His reflection in the mirror told of the horrors of his confrontation with Leroy. The hair on the right side of his head hung down in disheveled waves to his shoulders, just as it had earlier in the day. The left side was a different story. Leroy had cut all but an inch off his hair. His beloved hair that he took pride in and spent all of his extra money to maintain.
Owen wanted to scream and punch the mirror into thousands of shards. Instead, he kept his muscles loose and breathed deep, calming breaths until he was fairly sure he wouldn't act out and alarm Dex.
Grabbing the shears from the bathroom drawer, Owen methodically snipped chunks of hair until he was left with random patches of hair sticking up in clumps. He reverently gathered the amputated hair and placed the strands in the trash can. For several minutes, Owen stared vacantly at the wreckage in the wastebasket.
He tied the bag up and hid it in the back of the cabinet, away from prying eyes, and retrieved his electric razor. He shaved his head smooth and told himself he needed a change. That this was a clean slate. He could start fresh with a new haircut and the resolve to stay away from drugs, but his inner thoughts sounded empty.
He tidied up the evidence of his impromptu haircut and jumped in the shower. He watched the short stray hairs slide down the drain, wishing he could make himself small enough to get sucked down with them. He belonged in the sewer after what he'd done.
Owen opened the bathroom door to find Dex waiting for him.
“Hey babe,” Dex greeted Owen with a smile that usually turned Owen's stomach upside down, but the smile didn't last. “What happened to your hair?” Dex reached over as if to touch Owen's scalp, then snatched his hand back before making contact.
“Oh, you know.” Owen averted his eyes from Dex's curious and startled gaze. “Wanted to do something different. I've had that style forever.”
“But you loved your hair!” Owen heard Dex's astonishment and confusion. “Are you bleeding?”
Owen shrugged and wiped at the scratch on his face from Leroy’s knife. “I need to get dressed.” He gestured to the towel tied around his waist. “Let me past?”
Owen could tell he hurt Dex with his dismissive explanation, but how could he admit to Dex what happened with Leroy? One, Dex would want to seek out Leroy and beat him to a pulp. Two, Dex would be supportive and helpful and kind, just like he always was. He would look into detox options and be by Owen's side every step of the way.
Owen didn't deserve Dex.
The wall of flip flops came back into view. How long had he been standing there? With what he was about to do, drawing attention to himself was not a good idea. Looking around the store, Owen spotted the same teenager behind the counter now flirting with another teenager. Neither were paying him any mind, the boy behind the counter showing the girl something on his phone.
Owen selected a pair of plain brown flip flops in his size from the wall and unceremoniously broke the plastic price tag from the shoes. He set them on the floor and slid his feet into them. Once he got some money in his pocket, he’d find a way to pay back the store for the price of the flip flops, he promised himself.
As casually as he could muster, he walked through the aisles, pretending to shop. He tucked the price tag in between a set of seashell mugs and headed to the exit. He felt the warm, salty air engulf him as he opened the door and nodded to the teenagers.
When he got to his car, he let go of the breath he was holding. Now he could add shoplifting to the growing list of terrible things he had resorted to because of his addiction. He started up his car, anxious about the low level his gas gauge registered. He could get to the twenty-four-hour diner across town, but probably no further. After that, he was out of options.
Owen's car sputtered into the diner parking lot with just enough fumes left to park. He figured he had at least two nights there before one of the managers had his car towed. He'd have to figure out his next steps later. First, he needed to talk to Patrick.
It was late enough in the morning for the diner to be mostly empty. That would give Owen the uninterrupted time he needed. He caught Patrick's eye behind the counter ringing up a customer. Patrick nodded grimly in greeting, and Owen headed to a booth in the back to wait.
His knees bounced uncontrollably under the table while he waited for Patrick. He avoided looking at the menu placemat; he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten and didn't want to tease his stomach.
Without a car, he would have to walk the roughly ten miles to the soup kitchen if he wanted to eat. He looked down at his newly acquired flip flops. Those soles wouldn't last the journey.
