Life on the Level: On the Verge - Book Three

by Zoraida Cordova

  For the next half hour, the pressure is off me. Everyone takes turns talking about things that are bothering them. Maddie talks about how much she misses her boyfriend. Though, this time his name is Brian.

  Debbie says she’d do anything for just one last hit. She says she dreams about it. She can’t even remember what it feels like. She just wants to remember. Others want to forget.

  The whole time, Hutch listens. He’s their friend when he needs to be. He’s a stern voice when it’s called for. He engages everyone and encourages everyone to participate in the conversation.

  Everyone except for me.

  I guess I shouldn’t be too disappointed. I’m the one who left him high and dry. I’m the one who wanted to leave the moment I saw him.

  “You’re the one who walked out on me, remember?” he asked.

  That’s right. I am the one who walked out. But now I wonder, like so many of the other things that led me here, was that a mistake too?

  Chapter 7

  My dad used to say, “I might not always be right, but I’m never wrong.”

  I’ve managed to adapt that as a personal motto when it comes to arguments. Sky says I’m a simply a stubborn ass. As I linger after the session, not really coming or going, I can admit that yes, I’m a stubborn ass.

  First step is admitting it, right?

  Hutch is currently being torn between conversations. On one hand there’s Maddie, talking about whatever Maddie talks about. Then there are two more girls vying for his attention, asking if he’s staying for lunch.

  He keeps his distance from all of them. His body language is pretty clear from here. Arms around his body, so there is no touching. He nods politely to what they say, but doesn’t leave room for flirting. When Maddie reaches for the beautifully chiseled mass of his bicep, he casually takes a step back. Properly dissuaded from the hot counselor, the girls retreat.

  Hutch notices me lingering. He looks around the empty room. One of the doors is propped open. He scratches the back of his head. He shuffles some papers, and it makes me miss my deck of cards.

  “What’s on your mind, River?”

  “Hutch, do you always say people’s names before talking to them?”

  “Well, River, I like to think it helps people feel connected when you say their names.”

  I laugh. “I’m sorry about earlier. I think I just freaked. It felt like too much. This place, and… you know. I’m still not sure I belong here.”

  “Because you’re not like the rest of the people you listened to today?”

  “Among other things. Don’t get all shrinky on me right now, please.”

  He laughs. “I don’t even know what to say to that. But all right. Tell me. What’s on your mind?”

  You, naked on top of me. You, kissing me like you would die if you didn’t. You. Just you.

  “I like the way you speak to people. I like that you make everyone feel comfortable. It’s important for me. I know I didn’t share the way others did.”

  “Take your time.”

  “I don’t think I know how.”

  “That’s okay, too.”

  I shake my head. I want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. “Why are you so… so?”

  “So what?”

  I run my hands through my curls, tangling them even more than they already are. “I don’t know. Nice? Understanding? What’s wrong with you? There has to be some deep dark secret that you’re not telling anyone. No one is that perfect all the time.”

  He stares at me, lips slightly apart. The corners pull up on one side, revealing that dimple. I want to dive into that dimple and swim laps.

  “You think I’m perfect?”

  I flush with heat. “Shut up, like you don’t know everyone here wants you.”

  “River…” I watch his broad chest rise and fall. I have his torso—all of him, really—etched into my memory. He looks up at the ceiling, like he’ll find his answers in the wooden boards and the skylight.

  “Hutch…”

  “I’m far from perfect. Maybe it’s easy to think of me as perfect because I’m not a patient. Trust me, I’ve got my own skeletons.”

  “Real ones?”

  He barks a laugh. “I guess you’ll never know.”

  “That’s the thing, actually.” I don’t remember the last time I was this nervous talking to a guy. One time my dad’s friend likened me to a bull rider, grabbing life by the horns, but my daddy said no, I wasn’t the rider—I’m the bull, and the world is my china shop. But now my tongue is leaded, and I can’t decide where to stick my hands because my sweats don’t have pockets. Clothes should always have pockets. “I kind of—wanted to keep you as my counselor.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I already spoke to Helen, and she thinks you’d make a great addition to Steven’s group.”

