Addiction

by Roberta Blablanski

  His chest hurt at the thought of Owen being alone, abandoned yet again. When had Owen ever been made a priority? Dex had made him a priority when they were together, or so he thought. Perhaps he should visit Owen. Make sure he was adjusting to his new routine. Find out if he needed anything to make all the adjustments more bearable.

  "Is he allowed visitors?" Sammy's question echoed Dex's train of thought. "Do you think he will want to see me?"

  "He is allowed visitors. We could perhaps go Saturday morning. Unless you prefer to go by yourself, of course.” Having someone with him would take some of the pressure off of Dex, for sure, make him feel less like he was getting pulled into Owen’s orbit. Sammy would serve as an anchor of sorts and keep Dex grounded.

  “Can I bring him anything? Flowers to brighten his room. Or a bottle of wine. Oh, wait. No, bringing alcohol to rehab would be highly inappropriate, right?” He got up to toss his untouched coffee into the trash, making a face of disgust one would expect to see on a five-year-old child served peas for dinner. “What’s the etiquette here? What sort of gift do you bring a dear friend in a drug rehabilitation program?”

  He stood next to Dex, grabbed Dex’s messenger bag from the back of his chair, and motioned for him to stand up. “Come. This calls for a shopping trip!”

  Oh, how Dex had missed Sammy’s infectious energy. He’d have to do better at keeping in touch.

  * * * * *

  Wandering around the mall during the summer was not at the top of Dex’s list of fun times. Further down his list was following Sammy doing his best impression of a contestant on Supermarket Sweep.

  Dex’s arms were laden with Sammy’s shopping bags from various stores, and none of Sammy’s purchases were meant for Owen. How did he get roped into being Sammy's shopping assistant?

  The sun glaring in from the skylights was too bright, and the crowds of young people were too loud. The aroma of junk food wafting from the food court made his head hurt.

  "Are we ready for a lunch break to replenish our reserves? We still have the other side of the mall to hit." Sammy was bouncing on the balls of his feet, excitement radiating from his body.

  Dex was tired, a bone-deep exhaustion that he hadn't felt since his college days when he was a full-time student and worked a full-time job. However, he preferred to spend the day at one of his least favorite places rather than his new apartment.

  He chose a five hundred square foot studio so he wouldn’t have too much space to feel...empty. Alone. Living by himself was daunting; he had become accustomed to sharing his space with a partner and then his brother.

  Everything he threw into storage when he left Owen was now unpacked in his new place, but the space had a hollow quality, like his voice would echo on a scream. The eight-cup coffee maker brewed too much coffee. The closet was too large for all of his clothing. The couch was a desolate expanse where he was a tiny sailboat floating in a sea of cushions. His two-chair table in the kitchen area had one chair too many.

  Dex found himself in line behind Sammy at a pizza joint. After all that talk about diets, he wondered what Sammy would order. But first, he needed to figure out what he would order. Everything looked greasy.

  He settled on a slice of pepperoni pizza, mopping up as much grease as he could with several napkins. Sammy longingly watched him eat while shoveling undressed lettuce leaves and carrots into his mouth.

  To distract Sammy from his sad lunch choice, Dex diverted his attention to the purpose of the mall trip. “Have you thought of something to get for Owen yet?”

  Confusion marred Sammy’s features for a moment before realization hit him. “Oh, right! Owen’s ‘get well soon’ gift.” He dropped his fork onto this plate and drummed his fingers on the table. “Dexter, I’m stumped. I think all the healthy food I’ve been consuming is killing my brain cells.” He stuck his tongue out at his plate of salad.

  Dex gathered up their detritus. “I have an idea.”

  13

  OWEN

  RICHARD WAS A HOTTIE, there was no denying that. Owen wasn’t ashamed to admit to himself that he enjoyed Richard’s hands on his body. It had been so very long since he was last touched in a way that was more than detached and clinical.

  Richard’s talented fingers were massaging the toes of his left foot. The muscles of his arms flexed with the movements of his hands and fingers. His fingers were long with short, manicured nails.

