Scars from a Memoir (24 page)

And they were going to pay for my certification? With my criminal record, I hadn't expected an employer to offer me anything above minimum wage. Al gave me a few dollars more than that plus overtime. I didn't think he'd be my boss forever, but I hadn't expected to be a part of the professional class either.

“You'd make an incredible addition to our team, Nicole. Our patients would be extremely fortunate to have someone like you as their mentor, especially with your commitment to the Steps and your background.”

The next sheet of paper Allison slid over was the contract. It was three pages long and written in legal language. Before I agreed to anything, I wanted to talk to my parents and Asher and show them the contract. I knew what they would probably say, but I needed time to decide whether this was what I wanted.

“Can I have some time to think about it?” I asked.

“Of course,” they both said.

“Take a week to look it over, and call me if you have any questions,” Dr. Cohen said. “The salary and benefits are outlined in the contract, as are the requirements of the course.”

“Why don't we meet again the same time next week to discuss your decision?” Allison asked.

I thanked both of them, and while I waited for the commuter rail, I went over my options. There weren't many. Al's café was perfect for when I'd gotten out of rehab, but I didn't have a future there. I'd gone to the University of Maine to become a teacher, but with a felony on my record, I wasn't able to teach. Allison was right; I had more than enough experience with addiction, and mentoring addicts was considered teaching. They even offered to pay for my advanced degrees, and I could become a certified counselor, if that was the angle I wanted to take. In the meantime, I'd continue working at the café so I could afford my rent and take online courses at night after my NA meetings. That was a lot of work, and it would take time away from Asher, but I could do it. I was going to have a career.

Asher's shoes and computer case were by the door, indicating he was home. Shortly after Tiffany's death, Asher's landlord had terminated his lease and put the apartment up for sale. Nadal was staying with friends until he found a place, and Asher moved in with me. We hadn't discussed whether the arrangement would be permanent, but he had slept over every night before he had moved in anyway, so other than having all his stuff here, it wasn't much different.

He was in bed, with his laptop on his lap and headphones in his ears. I sat next to him, cuddling into his side.

“Did you have a good day at work?” he asked.

“I have some news.”

He closed his laptop and rolled to his side to face me. I told him about my meeting with Dr. Cohen and Allison, and everything they had offered.

“I have to look over the contract; your parents should too, but I think this could be the perfect opportunity for you.”

“Me, too.”

“So you're going to take the job?”

I nodded and smiled. “As long as the contract looks good, I think it will.”

He pulled me against his chest and kissed the top of my head. “We've both had great days. You're not the only one with news.”

“What's going on?”

He moved over and crossed his legs. “Do you remember how, when we left Jesse's apartment, I said you had saved me and that when the time was right, I would show you?”

“I remember.” I couldn't forget. I'd asked him about it several times, and he always repeated those same lines to me.

“I told you that I'd written several novel-length pieces in the past, but none of them were good enough to submit. I was focusing on the wrong genre, and my work lacked a personal touch.” He pulled my hands into his lap. “What you don't know is that I started this book when I met you, and since you've been in my life, my writing has completely changed. You, Nicole, were my inspiration.”

He got up from the bed and returned with a notebook. He handed it to me. Inside were hundreds of sheets of paper, three-hole–punched and bound.

“This is the final draft. The last set of edits got approved this morning, and my editor thinks he can start submitting it next week.”

“Asher, this is amazing.” I flipped through the pile; his hard work covered each of the pages. I knew how much time he'd dedicated to this book, the miles he'd jogged when he was stuck on a scene, and the pad of paper he kept in his back pocket for when a thought came to him. His dream was coming true. So was mine.

“I want you to read it,” he said.

“Right now?”

“Soon, because it can't be submitted until you've given me your approval.”

I looked up at him, my eyes warm. “Why do you need
my
approval?” I asked, giving him the biggest smile.

He didn't smile back. His expression was more serious than it had ever been. “You'll see once you start reading.”