  “Damn, that was quick. You didn’t waste a second.”

  “River,” he whispers my name. He holds out his hands helplessly. He takes a step towards me. I reach out and place my hands in his. My hands graze his palms. These are the same palms that pinned me down in his bed. That caressed my face while he kissed me. Now, they’re pulling away from me. I look over my shoulder. Day one and I already feel reckless.

  “I thought we agreed it was necessary,” he says. “It wouldn’t be right. Anything else would distract you from what you came here to achieve. I’ll get in the way of your recovery.”

  “Relax,” I say, “I’m not doing it because of what you might think.”

  He frowns. “You don’t know what I think, River.”

  “I think I do, Hutch. I’m not some dewy-eyed schoolgirl. I’m not looking for round two if that’s what you’re getting at. I thought you might understand me better, but I guess I was wrong.”

  Someone walks past the door and swings it wide open. Patrick Taylor, or was it Taylor Patrick? Either way, my daddy always told me to be wary of a man with two first names. Since his name was Clark Thomas, he knew firsthand.

  “Oh hey, Hutch.” he says. “Sorry, I thought group was over.” He wheels a mop and bucket into the room.

  “We’re finished here,” Hutch says, and his jaw ripples as he bites down on his words. “Room’s all yours, Taylor.” His tone is friendly, cool, and even. But his eyes say differently. Whatever he was going to say before Taylor walked in is going to have to stay unsaid.

  Perhaps it’s for the best. I have to be careful about letting my impulses drag me into any more poor decisions.

  I wait for Hutch to leave the room first, busying myself with exploring the photographs on the wall, each one of a different mountain range or lake or forest animal. There’s one that quickly becomes my favorite. A man in a cowboy hat, facing an open valley with the greenest hills and bluest sky I’ve ever seen. It’s soothing, and staring at it helps me forget about my tense conversations with Hutch.

  Almost.

  Was he in that much of hurry to unburden himself of me that he got Helen to approve the request so quickly? Or maybe they just have fewer people to keep track of, because the facility is so small. I’m probably overthinking it. After all, I was the one who didn’t want him. Now, all of a sudden, I’ve changed my mind. I’m allowed to change my mind, right?

  The wet smack of the mop on the tiles snaps me from my reverie.

  “It looks even better in real life,” Taylor tells me.

  When I turn around, he’s standing right behind me. “I bet.”

  “You’ll be hiking this weekend. Don’t suppose you do a lot of hiking in New York City.”

  “Have you ever been to New York?” I ask, a twinge of irritation crossing my face.

  He holds onto the mop, setting his chin on top of his hands. “Nope. Got everything I need right here.”

  “Then you wouldn’t know how much hiking I do.”

  “You’re a firecracker, ain’t you?”

  I purse my lips. I can’t tell if he’s teasing me, hitting on me, or making fun of me. Probably all of the above.
r />   “Relax, girly.” He resumes mopping again. “Otherwise, it’s going to be the longest three months of your life.”

  • • •

  River Thomas!

  I’m sorry I missed your e-mail. Hayden and I are on our way to Costa Rica. He’s trying to convince me to swing between the trees. I’m thinking hell no, but he’s very persuasive, if you get my drift.

  I’m glad you’re liking Montana? I can’t tell. Your dryness doesn’t translate via e-mail. Hutch sounds delicious and amazing. Too bad you’ve got a forbidden love thing going on. Don’t leave. You promised you’d try. It’ll be weird, but things happen for a reason. I know you think that’s just hippie nonsense, but it’s true! You are beautiful and smart and loyal and you deserve to find your happiness. If Horse Creek is the place to start, then take that start.

  I miss you.

  Don’t be a stranger. Even if I can’t respond right away, I’m reading your every word.