  This wasn’t a usual part of their routine, but Owen wasn’t going to stop him. He used the most delightful smelling massage oil, something with notes of almond that made Owen want to crawl inside the bottle.

  Owen let out an involuntary moan and closed his eyes.

  “Like that, do ya?” Richard’s deep voice rumbled through Owen’s limbs.

  Owen snorted at his shameless reaction to Richard’s ministrations. “You know exactly what you’re doing, Richard.”

  Richard threw his head back and laughed, flashing his perfectly straight and gleaming white teeth.

  “Your scars are fading nicely.” He rubbed oil on the large incision on Owen’s ankle. Dr. Wen followed the same lines from his first surgery to minimize the amount of scarring Owen would be left with. He’d never be a leg or foot model, but the pinkish scar wasn’t as hideous as he feared.

  “How’s your pain level?” Richard pointed to the pain scale posted on the wall with the irritating round faces, their expressions corresponding to a number on the scale. He'd like to take a marker to the faces and draw devil horns and mustaches on each one.

  Owen grimaced. “You want to know my pain level right now after you’ve put me through the ringer?”

  Richard playfully tugged on Owen's big toe. "You've handled worse. Remember your first week?"

  Boy, did he. His attitude was dreadful. To put it plainly, he was a brat to Richard, who took Owen’s mood and snide comments in stride. He was still on crutches at the time, and his underarms were irritated from the friction of the crutch pads rubbing the material of his shirt against his skin. Not to mention, his hands were forming blisters from the grips.

  Richard was ever the professional, ignoring Owen’s sharp tongue and angry gripes. His cheerful demeanor and always present smile had grated on Owen’s nerves. Why should anyone be happy when Owen was miserable?

  Richard was unfazed by Owen’s attitude, and his upbeat personality soon rubbed off on Owen. Owen blamed some of his attitude on the withdrawals, which couldn’t be helped. His body chemistry needed time to recalibrate. He also knew that some of the blame could be placed on himself and his discontent with the path his life had taken.

  Owen was on the right track now. He felt good about his progress, both mentally and physically. Sure, he still griped at Richard for pushing him in physical therapy, but it was mostly good-natured. And without Richard pushing him, he wouldn’t have progressed as far as he had. His orthopedic doctor marveled at how quickly he had healed and put him in a boot a week sooner than projected.

  Dex and Sammy’s visits were a positive influence, too. Their initial visit was a startling surprise and had Owen conflicted about how he should react. At first, he was angry with his ex-fiancé and his former best friend. How dare they intrude into his life when things were so bad that rock bottom would be an improvement?

  When he had looked at their faces, he saw all his failures. He had seen all the mistakes he'd made and the second, third, fourth chances they’d given him that he’d wasted. He had seen judgment in their eyes.

  He realized now he was projecting his own dissatisfaction of himself onto Dex and Sammy. They cared about him, and while they were dismayed by the events of the previous weeks, they were genuinely pleased he was on the road to recovery by his own merit. Why else would they have indulged him with not only one, but two pairs of shoes.

  The hot pink high-top sneakers were obviously Sammy’s pick. The matching pink wrapping paper and glittery silver bow made the presentation as loud as Sammy's personality.

  Ivan asked if it wa
s his birthday when he caught a glimpse of the paper and card. Sammy had gotten a get well soon card, had scratched off "well" and wrote "fabulous" in a glittery pen. It made Owen smile every time he looked at it posted above the desk in his room.

  The second pair of shoes was chosen by Dex. The shoes started out as a pair of white Converse Chucks that Dex had had painted at the mall airbrush shop. The design matched Owen's tattoo, deep blue with swirls of constellations interspersed with large, bright yellow stars.

  The care and thoughtfulness of their gifts made him tear up. The one item Dex hadn't included in his generous first care package of clothing and basic toiletries was shoes. Owen didn't have much use for a complete pair of footwear and had managed with the right flip flop from the pair he had stolen from the souvenir shop what felt like years ago.