A steaming cup of tea appeared on the table in front of him. He looked up to see Patrick's less than welcoming face, a face that painfully reminded him of Dex. They had the same sharp jaw line and thick, wavy hair. If Owen didn't stare closely, he could almost trick himself into believing it was Dex, not Patrick, glaring at him.
What he wouldn't give to have Dex in front of him at this moment.
“What are you doing here?” Patrick slid into the other side of the booth and folded his arms across his chest.
Owen cradled the warm cup in his hands, concentrating hard on keeping them from trembling and dropping the cup. “Have you talked to Dex lately?”
Patrick scoffed. “Of course. Do you think I'd let my brother deal with the fallout of your fuckups alone? I'm surprised you even remember his name. All you care about is yourself.”
The cruelty of Patrick's words was a slap in the face. Owen took a small sip of his tea to ground himself before responding. “Pat, I--”
“What do you want, Owen? I'm not telling you where he is or how to reach him. He's finally beginning to pick himself back up. You have no clue how hard it was for him to leave you. You took everything from him--his love, his generosity, his money. I've never seen him so low. You're not going to drag him down again.”
The trembling in his hands intensified, and Owen set the cup down. He shoved his hands under his thighs to reign in the tremors.
“I'm out of gas. Can you spare a couple of bucks so I can put fuel in my car?”
“I'm not giving you money.” Patrick barked out a humorless laugh. “Are you out of your mind? You're a drug addict, Owen. No one should be giving you money.”
This day was getting worse by the minute. “Come out to my car and I'll prove to you that my tank is empty. I'm not lying.”
“Oh, I don't doubt you're out of gas.” Patrick narrowed his eyes at Owen. “I do, however, doubt you're going to use the money for fuel.”
Owen hated that Patrick didn’t trust him. But, given the circumstances, would he trust himself if he were in Patrick’s position? Irritation at himself for being in this situation and at Patrick for not giving him a few fucking bucks for gas made his stomach clench. He swallowed thickly and grabbed a napkin from the dispenser on the table to wipe his forehead. He was sweating again.
“What do you want me to do, man? What can I do? All I need is enough gas to make it back across town to the soup kitchen. I’m living out of my car, and I have nowhere else to go!” His voice broke on the last word, and he slammed his fist on the table.
Patrick didn't flinch. He simply got up from the booth and disappeared behind the swinging door that led to the kitchen. Owen pushed the cup to the center of the table and pressed his feverish forehead to the cool surface. He would sit here for as long as Patrick would let him.
Owen lifted his head at the thunk of a heavy plate on the table near his face. Dry toast and applesauce. Food for a sick patient. He was sick, alright; he was an infection that tainted everyone and everything around him.
“Self-pity is useless unless it inspires you to make the right changes.” Patrick held out a spoon. “Eat. I’ll go get some gas for your car.”
Owen stirred the applesauce around his plate as Patrick made his way out the diner door. Patrick was as soft-hearted as Dex, but just like Dex, he had his limits. Owen was almost certain he had reached it. He’d be grateful for
the gas and make himself scarce.
He lifted a triangle of toast to his mouth, and his stomach churned. Eat, you idiot. This may be the last decent meal you’ll get.
The toast tasted like sawdust, but he chewed and chewed almost mechanically and swallowed with a gulp of lukewarm tea. His stomach gave an unhappy lurch, and he wrapped his arms around his middle, willing his insides to settle down.
He would go back to the beach to clear his head when Patrick returned. He would devise a plan to get his life back on track. After losing everything, he wouldn't fuck up this one last chance Patrick was affording him.
Owen managed to eat one triangle of toast and a few small spoonfuls of applesauce by the time Patrick reappeared with a gas can. His insides were protesting the intrusion of the food, and he swallowed thickly several times to keep it all down.
“I don't think you should come back here again. Keep the gas can.” Patrick didn't bother masking the sadness on his face.
The food sat in a hard, heavy lump in Owen's stomach. “Will you tell Dex I'm sorry?” He sniffled and fought back tears.