  Love,

  Sky

  Chapter 8

  Five days sober

  The first couple of days were cyclical. My new counselor is a middle aged African-American man named Steven Ransom, who’s originally from Detroit. He played football all throughout college and even went pro for a few years. He went bankrupt after spending all his money on hookers and blow, and was in a terrible accident that killed his best friend.

  “You’re such a stereotype,” I told him.

  He laughed good-naturally and shrugged. “The stereotype would have been if I didn’t clean myself up. Will you do the same?”

  That shut me right up.

  As much as I was pissed about Hutch, I think it was for the best. Steven is a cool dude. He doesn’t talk the way Hutch does. Hutch is someone young, who comes off as relatable. Ransom is older and has a calmer vibe. He talks to me more like a father, and before I start getting all Freudian, I think I prefer that to a friend right now.

  I walk around the facility every morning with my cup of decaf in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The place is huge. It’s like two Manhattan avenues long and three wide. People here talk in miles and acres, and I speak in cab fares and minutes.

  I haven’t joined a group for meal times. I like to sit by myself and watch everyone else. Sometimes Maddie, when she’s feeling peppy (her mood swings are out of control), will stroll over and act like we’re best friends. She tells me about her boyfriend, Harry this time, and about how she dreams about his ten-inch dick. I don’t know what’s more unbelievable: that she has a third boyfriend named Harry, or that Harry has a ten-inch dick.

  In the afternoons there are voluntary sports activities. Everything works as a points system. It’s like an ongoing contest that no one really wins. Helen says it’s supposed to be a way to motivate people to participate and be active. I think it’s a way to treat us like we’re in kindergarten, begging our teachers for stars. Pete argues that it’s borderline harmful for gambling addicts.

  “No,” I tell him. “Not everyone gambles to win. Some people gamble because sometimes it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  Besides, I’m not the most competitive person I know. My arm muscles aren’t totally impressive. One time Sky made me go to hot yoga with her. I nearly died.

  I begrudgingly promise Ransom that I’ll try jogging on my own. His eyes always linger on my cigarette, and I shout, “You can’t take away all my vices!”

  Dinners, I spend in my room.

  I don’t know why I’m being so antisocial. Maybe it’s that everyone here is so damn nice. Even Debbie says hello to me when she sees me, even if her hello sounds more like a habit than an actual need to be polite. There’s always laughter passed around. I can hear it from my window when I leave it open. After dinner, there’s a bonfire with marshmallows. Pete can play guitar, and everyone lets him as long as he plays anything, anything but Kumbaya.

  Kumba-fucking-ya.

  If I told my past self that I would be here, I wouldn’t have believed me. It’s like these people live in a world where nothing else exists. Don’t they realize they’re all addicts? Don’t they realize they’re all some level of fucked up?

  Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and rummage through my room for a deck of cards. I can’t gamble on solitaire with myself, but I like to break the cards. I like the way the deck cracks under my hands as I shuffle them in and out of place. I miss that sound. Crack, shuffle; crack, shuffle.

  Like now. I can’t fall asleep. It’s too quiet here. I miss coffee. I miss the smell of whiskey and smoke and the laughter of messed up people who know they’re messed up. People who don’t pretend.

  I sit up from my bed and pace around my room. Then I hear something. The floors are so new that they don’t even creak, but there most certainly is someone outside moving around. I get closer to the door. I’ve sneaked out of my house enough times to know what that sounds like.

  Someone walks past my room. There’s the soft hush of a door opening, and the slow click of a doorknob turning. I open my own door a crack. The hinges strain for a moment. I stick my head out in time to see Maddie tiptoeing down the hall.

  I close my door behind me and follow her. I don’t know why I’m following her. Part of me says to turn around. But my heart hammers in my chest with this new detail.

  Maybe this place isn’t all Pleasantville after all.

  I bet she’s meeting up with someone. I bet she’s going to steal things from the kitchen where Lunchman Larry keeps the good chocolate (or so they say).

  When she gets to the landing to go downstairs, I crouch down on the floor. She looks over her shoulder once to make sure no one is there. I’m pretty sure I haven’t made a noise, but I haven’t had to sneak around anywhere since I was sixteen and my dad gave me free rein, so I’m a touch rusty.