-28-

I WASN'T REALLY A READER. I had checked out books from the prison library because there wasn't much to do behind bars. Those stories had taken me to a world where my brother hadn't gotten killed, my parents didn't resent me, and heroin hadn't owned me. I had hoped Asher's would do the same. But after the first page, that hope was shattered. I didn't need to read any further to know where the story was going. I did, though, the pressure building in my stomach as I turned each page. I skipped the sections that were too hard to read, and when I got to the end, I slammed the notebook shut. My feet moved so fast down the stairs that I almost tripped, and I stopped when I reached the coffee table. I didn't dare sit next to him.

“You're done already?”

Two hours had passed since Asher left me in the bedroom. It was a quick read, but I'd skimmed most of it.

“I didn't really need to read it, did I? I think I know the story pretty well.”

“So what do you think? Did I capture all of it?” His serious expression was still there, but there was a smile hidden between his lips.

“I think you're an asshole.”

“What? Why?”

“Get out of my house.”

He stood and tried to reach for my hand, but I slapped it away and took a few steps back.

“I don't understand,” he said. His voice had changed. It was shaky, and his weight shifted between his feet.

“That's exactly it. You don't understand! You thought writing the story of my life, retelling every moment I've been trying to forget, and sharing it with the entire world would be OK.”

“I thought you'd be honored.”

“Honored?”

“You know, that you were my muse. That you inspired me.”

I took some deep breaths to drain the blood from my face and gripped the railing of the stairs. I didn't trust my hands. “I should be honored that you wrote about how much heroin I injected, about all the men I screwed for dope money, and how I got my brother killed?”

“Nicole—”

“I was nothing more to you than a research project.”

“Nicole—”

“That's why you got close to me, so I would tell you all the details of my past. So you could make money off my pain. So you…”

“You have it all wrong.”

“You even described the rape. Both of them.”

I could barely read the part about how Nikki, the main character, got raped by her drug dealer. I couldn't relive Richard throwing Nikki on his bed—his touch, his force, holding his dead girlfriend's hand while he abused
my
body.

He rushed over to me, and I darted into the kitchen, grabbed my keys and purse, and opened the front door. “I trusted you,” I said. I kept my back to him. I couldn't look at his lying eyes.

“You still can. Let me explain.”

I ran down the stairs and out the front door. He was behind me, shouting my name, and caught up to me at the end of the block. His fingers went to my waist, but I pushed him off. “Don't ever touch me again.”

He put his hands up in the air. “You can't leave, Cole. Not like this.”

“I have nothing to say to you, and I don't think I ever will.”

“I thought your story could make a difference. That it could help people. I only want to do this if you feel good about it. I didn't want this to tear us apart.”

I knew what Asher had given up for me. He had deferred graduate school, continued to date me when his parents didn't approve, jeopardized his relationship with Nadal. But I couldn't help how I felt. He had betrayed me, and that wasn't a scar that could be healed.

“It's too late for that.” I turned my back and walked away. He didn't follow me, and I didn't hear another sound come out of him.

Asher had described so perfectly what it felt like to be on heroin—the prick of the needle, the rush, and the nod—and for most of the book, I was high. I felt a flush of shame, and suddenly again, the words filling my head weren't Asher's but rather the voice of my addiction. I hadn't forgotten about Dr. Cohen's job offer or the 345 days I'd been sober. I just didn't care. Asher's sequel wasn't going to be about recovery. It would tell how a trigger had caused me to cave.

I got on the train and held onto the edge of the seat. The hunger that pulsed in my veins turned my palms sweaty. My feet tapped on the floor. The need was stronger than I was, and it was begging to be fed.

Eight more stops and I'd be in Roxbury.

I had twenty dollars in my wallet, which was enough for four bags. I didn't have a syringe, but I didn't want to waste time going to the needle exchange. Snorting the powder would do just fine, and it would get me nice and rocked because I hadn't used in so long.