  Dex and Sammy went above and beyond. Hadn't they always done that for him? Whether it be Dex rubbing his ankle after a long day on his feet without having to ask or Sammy occasionally giving him preferential treatment when it came to making the work schedule. And he lost all of that.

  Owen was blessed to have caring people in his life. People who, despite Owen's awful past behavior, still had his well-being in mind. He was determined not to fuck it up again.

  “I’d say I’m at about a four right now,” Owen said, referring back to the pain scale. “Nothing I can’t handle.” He flashed a wide grin at Richard.

  “No doubt,” Richard agreed. “Let me write up my notes, and then I’ll show you a few exercises you can do on your own.”

  Owen fetched his sock tucked inside his boot and carefully tugged the sock back on his foot. He huffed at the boot--he was ready to be out of it already--and slid his foot into it. Rolling down the leg of his sweatpants, he mentally prepared himself for his meeting with Whitney.

  His witness impact statement was read at the arraignment hearing for Leroy and his accomplice, Gary. Whitney had asked him if he felt comfortable enough to attend and read the statement himself. He declined, not trusting his fragile mental and physical states to be put through being in the same room as Leroy and Gary. Seeing the men’s photos in a stack of mugshots presented for the purposes of identifying his assaulters was jarring enough.

  That was a bad night. The nightmares and panic attacks he was certain he had control of came back with a vengeance. At one point, Ivan pulled him into his bed, wrapping his arms tight around Owen and whispering words of comfort and affirmation until Owen fell back asleep.

  Owen wasn’t looking for another setback.

  Whitney was waiting for him in one of the group therapy rooms, a gigantic to-go coffee cup from the hospital cafeteria set beside her yellow legal pad. She looked impeccable, as always, in a dark gray suit paired with a lilac blouse and her hair in a neat bun.

  She launched right into updating Owen, disregarding any greeting or niceties. “The DA charged Leroy and Gary with aggravated second-degree battery at the arraignment. Your statement sealed the deal, so to speak.” Satisfaction at divulging the news was apparent in her enthusiastic delivery.

  Owen took the chair directly across from her. “What does that mean exactly?” He wasn’t familiar with terms like aggravated, second degree, and battery.

  “There were three possible charges we could have gone with.” She ticked each one off on a finger tipped with pale pink polish. “Aggravated battery, second degree battery, and aggravated second degree battery. After careful consideration, we went with the last option due to the severity of your injuries and the nature of the crime.”

  "Severity of my injuries," Owen repeated, processing the detachment with which Whitney described his condition.

  "Your face is the kicker. That scar on your forehead?" She pointed to the spot above Owen's right eyebrow at the prominent scar resulting from Gary’s brass knuckles. "Disfigurement is what makes their actions a felony. They are looking at fifteen years in prison, minimum, if we do this right. We have other victims ready to press charges, too. If all goes to plan, Leroy will be locked up for a long fucking time. We have an excellent case against him."

  "And what about Gary? Is he facing the same jail time?”

  “Gary’s attorney is working with our office on a plea bargain. I can’t go into further detail for now.”

  “Where are Leroy and Gary now?" Were the men out and about, enjoying their last days of freedom? Could they show up at the hospital and terrorize Owen?

  "Leroy pleaded not guilty and the next step is trial. We presented to the judge photos of your scars and a letter from Dr. Wen detailing your ankle injury. Judge Beauregard denied bail based on that evidence. Leroy is under lock and key until the trial. The judge set Gary’s bail, and if he’s able to pay it, he’ll be monitored very closely. We’ll know of his whereabouts at every single moment. He won’t be able to take a shit without us knowing what he ate for breakfast."

  The cold dread deep in Owen's belly evaporated. Leroy was in jail where he belonged, and Gary was basically under house arrest. There was no reason to worry.

  "Now, if Leroy maintains his not guilty plea," Whitney continued, "you'll be called to testify at the trial."