Patrick shook his head slowly. “No, I don't think I will. It wouldn't be good for him.”
Owen accepted the gas can with resignation. “Thank you,” he whispered, “for the food and the gas.”
“Do yourself a favor and get help. Not for Dex but for yourself.”
2
DEX
DEX WAS HAVING the best dream. He was dancing with Owen at their wedding reception. Owen's head was resting on Dex's shoulder, arms linked around his neck. An unfamiliar song was playing, but all Dex could hear was Owen whispering I love you I love you I love you into his neck, his husband's lips grazing his skin.
His husband. Til death do they part. And it would take death to separate Dex from Owen. Owen meant everything to Dex.
Owen’s tux fit him like a glove, accentuating his slim figure, and the dark material made his blonde curls almost glow. Owen had wanted to tie them back, away from his face, but Dex talked him out of it. He loved Owen’s face framed by his locks. They made him look like an angel.
The song ended, but Dex held onto Owen. He wanted to extend this moment indefinitely, their first dance as a married couple. Owen was warm in his arms; this is where they both belonged.
Owen lifted his head, his smile taking Dex’s breath away. Gods, he loved this man.
Another song started up, something with a fast beat, but Dex continued to sway slowly to the rhythm of the previous song. Owen followed his lead, tangling his fingers into Dex’s dark hair. Guests were joining them on the dance floor, offering congratulations and words of advice for a happy marriage. But they didn’t need them. Dex knew with all his heart that he and Owen would be happy together for the rest of their lives.
They danced for several more songs, politely declining anyone who wanted to cut in. This was their wedding, their ceremony, and they would do as they pleased. Any other time, Dex would bend over backwards to accommodate their friends and family.
The couple walked hand in hand to their reserved table in the corner, where a bottle of their favorite champagne and engraved champagne flutes were waiting for them. Dex poured them each a glass and pulled Owen into his lap. They sipped their champagne, their gazes never leaving each other.
Patrick gave his best man speech, recalling Dex’s excitement at meeting Owen at a speed dating event of all things. Their guests laughed at his imitation of Dex and awww’d at his genuine happiness for the couple. It was perfect. Everything was perfect.
Instead of a traditional cake, Owen had suggested cupcakes decorated with bowties, which were a hit with their guests. They did the customary shove-the-cake-in-the-spouse’s-face, giggling and licking frosting from mouths and hands.
They had booked the honeymoon suite at one of the fancier hotels downtown and were set to depart for Spain the next morning. He couldn’t wait to show Owen his favorite spots in Spain. Owen had never been, while Dex was born in Spain and spent the first twelve years of his life there. Dex was over the moon when Owen suggested the destination and let Dex plan the entire trip.
Their happy, wedded bliss bubble was rudely popped when the doors to the reception hall were thrown open with a bang, and two scary-looking men came barging in. The larger of the two ripped Owen from Dex’s arms, dragging him away despite Owen’s flailing limbs and shouted protests. The second man held Dex back, preventing Dex from rescuing Owen from the clutches of the strange man.
Panic squeezed his chest, and he struggled with all his might against the hold. The fear of losing Owen took away his ability to breathe.
Why was his groom being taken from him? There was a gaping hole growing ever larger in his chest, separating him from Owen and carrying Owen farther and farther away. As the distance grew, Dex felt his bond to Owen stretch thinner and thinner, until it snapped, leaving a gaping hole in his chest. Who was he without his husband, the love of his life, the man he was meant to be with until death?
Catching his breath, Dex shouted and screamed Owen’s name until the doors slammed shut again and the man holding onto him released his grip. Family and friends in attendance carried on as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The second man disappeared, and Dex turned around in a circle, hoping to find some explanation.
“What is happening? Why is no one doing anything?” he shouted to the oblivious guests. A few gave him curious looks and returned to dancing, chatting, and eating cupcakes. Dex ran to the doors and gripped the handles to wrench them open, but his attempts were futile. The doors were sealed shut somehow, and no amount of force made them budge.