I still had three more stops to go, but I could already feel the warmth spreading through my blood…how my thoughts would liquefy and run from my brain…the beautiful dreams that would appear behind my lids while I nodded out. The train shook as it slowed down, and the vibration was similar to what I'd be feeling in each muscle.

As I stepped off the platform, my phone rang, and Jesse's name appeared on the screen. Asher must have called him. He was probably worried I was going to relapse and thought Jesse could talk me out of it. I hit the ignore button and kept walking.

Jesse called again. A third and fourth time. Didn't he realize after the first call that I wasn't going to pick up? That nothing he could say would change my mind? That heroin's voice was so much louder than his, and Asher's, and…

Michael.

I stopped in the crosswalk. The train station was a block behind me, and I was only three streets away from where the dealers hung out. I was so close, but my feet wouldn't move, and something forced me to close my eyes. I learned it wasn't something; it was some
one
, and he was standing before me in the darkness behind my closed
lids. Michael reminded me of everything I was about to give up—how hard I'd worked and what was waiting for me in the future. I fought back. I told him I didn't care; the urge was too powerful for me to fight. I didn't want to turn into a junkie again; I just wanted a taste. He didn't need to tell me that wasn't possible—I already knew that—but he did anyway. He said the second that dope hit my bloodstream, I'd be right back where I was before I'd gotten cleaned up. This time, I might even be on his side of the tracks.

I opened my eyes and pulled out my phone. I couldn't call my sponsor—she was dead, and I hadn't found anyone to replace her yet. I dialed the only other person whose face I wanted to see.

“Are you OK?” Mark asked. I never called him this late.

“No, I'm not.”

“Where are you? I'll come get you.”

“The train station in Roxbury. You
know
the one.”

“Find a store and go inside, and don't leave until I get there.”

I hung up and did as I was told. There was a store a few blocks away, and I waited inside by the window, close to the register. The store clerk gave me a once over, but his eyes didn't leave my face.

“I'm just waiting for someone,” I said.

He nodded. “A girl like you shouldn't be around here. Not alone.” He didn't have any teeth and sucked on his lips between words.

He was right; a girl like me shouldn't be in this section of town. Not anymore.

“I got off at the wrong stop,” I said.

“I bet you won't do that again.”

“No, I won't.”

When Mark pulled up, I ran out the door and straight into his arms. He lifted me up and squeezed so tight that I didn't want anyone else's arms around me. His protection felt good. It filled me the way that heroin had.

“I'm so glad you called,” he said.

I buried my face in his neck. The softness of his shirt rubbing against my chin and his hot skin gave me the comfort I needed. His fingers holding the back of my head only made that feeling stronger.

“Me too,” I said.

He put me in the passenger seat, making sure I was strapped in before closing the door. He held my hand while he drove, and I told
him everything that had happened with Asher and what had led me to Roxbury.

“You're so strong, Nicole; I hope tonight has made you realize that.”

I squeezed his fingers. “It has.”

Mark never would have done this to me. No one who cared about me would have—especially not someone with whom I'd shared everything: my scars, pain, and memories. I didn't understand Asher's motives or reasoning. And he didn't understand my addiction or me. The trust was gone—and that meant our relationship was, too.

“How can I make this better? What can I do to help?”

“You're doing it right now.”

He tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear. A tingle shot into my stomach when his finger brushed over my cheek. The sweaty palms were back, but now it wasn't because I was desperate for a hit. Heroin hadn't left my mind; it was just that something stronger grew inside me.

Mark parked outside his townhouse and opened the car door for me, leading me up the front steps. I shivered from the breeze and he put his arm around me, instantly warming me. It was dark inside his house; he turned on the lamp by the couch, filling the room with an orange glow. Oddly, it matched the smell of the room. The scent reminded me of Halloween and the pumpkin spice candles my mom used to light.

He kneeled in front of the stereo, his jeans tightening on his butt, and turned on some music. It wasn't too loud, but the bass thumped, similar to what was played during raves. If I were on E, the beat would be massaging each of my muscles. That wasn't happening, but something else was—a tingling that moved to the rhythm.