  That melting block of ice solidified in his gut again, and his breaths became shallow. Calm down, Owen. She said if.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and chanted the word if in his head over and over until he got his breathing under control. When he opened his eyes, Whitney was sipping her coffee. The patient look on her face told Owen she understood his distress and was content to wait for Owen to come back online.

  “What will I have to do?” he reluctantly asked. He needed to know and didn’t want to know the answer all at the same time.

  Whitney swallowed her mouthful of coffee. Owen had tried drinking the rotgut the hospital called coffee. It was bitter and had a burnt aftertaste. No amount of sweetener and creamer could turn it into something palatable. Yet, Whitney sat there pleasantly chugging the beverage.

  “I’ll be your right-hand woman throughout the process, just as I have been since the beginning. Don’t you worry.”

  Don’t worry? You got jokes, lady. He would need to be on a strict diet of Xanax from now until sentencing to survive. He seriously doubted his new roommate, whom he was supposed to meet this afternoon, would be receptive to full body hugs in his bed in the middle of the night when the anxiety overwhelmed him. Ivan had been gone merely a week, and Owen missed him fiercely.

  Whitney was still talking. “You have a copy of your victim impact statement for reference, and we’ll run through the questions the DA will ask you on the stand. We’ll also do a mock cross-exam so you’ll get the idea of what Lovecchio will ask you.”

  From what Owen gathered, Leroy’s public defender, Wallace Lovecchio, was the most disliked criminal defense attorney, toeing the line of acceptable courtroom behavior. He heard stories of yelling matches between ADAs and Lovecchio in courthouse hallways.

  The thought of being under Lovecchio’s scrutiny sent him into a full-blown panic attack. There was roaring in his ears, and his lungs refused to accept air. Whitney made her way over to Owen’s side of the table.

  “Put your head between your legs and try to take small breaths.” Owen obeyed her instructions. “Listen to my voice. We will do everything in our control to keep you safe and protected. I work for you, Owen. Remember that. You and I are a team, and we will get those fuckers. I promise.”

  14

  OWEN

  “YOU’RE STAYING WITH ME, and that’s final.” Sammy glared at Owen. “You will not object or fuss.”

  Dex was leaning back in his chair, smiling at Owen and Sammy. Owen knew that look well. It was one Owen had gotten used to seeing on Dex’s face whenever Sammy went off on a tirade to Owen. Dex used to interject, offering his support to Owen for whatever Sammy was on a roll about, only to be steamrolled too. Dex learned quickly to sit back and observe the carnage.

  Owen rolled his eyes at the both of them. “Geez, okay already! I wasn’t fussing, I was simply s
tating the options Monique gave me yesterday.”

  The stack of housing applications from Monique had almost caused a panic attack. Owen was well aware his time in rehab was coming to an end and that he would need to find a place to live, but the papers in his hand rattled him, forcing him to face his future and make a decision. He had grown comfortable in his routine of physical therapy, group therapy, and sessions with James.

  He’d brought the applications with him to his weekly visit with Dex and Sammy, intending to get their opinion on his options and ask for their permission to list them as references. He was positive Sammy would be more than happy to lend whatever assistance he could. What he didn’t anticipate was for Sammy to railroad him with an option that was rent-free, at least for the time being, and came with a more involved than necessary roommate.

  Owen was more concerned about Dex’s possible responses to Owen asking him for a reference. An awkward tension remained between them, and they sort of tiptoed around each other. Sammy always greeted him with a hug, but Dex stood by as if he were unsure whether a hug would be welcomed or if he should stick with a handshake. After the third visit, Owen took matters into his own hands and initiated a hug.

  Their hugs got more and more comfortable with each visit, lasting a few moments longer than the previous. It felt so good to have Dex’s arms around him, and Owen had to stop himself from burying his face in Dex’s neck. Today, he couldn’t miss the deep exhale from Dex when they parted.

  I don’t want to let you go, either.

  It wasn’t like this when they first met. That night of speed dating, there was an ease between them because they each knew the other was interested. There was excitement and anticipation of what was to come. They wanted to get to know one another and be together. No confusing signals or uncertainty.