Sucker Punched (36 page)

It’s an awful thing to think, but I almost wish she were sick. That way she would’ve at least had time to say goodbye to her boys instead of being just ripped away from them.

The small graveside crowd murmurs an “Amen,” and I follow suit. Several people make the sign of the cross before lining up to grab a handful of dirt to throw on the casket. 

Blake does neither. He just stares down at the open grave, his brows drawn tight and his jaw a solid stretch of muscle.

Declan walks around to throw dirt on the casket, Savannah following after him. His eyes linger on our joined hands, his expression. . .not exactly pleased.

I look away, starting to feel uncomfortable, when Blake tugs on my hand and begins leading me away. “You’re not going to. . .?” I trail off, hitching my thumb back to the line of people with handfuls of dirt.

“It’s too morbid. If it’s supposed to give me some kind of closure, it doesn’t.”

Fair enough, I guess. If spending the night with him was supposed to give
me
some kind of closure, it didn’t.

“Show of hands, how many of you are here to try and beat your addiction?”

Everyone glances around the makeshift circle. They all look like they’re thinking the same thing—this has to be some kind of trick question. One by one they raise their hands slowly.

Leaning against the back of this uncomfortable plastic chair, I keep my arms crossed.

This bullshit kumbaya stuff is dumb. This whole fucking thing is dumb. 

This is only my second day, and I already know I don’t belong here with these people. Some of them have done some seriously fucked up shit. Like the woman across from me, who mowed down a kid because she decided to get behind the wheel when she was high as a motherfucking kite. Or the guy next to me, who wiped out his mother’s savings and shot it all into his veins, then turned to blowing his dealer for the occasional fix.
These
people are the ones who need help.

I never got behind the wheel when I was drunk, or stole, or started handing out blowjobs for a fifth of whiskey. The worst my drinking ever did was—

Okay, so that’s a bad example.

My chest aches, just like it does every time I think about that night.

I wish to God I could go back and do it all differently. Maybe then I wouldn’t have ended up on this path. Maybe I would’ve ended up someone who actually deserved a girl like Macy.

Although. . . If I went back and changed that night, I never would’ve met Macy because I never would’ve moved to Boston.

The worst thing in my life somehow led to the best thing. I wouldn’t have one without the other. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

Blinking, I focus back on the group right as the counselor adjusts his glasses.

Earlier he said he was twenty-three years sober. Used to be a cokehead and a drunk, which I never would’ve guessed. Tim looks like he should be an accountant, not a counselor at a drug rehabilitation center. 

“It’s a common misconception that you can beat addiction,” he continues. “You can’t. Once you’re an addict, you’ll be an addict for the rest of your life. A recovering alcoholic is still an alcoholic, you know.” He chuckles, tapping his pen on his clipboard. “The key to sobriety is managing your addiction. Control
it
, so
it
doesn’t control you.” He takes off his glasses, briefly pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s not easy. I’ll be the first to admit that it’s fucking hard. Almost everyone will have a few setbacks on their way to sobriety, but that’s okay. It’s
okay
to mess up. To err is human. We all have faults and we have to learn to accept them.” He puts his glasses back on and sticks his pen in his shirt pocket. “Let’s finish up today with a prayer, guys.”

Everyone automatically holds hands, and my neighbors extend theirs. I glance at them, unconvinced, before reluctantly taking them.

As soon as the circle’s complete, the chanting begins. “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.”

You gotta be fucking kidding me with this.

I feel like I’m dying. I can’t sleep because it’s hot as fuck in here and I’m sweating my balls off, not to mention my roommate for the next twenty-eight days snores like a fucking chainsaw. My head is pounding and my stomach feels like it’s trying to turn itself inside out. I almost
want
to puke at this point, just so I’ll get whatever this is out of my system. I don’t know if it’s food poisoning or a stomach bug, but whatever it is, it sucks fucking donkey balls.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I wrap my pillow around my head, trying to block the assault happening to my ears. It does fuck-all to drown it out, and in a fit of rage, I chuck the pillow at his sleeping face. “Dude, shut the fuck up. You sound like a goddamn grizzly getting raped.”

Brian
looks
like a goddamn grizzly, too. He’s thick and. . .furry. Dude’s got more hair on his body than his head.

He rubs his eyes, sitting up. “Sorry. It’s worse when I’m on my back.” He rolls onto his side and gets comfortable again.

I lay back down, not caring in the slightest that I don’t have a pillow anymore because fuck it. The silence is all I need. But as soon as I’m horizontal, my stomach revolts.