“Owen! Owen, please! Come back! Bring him back to me, you bastards!” Dex fell to his knees and wailed. Deep in his chest, his heart shattered into a million pieces, the shards decimating his insides one painful piece at a time.
* * * * *
“Dex. Hey, wake up.” Dex felt his brother’s hand on his arm, shaking him awake. He sat up and gazed through blurry eyes in the direction of his brother’s voice. Dex ran a hand over his face.
“I was dreaming. About the wedding that wasn’t to be.” He couldn’t disguise the sadness in his voice or his shaking hands. He willed his racing heart to calm down so that he could work to banish the images of the awful dream from his mind.
Patrick gave a heavy sigh and sat on the edge of the mattress. “I know. You were calling out Owen’s name.”
The brothers sat in silence for several minutes. Patrick waking Dex up from dreams that left Dex emotionally drained had become a routine, and Dex wanted it to end. The dreams were always the same. He wanted the torture of dreaming about a happy life with Owen only for Owen to be taken away abruptly to stop.
“Do you think you should see a therapist? Maybe talking to a professional will help you move past the dreams,” Patrick suggested gently. He had remained mostly silent about the break up and welcomed Dex into his home until Dex could get back on his feet.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about it to a stranger.”
Patrick pulled Dex into a side hug. “Whatever you need, Dex, I’m here for you.”
Discovering their wedding/honeymoon fund had been eviscerated by Owen’s drug habit was a huge blow, as well as a wakeup call. Dex knew Owen’s pill popping was out of control but was helpless to fix it. Owen hid so much from him, and Dex turned a blind eye to many red flags. Dex was as much to blame for the death of their relationship as Owen.
Dex read up on drug addiction, researched rehab facilities, even attended a few Narcotics Anonymous meetings before he ended things with Owen. Owen didn’t want help; he didn’t want to beat his addiction. That his addiction was more important to him than his love for Dex hurt Dex to his core. His love should have been enough.
Their relationship was great, solid for most of the three years they were together. Owen was the perfect caring partner, putting Dex’s needs before his own and doing little thoughtful things like hiding love notes in his messenger bag fo
r Dex to find. They were a team, synchronized in the flow of daily life, anticipating each other’s needs seamlessly. But that was all in the past.
Owen became someone Dex couldn’t trust toward the end. All the secrecy and badly formed lies couldn’t be ignored forever. The constant doubt and questioning wore Dex down. He put his all into his relationship with Owen until Owen destroyed it for drugs.
“I had better get ready for school,” Dex groaned as he got up off the bed. There was no use in rehashing the good or the bad. He had to accept his current situation and move on.
Pulling into the school parking lot, Dex cleared his head and prepared himself to be fun Mr. Atterbury who made sixth grade pre-algebra an enjoyable class. One would have thought his exhaustion at the end of every day from putting on his teacher mask would have made for restful sleep, but the distressing dreams each night ensured his sleep was fitful. The bags under his eyes would have to start paying Patrick rent if they got any more pronounced.
Dex loved his job and his students. It was the one bright spot in his life, encouraging him to get up every day. He enjoyed finding new ways to teach what most kids thought was a boring, and sometimes tough, subject. He was one of two math teachers for the sixth grade, and it was a well-known fact that all the incoming students coveted a spot in his class.
He would have felt bad for Mrs. Rathborne, but she was a cranky old woman who refused to deviate from her antiquated method of teaching. If there was anything Dex could take away from his eleven years of teaching, it was that adapting to changing teaching methods and student attitudes were the keys to being successful in his field. Success, to him, was fostering a love for numbers and equations with his kids.
His colleagues treated him with kid gloves, never mentioning Owen’s name and walking on eggshells around him. This annoyed Dex, and he wanted to yell at his fellow teachers. He wanted normalcy in some part of his life. Rumors ran rampant across campus as to the reason for the break up. Dex’s silence fueled the fire, but he refused to entertain the gossipers.
Addiction Page 3