lennon out of your mom’s house really isn’t your responsibility. It’s your mom’s.”

As we pull into Holly Fields, I consider his words. Once I’ve shifted into park, I turn to look at him.

“But it is, though. I mean—my brother is an absolutely fuckup of the greatest possible capacity and I need to do what I can to make my mother see that.”

“Why?”

I turn to look at Wyatt. “What do you mean why?”

He leans forward and our eyes meet in the darkened car.

“I mean why should you have to take that on, Carson? Your mother has allowed herself to be manipulated and used by your brother for years. You shouldn’t have to save her. You don’t have to save her.”

For a long moment, I stare out the windshield and up at the exterior walls of Holly Fields. The truth is that protecting my mom is something I’ve wanted to do, have tried to do, for years. I just don’t think I’m going to be able to save anyone at all—particularly when I’m barely saving myself. Finally, I look back at Wyatt.

“You’re right.”

He cocks a brow. “Should I have recorded you saying that? I can’t imagine it happens a lot.”

I smirk at him, then shake my head. “No. It doesn’t. But you
are
right—I should be worrying less about taking care of my family and more about taking care of myself. God knows I’m barely holding it together as it is.”

Wyatt leans toward me then and curls a hand under my chin. Gently, he pulls until I meet his gaze.

“You are not barely holding it together, Carson Tucker. You are fucking thriving—you just need to realize it and embrace it.”

I start to shake my head, but Wyatt’s hand on my face prevents me from doing it. Instead, I meet his gaze and, for a long moment, we just look into each other’s faces. It takes me a second to decide what exactly it is I’m seeing—the man I met at a bar one night, the rock star drummer, or the guy I’m falling in love with, who’s been through hell and is coming out on the other side with his own demons. When it hits me that it’s both, I could laugh and cry all at the same time.

Wyatt Sands is my future.

And the woman I’ve become? She’s good enough for him—she’s good enough, period. From here on out, I refuse to focus on my failures for another fucking second. I am not my brother, and I won’t be held down by the fear of that anymore.

From here on out, I’m free.

Step one of Operation: Kick Ass and Take Names? Get myself reenrolled in classes. I’ve spent enough time making excuses for myself.

But once I get to the Advising office, I can’t help but feel a little nervous. I chew at the polish on my fingernails and glance back up at the clock on the wall. I have two appointments today and my next one is in an hour. If I’m going to make it on time, my advisor is going to need to pick up the pace a bit.

“Ms. Tucker?” Dr. Benson’s secretary waves me back toward his office and I stand quickly, brushing a hand down over my black pencil skirt.

“Carson!”

As I walk into my advisor’s office, I feel another wave of nausea and I bite it back. I don’t know what it is about this place, this office, that makes me feel so sick. Probably the fact that I should have graduated last year and that I shouldn’t have to be coming here at all.

“How have you been, sir?”

I lean forward to shake my advisor’s hand. He reminds me of a generic kind grandfather—he would easily be cast as one in a TV movie. He even wears tweed jackets, for Christ’s sake.

“I’ve been fantastic, Carson,” Dr. Benson says warmly. “And I apologize that I’ve kept you waiting. But I’m very happy to see you, my dear.”

I lick my lips nervously as I sit down.

“I was hoping we could discuss my finishing my degree program this fall,” I begin. Before I’ve even finished the sentence, Dr. Benson’s eyes light up and he smiles.

“I was hoping you’d say that. You were certainly one of the more gifted students. I was never really sure why you chose to leave in the spring.”

I clear my throat and look down at my hands. Wyatt’s words in the car last night had inspired me enough to call this morning and make this appointment, but now I can’t help but falter. I force myself to sit up a little straighter and meet my advisor’s gaze head-on.

I can do this. I can fucking do this.

“Student teaching was quite difficult for me, sir. I’m not sure if there are ever any alternative programs or ways to complete that requirement, but I’d be interested in hearing about it if so.”

Dr. Benson leans back in his leather chair and it creaks with the motion.

“But you are such a personable teacher, so good at relating to students one-on-one. I can’t imagine why you’d struggle in the classroom.”

This is the moment of truth—the moment where I can be really honest or choose to hide, once again, behind my fear.

I tip my chin up and face my advisor.

“I have an anxiety disorder,” I say, forcing myself to remain calm despite my shaking hands. “I was diagnosed with it when I was a teenager and I used to take medication for it. Lately, though, I’ve found it more and more difficult to be around large groups and student teaching at the middle school proved to be . . . exceptionally challenging.”

I swallow hard, trying not to focus on my pounding heart. Dr. Benson cocks his head, his gaze filled with warmth.

“I’m so glad you shared this with me, Carson. I had no idea.”

I shrug a little. “It’s been hard. I thought it would be easier for me if I just dropped out, if I just hid. But now I realize that I’m missing out on the one thing I love more than anything—teaching—because of that. And I don’t want to hide.”