  Maddie waves at someone downstairs. I can’t see who it is from up here, and I can’t stand up or I’ll be seen. She walks over to where the shadow stands at the front door, and she heads outside.

  When they’re gone, I stand. I could follow her outside, but that’s a level of creeper even my worst boredom couldn’t lead me to.

  Moments later, one of the younger girls who’s even newer than me—I think she’s a heroin addict—walks from the men’s wing and down the stairs. I push myself against the wall that hides me in the dark. She isn’t looking at me anyway. What’s even more surprising is that she’s holding a guy’s hand. They’re the worst at sneaking around. I can hear their footsteps, all heels against the ground and their failed attempts at holding back giggles. They race down the stairs and out the door.

  “Huh,” I say. Was there an activity I wasn’t invited to? I vacillate between taking a step down to the main floor and going back to my room. Then I hear his voice.

  “River?” Hutch says, standing at the bottom of the stairs. He’s coming from the direction of the kitchen.

  I nearly jump out of my skin. “Hutch.”

  “What are you doing up? Curfew was three hours ago.” He has a flashlight in his hands. He’s wearing a black tank and maroon sweatpants that say “Grizzlies” down one pant leg.

  “Couldn’t sleep. Are you living out your Hardy Boy fantasies?”

  My lame joke is worth the smile he gives me. He rubs his hand over his bed hair. I want to jump over the railing and run my fingers through that thick dark hair.

  “Depends. Want to be my Nancy Drew?”

  “Careful, Counselor,” I say. “That’s against the rules.”

  He shakes his head. “I heard something. Seen anything while you were up?”

  In the shadows, I can’t see his eyes. He’s daring me to rat out everyone I just saw. I’m not a snitch, even if I’m not their friend. Besides, I want to solve this mystery on my own.

  “Nope,” I say, and I wonder if he can tell I’m lying.

  “All right.” He waves at me. “Get some sleep, River.”

  I go back to my room and climb into bed. The next thing I know, the red and orange daybrea
k shines through my curtains. I miss my 100 percent blackout curtains. I miss sleep, too. I wish I hadn’t thrown out all my percs.

  But now I’m five days sober, and as much as I don’t want to admit it, I miss a man who wasn’t even mine to begin with.

  Chapter 9

  In the morning I watch Maddie’s movements. She’s spacey and doesn’t want to talk. To stop myself from searching for Hutch everywhere I go, I decide to run. It’s kind of like running away, except I have Ransom’s permission, and I have to return at some point.

  The last time I volunteered to go running like this I was running from a collector. Two years ago I had a hard time paying a bookie. I decided to place a bet on the Mets, because they were my dad’s team. He had just been diagnosed, and I felt reckless.

  I didn’t realize it was reckless at the time—I thought I was being a good daughter. We’re not a sentimental family, but I thought it was right. Five grand later, I remembered that even if I didn’t know anything about sports, I should’ve remembered that the Mets suck.

  I shake the memory from my head, and run the way I ran from that guy down Tenth Avenue. He didn’t catch me, and I paid the money back. Here, there is no one chasing after me. There is only me, and the sound of my heart in my ears. I don’t have an iPod, so I sing to myself.

  The wind is delicious against my sweaty skin, and the sky is unbelievably blue. I get tired in about ten minutes. My legs hurt, and my lungs ache. I grab onto my knees and wheeze up a grassy hill. In the distance there’s a dilapidated barn and a patch of trees that leads up a small mountain.

  I can’t remember what’s still part of the property, but I keep walking. I haven’t been this alone in forever.

  I realize I don’t really like being alone with my thoughts. I like noise and smoke and darkness.

  I’m going to have to do something less exhausting. Maybe finger painting will be more my speed. I wonder where Hutch works out. I’m sure he doesn’t get those muscles by reading patient files, or finger painting, for that matter. All at once I’m thinking of his fingers and the way they felt against my skin.