by Frankie Rose
“You need a chaperone because I saw that letter on your kitchen table from the center, Morgan. I know you’ve skipped your last three meetings, and I know what your mom said when she left New York last year. She said if you missed one single appointment, she’d drag you kicking and screaming back home. And I can’t let that happen, okay? I need you here, with me.”
Morgan remains silent.
“I’m sorry. I just can’t ever see you in another hospital bed, Morgan,” I whisper.
“It’s just so embarrassing. I feel like I’m failing at life,” she whispers back.
“Sweetheart, you have no need to be embarrassed. And you are not failing at life. Everyone’s addicted to something, one way or another.”
“Bullshit. You aren’t.”
“Of course I am.” Luke Reid’s face shoves its way into my mind, making my eyes prick sharply. Oh, hell no. No crying over that bastard today. I grip hold of the steering wheel, inhaling deeply.
“What? What the hell are you addicted to, Avery?”
“Chocolate and the Vampire Diaries.”
“Fuck you, girlfriend. I’m addicted to class A opiates. I think that’s slightly different.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Compared to me, you’re a fully functional member of society. I’m the only fucked up one around here.”
“Oh, I assure you. I’m plenty fucked up, babe.” She must hear the tension in my voice. Morgan places her hand on my arm, rubbing gently.
“I’m sorry, chica. I’m being an asshole. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good. It’s just…”
“He who shall not be named?”
“Yeah.” I swallow down the huge lump in my throat. It should feel better by now, shouldn’t it? It should hurt less. It’s been almost two months. You’d think I’d be over this by now, and yet I’m not. It just keeps getting worse and worse.
“All right. That’s it,” Morgan says. “Maybe we should scrap the pact for this evening and talk about it. About him. It might help you.” I made her swear a while back that she wouldn’t even mention his name, because she kept asking about him relentlessly and it really wasn’t helping.
“You are not getting out of your session by dredging up all of my crap, Morgan.”
“Not now. After this we can grab a burger or something.”
“I don’t know, Morgan. Talking about it just seems counterproductive.”
“Like me going to my sessions, you mean?”
Fuck. She has me there. “Morgan—”
“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll shut up about us going to Seabrook if you swear to vent when we’re done. Then we’ll be even.”
“All right. Sure, I’ll try.” At this point I’ll say anything just to get her ass into one of those seats. If I really don’t feel like rehashing every single Luke Reid related nightmare I’ve had since he vanished off the face of the earth, I can always renege later. Sue me.
Morgan turns the radio up, giving me another sad smile. I’m grateful for the break in the conversation. Another fifteen minutes pass, and Morgan grows more and more tense by the second as we draw closer to the counseling facility. By the time I pull up in the parking lot, her body is almost entirely rigid.
A small wave of guilt washes over me. I may give her a hard time but in the same vein, I hate that she has to do this.
I get out of the car and walk around to wait for her. She’s taking far too long, and her complexion looks pasty at best.
“Hey, how about this...” I slip my arm into hers as we head toward the yawning entrance of the vast building. “How about I put down that I’m addicted to sex toys? If I can keep a straight face the entire time, you have to buy lunch.”
A smile lifts her mouth. “Avery, you have absolutely no hope whatsoever of pulling that off.”
“Oh, ye of little faith. I can do this.”
“Wait. Are you really a sex addict? It’s ‘cause of Luke, isn’t it? I don’t blame you. I would have been addicted to his di—”
I slap her on the arm, an itching sensation crawling across my skin. I’m not ready to joke about sleeping with Luke yet. No way. “I said toys. Luke wasn’t a toy.” If he was, he would have been a brightly painted baseball bat that looked like it was really fun to play with, when in reality it was covered in barbed wire and had shards of glass embedded in the damn handle.
“I’m just saying.” Morgan dodges away from me, grinning, as I lunge at her, trying to slap her again. Her smile is contagious.