Dr. Benson stands and walks over to me. He puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes.

“I’m incredibly proud of you for coming to me. And, as luck would have it, I think I have the perfect opportunity for you.”

He walks past me to his filing cabinet and opens the top drawer, then pulls out a slim folder. He hands it to me and motions for me to open it.

“Last week, I received a request from Sun Valley, a juvenile treatment center in Pikesville. This is a center specifically for teens in recovery from addiction or abuse, along with eating disorders. They have around fifty patients, both girls and boys, and the Board of Education has agreed to run teaching programs at Sun Valley rather than bus the patients to local schools.”

I flip open the folder and skim over the memorandum on top, which essentially outlines the same information that Dr. Benson just told me. I look up at him, confused.

“I’m not sure I understand—how will this help me with my student teaching requirements?”

Dr. Benson smiles and sits in the chair beside me.

“Because this is a piloted program, the BOE asked for student teachers to run the classes at Sun Valley. They’d be smaller—maybe five or ten patients in a class—and they’d run the gamut in terms of subject. You’d have to teach multiple topics and you’d have to run your classes by the state requirements. However, your experience there would count as your student teaching for your degree.”

I blink at my advisor and the smile begins to spread across my face. It feels like sunshine.

“The only catch,” Dr. Benson says, pointing back at the folder, “is that this would be a nontraditional schedule—you’d need to start teaching this summer, rather than the fall.”

I consider this. While it would prevent me from taking on more tutoring work, I could probably swing it. The fee Wyatt pays me covers most of my expenses and everything else could be stuck on a credit card, at least until my degree is finished and I can start getting a regular paycheck.

“What do you think?”

Dr. Benson is watching my face for some sort of indication of my reaction and I smile at him.

“I think this sounds amazing. Truly.”

He nods. “And, essentially, this could be a trial run for you—I’ll want you to check in with me about how you’re feeling. Once you’ve gotten comfortable in this setting and you’ve worked through some of your anxiety, you can transition over to a more traditional classroom setting.”

I lick my lips nervously.

“Maybe,” I say slowly. “But, honestly, Dr. Benson, I think I’ll be okay with doing something like this on a permanent basis. I don’t need to be in a classroom to be teaching people. I don’t need to be in a school to work with students. I’m not exactly traditional myself, so I’m okay with the idea of being a little less-than-typical in my methods of instruction.”

Dr. Benson smiles, then nods. “I think that’s a great attitude. I’m going to call Dr. Satterlee over at Sun Valley and let him know that you’ll be willing to start—what? In two weeks? That would be the beginning of August. Would that work for you?”

I nod.

“Yes. Absolutely. And thank you, Dr. Benson. I am so very, very glad I came to speak with you today.”

Dr. Benson smiles at me again as he picks up the receiver.

“Things often happen just as they’re supposed to, Carson. It’s taken me many years to learn that lesson, but I’ve found it to be true more often than not.”

***

“It’s been a long time, Carson.”

I bite down on my bottom lip. Dr. Bruno is right. It has been a long time. Too long.

“I know. I . . . needed to think. I wasn’t sure about things.”

My psychologist crosses one leg over the other and regards me. I’ve always liked Dr. Bruno, despite the fact that his manner is a little too clinical for my taste. In general, he’s been an understanding therapist.

“You know, when you are feeling that way—unsure, unhinged—that’s the best time to come see me and talk to me.”

I glance down at my hands.

“You’re probably right . . .”

I trail off. I don’t know what I was thinking when I decided to book appointments with my school advisor and my psychologist all in one day. I decide to blame Wyatt and his damn encouragement. Had he not been so convincing in making me feel like I could accomplish my goals, I might still be in bed right now.

“Why don’t you tell me a little bit about what’s been going on the last few months?” Dr. Bruno asks.

I look past him at the enormous built-in bookshelves that I’ve always admired. There was a time when this office felt more like home than my own bedroom. I always felt safe here. Today, it’s not the same. It’s not that I feel unsafe or anything like that. It just feels foreign here. Like a place I used to visit as a child that has changed over the years and I can barely recognize it now.

“Let’s see.” I pick at the frayed edge of the afghan on the chair beneath me. “Well, I stopped seeing you and I dropped out of my graduate program. My anxiety was off the charts and I felt like I was going to have a heart attack pretty much twenty-four hours a day. I started self-medicating in just about every possible way . . . booze, pills, and sex. It was a pretty stereotypical downward spiral.”

Dr. Bruno’s expression remains flat and unreadable as he says, “So, what changed? What brought you back here?”

I inhale slowly, letting my chest rise and fill with air.

“I met someone actually.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh really?”

I nod. “He is a musician. I’d actually known him before . . . sort of. Back when I was using. But he had this horrible car accident and he is recovering at Holly Fields Assisted Living. He’s a really great guy—supportive and kind.”