We walk into the air-conditioned building and sign in at the very prestigious-looking front desk. Morgan completes the paperwork required of her as I look around. The place looks rather empty until an older African-American guy opens the door closest to us. “You ladies here for the N.A. meeting?”
It dawns on me; I can’t say I’m addicted to sex toys. Seabrook House might well cater for that particular addiction, however this session is specifically for drug addiction. Morgan turns toward me, handing me the pen as she answers him.
“We are. You can cue the music. We brought the party with us.”
The man smiles and shakes his head before moving back and holding the door open. I sign in as a guest—it costs a fortune to actually receive treatment here—and then I follow Morgan into the room beyond.
“You gonna do it?” Morgan hisses at me.
“Do what?”
“The sex toy thing.”
“I can’t! These people are here to talk about drugs, not fake dicks. My pretend illness will not be solved in here.”
“Chicken shit.” Morgan bites back a smile. As she looks around the room, her eyes glaze over, as though she’s not really seeing what’s in front of her. There are only three guys in the circle with us, and all very much look the part. One, a Hispanic guy, his hair matted to his head, has his eyes closed as if he’s sleeping. The other two are pale like ghosts. One fidgets like crazy, his nervousness infecting the atmosphere in the room. The other is staring me down like I might be his long-lost love.
It’s probably better that I just look at my hands, so I do. The guy who asked us if we were here for the meeting joins us and sits down. He introduces himself as Samuel. “Good to see you guys this morning,” he says. “I see three familiar faces and a new one.” He grins at me broadly. “Would you like to introduce yourself, young lady, and tell us why you’re here?”
I shift awkwardly. I should have known I wasn’t just going to be able to sit here and go unnoticed. “My name is Avery. I’m just here to support Morgan.” The twitchy guy across the other side of the circle rolls his eyes, like my very existence is pathetic to him.
Samuel smiles warmly at me, nodding his head. “Well, it’s lovely that Morgan has such a loyal friend to stand by her. You’re welcome here either way, Avery.”
I thank him, but I’m suddenly very distracted. My cellphone is ringing. I put it on silent before we came inside, but I can feel it vibrating against my leg now. It never rings. I hardly ever receive texts, and when I do, I’m hit with this insane wave of hope. Hope that it will be Luke, even though it never is.
I try and sit out the rest of the session, listening to the others speak when they choose to, trying to ignore Morgan’s scathing or sarcastic responses to the questions that Samuel asks, but eventually my curiosity gets the better of me. I shift to the edge of my seat, unsure of how I’m supposed to excuse myself without appearing rude. Samuel must catch the awkward look on my face.
“The bathrooms are just across the hall, honey,” he says. I don’t bother to correct him; it’s actually a very convenient excuse. I move silently out of the room, sliding my phone from my jeans pocket as I go. My heart plummets through the pit of my stomach when I see the missed call I received wasn’t from Luke. Far, far worse. It was from my mother. She’s sent a message through, too.
Avery, dinner at the brownstone tomorrow night. Arrive at seven o’clock sharp. If you need a ride, book a car service on my account. ~Amanda
Amanda. That my mother prefers for me to address her by her first name still sticks in my throat. The woman treats me like a shameful secret. She throws money at me every month, making sure I want for nothing, and then expects me to steer clear of her entirely. Not that I’ve particularly wanted to see her, of course. The last time I sought her out of my own accord, I found her kissing another woman in the street. Could I care less if my mother is a lesbian? Definitely not. Love is love, regardless of the gender of the people who experience it. Did I mind that she’d chosen not to tell me that she’d had a girlfriend for a whole nine months? Was I pissed that she thought I would be judgmental and rude about her life choices? Abso-fucking-lutely.
My first inclination is to text her back and tell her to go fuck herself. I’m not stupid, though. That would just cause a level of grief I am not equipped to handle right now. Amanda is still paying for my college tuition and sending me an allowance. She also financed the fancy Mazda 3 I’ve been driving around for the past few months, but she seems to have forgotten all about that since she’s now offering me access to a car service I never even knew she had.
Thinking of my lovely new car makes me desperately want to be in it, driving back to the city and my apartment where I feel safe. Except it’s not my apartment. It’s Luke’s apartment, and everywhere I look, there he is, the ghost of him lurking in every shadow. In every goddamn corner.
Damn it. The world feels like it’s tilting on its axis, and I can’t seem to fathom which way is up. I run out of the building, knowing all of a sudden that I need to move out of Luke’s apartment. It’s madness that I’ve stayed there so long when he and I aren’t even speaking. It occurs to me that he probably thinks I’m a total psycho, refusing to leave his home, refusing to let him go. Surely he must know I’m still living there, right? Somehow?
I scramble inside the car, and I press my forehead against the steering wheel, holding onto it with both hands for dear life. This is so, so fucked up. Everything. All of it.
I don’t know how long I sit there, but it can’t be long. Morgan turns up after a while, opening the passenger side door and climbing into the car. “Avery? Hey, what are you doing out here? The session’s over.” She places her hand on my back and the contact is grounding. I just sit there, nodding. I should probably say something, but I can’t push a strangled word past my lips.
After a while, I start the engine and pull out of the parking lot, heading in the direction of Morgan’s place. I don’t feel like eating anymore. Plus spending time with anyone, even my best friend, is too much for me to bear right now. “I’ll drop you off at home. I’m not feeling so well,” I say.
“Okay. But please, Ave…promise you’ll call me later? Promise you’ll call and let me know you’re all right?”
I glance over at her, allowing a weak smile to form on my face. “I’m all right.”
“Liar.” She laughs, but the sound falls flat. She knows I’m hurting. I want to explain it to her, but I can’t. I can barely contemplate taking my next breath. As I drive us back to her place, all I can do is replay the moment when all of this went wrong. The moment I tried to avoid at all costs. The moment that spelled the end for me.
“DAMN IT, AVERY, TELL ME THE TRUTH!”
“Fine! I love you, Luke. I love you so much I think I might die sometimes! Are you happy now?”
“Do you mean it?” he whispers.
I can’t answer. Tears streak down my cheeks as I nod my head, yes, my heart breaking, suddenly feeling like a little girl. This is the most exposed I’ve ever been in my life, and there’s no turning back.
“Thank God,” he whispers. And then he made me his.
NINE
NEVE
I drive to my mother’s, dreading the thought of spending time with her. I don’t even know why I’m obliging her command to attend dinner. We never have anything to talk about, and honestly I can’t remember the last time she spoke to me and not at me. Her obscenely large house screams money, which makes me so fucking uncomfortable. I park outside the front of her brownstone, my stomach in knots, breathing past the panic rising in my chest. As I climb out of the car and walk to the door, I’m rehearsing how to greet her, the woman who gave birth to me. How pathetic is that? Calling her mom only seems to piss her off, but anything else seems like I’m being sarcastic. Which I probably am being if I’m honest.
I ring the doorbell and my mother opens up two seconds later, like she was hovering on the other side, waiting. Her hair is perfect, her suit still immaculate even after what I’m sure was a very long day. My grandparents on her side were loaded. I never met either of them; they both died in a car accident when Mom and Dad were still in college together. They left her a huge amount of money, though, so she could easily not work at all and still afford her lovely home and her lovely clothes, but naturally she doesn’t. She works just as hard as everyone else in New York City. If I had to pay my mother a compliment, I’d say she’s at least slogged her guts out to build a highly impressive career for herself.
“Avery. Come in.” Her voice is a little lighter than usual, the odd expression on her face confusing the living hell out of me.
“Amanda.” I move past her into the sterile environment she calls home. I conduct a quick scan of the living room to see if her girlfriend is there, but we seem to be alone.
Amanda must notice the quick survey. “Brit’s on call at the hospital,” she says.
“She’s a doctor?” I walk to the breakfast bar and slide into a seat, looking down at my fingernails, only slightly shocked to find them way longer than normal. I’m about to bite the nail on my index finger when—an entirely nervous reaction—when my mother reaches over and swats at my hands.