“And does he return your feelings?” Dr. Bruno asks. I shrug.

“I mean, yeah, I think so. We definitely have chemistry and it feels like he wants to be with me as much as I want to be with him.”

Dr. Bruno is quiet for a long moment. I watch as he takes a few notes, then looks back up at me.

“Do you feel fulfilled by this relationship? Does it feel long-term or permanent?”

I frown at him. “I guess so.”

He gives me a small smile. “Do you know why I’m asking you that?”

“Not really.”

Dr. Bruno shifts in his chair, allowing him to lean forward and meet my gaze.

“Because, Carson, one of the biggest, most important rules about recovering from addiction is that you don’t replace your love of a substance with your love of a person. You don’t want to become addicted to this new love interest in the same way you were addicted to drugs.”

My mouth pops open slightly and I force it shut. Tears prick the corners of my eyes and I blink them back.

“That’s not what this is.”

Dr. Bruno nods, but his eyes are placating, his gaze almost sympathetic.

“I’m sure it doesn’t feel like it is. But, tell me, Carson—how is your anxiety? Have you had any panic attacks recently?”

I furrow my brow. “Define recently.”

“Since I saw you last.”

I bite my lip, then shrug. “I mean . . . yeah, I’ve had a few for sure. Less since Wyatt entered my life. But I’m still struggling now and then.”

Dr. Bruno nods thoughtfully. “Have you considered going back on medication? Perhaps just a low dose of an SSRI—something lower than before?”

“Yeah, I’ve considered it.”

I look down at my lap, trying to collect my thoughts. After my meeting this morning with my advisor and the new opportunity that will cover my student teaching, I’d been feeling like maybe I didn’t need to get back on my medication at all. But the truth is that my highs are still a bit too high and my lows are far too low. I want to balance myself out and I know that a low dose of what I was taking before could assist me.

“I don’t want to use it as a crutch,” I finally say slowly, looking up at my doctor. “I don’t want to take medication just because I did before. I want to take it because it will help me be the best Carson I can be.”

Dr. Bruno gives me a small smile.

“I can appreciate that. I just want you to do what is best for you and what keeps you on an even keel. You deserve to have a happy, settled existence and taking a pill to supplement that isn’t anything to be ashamed of.”

I nod. “I know that. And I know that many people take medication in order to live a happy and fulfilled life.”

Dr. Bruno stands and walks over to his desk. He scribbles something on a prescription pad, then rips off the top sheet and hands it to me.

“I’m dropping your dose back to twenty-five milligrams. It’ll be about half of what you were taking before and it should certainly help you stay in control during moments when you feel like life is anything but controllable.”

He sits back down and places both hands on his knees.

“But, Carson? The therapeutic piece of this—coming to talk to me, or someone else if you so desire? That’s the important part. That’s the thing you need—the time to talk and to have someone listen.”

I nod, pocketing the prescription before standing up to leave.

“I agree. I will make another appointment with your receptionist for next week.”

“Excellent.” Dr. Bruno looks pleased and I shake his hand before leaving the room and walking back out to the reception area. Once I’ve made an appointment for a week from now, I walk out into the sunshine and pause on the steps, letting the warmth wash over me. I can’t help the grin that spreads over my face.

I don’t even have to think about where I’m going when I get to my car. I immediately start driving in the direction of Holly Fields. Despite waking up next to Wyatt this morning, I can’t wait to see his face again.

I consider what Dr. Bruno said—about how a relationship can be its own addiction. I think that I agree with that in principle. In this case, however, I know it doesn’t apply. While the idea of Wyatt is something that brings me pleasure, it’s the promise of a future, with or without Wyatt, that brings me the most joy. Seeing him again fills me up with a force that only fuels me, not hinders me.

But when I arrive at Holly Fields and make my way to Wyatt’s apartment, the last thing I expect to hear is drumming.

Not just any drumming. Wyatt’s drums. Wyatt’s drumming.

Up until now, I haven’t heard him play—not since the night we hooked up at the bar. I turn the handle to his apartment door and find it unlocked. Slowly, I slip inside.

There’s a slam of cymbals, a crash of the snare, and a deep, low bass beat. I can hear some background music—guitars and bass, and someone singing—but it’s clearly recorded. It’s not nearly as vital or lively. I can feel the beat of the drums deep in my body, whereas the rest of the music just sort of flows over it.

I stand in the doorway between the two units and watch as Wyatt, eyes closed, surrenders to the music he was born to play.

Somehow, I’d forgotten this—forgotten how good he was and how he was born to play this instrument. I can’t believe I managed to forget his skill and talent. He’s beyond capable and, I swear, he finds a way to make the crash and slam of drums sound more melodic and more graceful than any other kind of instrument. He is an artist in every way.