“Don’t do that. I’ll get you a file. That’s gross.”
I ignore her and continue to bite. “So I have a lot of catching up to do at school. You want to tell me why I’m here?”
She raises both eyebrows until it looks like they’re going to hit her hairline. “Why the attitude?”
“Let’s see...” I pause for dramatic effect. “Where should I start?”
“Look, Avery. I’m trying here. I know things have been difficult for you. I want to…I want to help you. Okay?”
I stare at her for a minute, truly unsure of how I’m supposed to respond. This woman rejected me from her life after Dad died, when I needed her most. She knows what she did. And now she wants to help me? Talk about a case of too little, too late. She doesn’t say another word; she starts to pull out plates from one of the kitchen cupboards.
“I ordered Chinese. I remembered you loved it when you were a kid. It should be here soon.”
I get up and help, collecting two clean glasses from the cabinet beside the sink. I’d be lying if I claimed to know what I’m going to say next. I’m totally perplexed by this whole situation.
“Could you get me a Perrier water in the fridge, please?” Amanda asks. “There are sodas in the pantry if you’d prefer one of those.”
“I thought you didn’t drink soda.”
“I don’t. Brit has a sweet tooth. Guilty pleasure, I guess.” Her voice is tight and restrained, as if talking about her girlfriend is pushing awkward boundaries. It wouldn’t be awkward at all if she’d just told me about her in the first place.
“Am I going to get to meet Brittany sometime soon?”
“She would like that.”
I carry the cups and drinks to the long full-length table my mother has already set. Eating at the breakfast bar would be far more informal, but then informal has never Mom’s style.
“Does Brit have kids?” I sit down as the doorbell rings. “Sounds like dinner’s here.”
“No, she doesn’t have any children.” Amanda heads to collect the Chinese, shoulders stiff, chin held high.
When we were back in Breakwater, Marlena, Luke’s mom, spoke about Amanda like she was alive once. Like she used to be so happy. I just can’t picture it. What the hell happened? And what was the de
al with her and Uncle Brandon? Marlena alluded to something happening between them, but…surely not? As I watch her, a million questions run through my head, all pushing and shoving each other out of the way.
When Brandon was called in for questioning over the Wyoming Ripper Murders, Amanda flew straight in. Yes, but she was his lawyer. Of course she flew straight in. That’s what he was paying her for.
I’ll still never get over the fact that she wouldn’t fight to clear Dad’s name while she was back there. Even though I begged her to. In the end, it didn’t matter. He was cleared regardless. I was trapped by a serial killer, and Luke was almost shot to death in the process, but still.
Amanda enters the kitchen, lifting the brown paper bag she’s carrying in her hands, breathing in deeply. Her nose crinkles, and I can almost see the woman I remember from my childhood. Almost, but not quite.
“I still don’t understand why you and...” She pauses, like she’s unsure how she’s meant to refer to my father these days.
“We liked it because none of us could cook anything like it. Dad always pretended we were in a foreign country just because we were eating with chopsticks.” I don’t look at her. I busy myself pouring soda over the ice in my glass. Memories of mealtimes when I was a kid assault me from all angles. It still stings that I’ll never get to sit down and have another meal with my father. We always had the best conversations over our food. I’d tell him all the ridiculous things that had happened at school. He’d tell me all about the older kids he’d been teaching.
A body-wide shudder runs through me, turning my blood ice-cold in my veins. God, I miss him. I miss him so much. It’s a cruel and brutal thing that I’ve lost both of the men I’ve loved in my life.
“Your father always had an imagination,” Amanda says suddenly. “He liked to create realities that just weren’t feasible.” She unpacks the food methodically, hands working quickly, eyes firmly locked on the task at hand. I take the plate she offers me and I begin loading it up. I get the feeling, somehow, that she’s not talking about pretending we were eating in Japan. “How’s your summer break, anyway?” She sits down, eyes still fixed on her plate.