I rush to the bathroom nestled in the corner of our room and empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet. Tonight’s spaghetti is not as good the second time around.

“You okay, man? Should I get someone?”

I flush the toilet and wipe my mouth. “I’m fine. I think it’s just a stomach bug or something.” I grab my toothbrush and toothpaste, frowning as I attempt to brush my teeth. 

Why are my hands so damn shaky?

Brian snorts and lies back down, the springs squeaking. “This is your first time detoxing, isn’t it?”

“You mean rehab?” I mumble around my toothbrush.

“I mean withdrawal, dumbass. That’s no stomach bug you’ve got.”

My first thought is that withdrawal’s for addicts, and I’m not a fucking addict. But then I catch my reflection in the mirror while I brush my teeth, and realize I don’t recognize the person staring back at me anymore.

That guy with bloodshot eyes, dark circles, and clammy skin—
he
looks like an addict.

Looking down, I spit and rinse out my mouth. 

I always thought I had my drinking under control. My dad, now he was an alcoholic. Me, I was just having fun on the weekends or having a beer after work to unwind. 

I didn’t embarrass my family in public or get arrested at my kid’s recital. I didn’t get DUIs or get fired from every goddamn job I had.

He was such a spectacular drunk that my drinking always seemed tame in comparison, but I’m starting to realize he didn’t become an alcoholic overnight. In fact, he probably started out a lot like I did—to unwind, maybe have some fun.

Only this stopped being fun a while ago.

It’s been fifty-nine days since I’ve seen Blake.

The first week, I thought he was just giving me space like I’d asked. But then that week turned into two, which turned into three, and I still hadn’t heard a word from him.

I tried telling myself his radio silence was a good thing. That it probably just meant he was taking my request seriously, which meant he was taking
us
seriously. But a tiny, insecure part of me couldn’t help but think the worst—he’d decided I wasn’t worth the effort.

By the time the one-month mark came, I didn’t know what to think. I just knew that I missed him terribly. We went from living together to no contact in a matter of days, and even though I was the one who asked for space, I still felt. . .bereft. He’d become such a huge part of me that when he left, I felt like half a person.

The only thing that stopped me from calling or texting him was knowing that being with him wouldn’t stop the pain. I still felt betrayed by what he’d done and was reminded of it every time I was in his presence.

When I looked at him, I saw her. When he touched me, I wondered where his hands had been.

Looking back on our last bittersweet night together in Philadelphia, it felt a lot like goodbye. We both lay there clinging to each other in the dark, unable to sleep. It’s like we were afraid of missing even the tiniest second together.

As the weeks wore on, I became convinced that he was letting me go. All the confidence he’d instilled in me slowly evaporated, until that nagging voice reemerged, whispering in my ear that I wasn’t good enough and that’s why he sought out other women. 

It’s crazy, I know.

Your mind is your harshest critic. It has a way of warping the truth until it reflects what you think it should. Take its “truth” with a grain of salt and always remember to ignore the negative voices. Don’t trust the ugly little voice that tells you you’re not good enough, or smart enough, or pretty enough. 

You are.

I just wish I could’ve realized that on my own. Instead, I realized I was being utterly ridiculous when Blake finally texted me twenty-nine days ago.

He’d spent the month after his father’s funeral in rehab for alcohol abuse. When I asked him why he didn’t tell me, he said that wasn’t the deal. He had to
show
me he was getting better. I’m happy he took my words to heart, and I feel like an idiot for ever doubting his commitment to working things out.

I feel like an even bigger idiot for doubting
myself
and letting my stupid insecurities win.

We kept in touch and texted every so often. He said he had some things to work on before he could see me, so I told him to take his time. Honestly, I wasn’t in any rush to see him because I wasn’t sure I was ready. 

I’m
still
not sure I’m ready as I pull into the tiny parking lot beside the Italian restaurant we agreed to meet at for lunch.

My heart’s in my throat as I park my car. I pull down the visor and check my makeup in the little mirror. Satisfied, I grab my purse with jittery hands and climb out.

God, I’m nervous. You’d think I’m meeting the fucking Queen of England.

Shutting the door, I walk around my car, but stop short when I see him across from me, leaning against the back of a brand new Ford Explorer I don’t recognize.

Shoot, I almost don’t recognize
him
. Gone are his dirty boots, worn jeans, customary plaid button-up, and leather jacket. Instead he looks like he walked off the pages of a Banana Republic catalogue.

He smiles when I blink in shock, and that’s when I notice his eyes.

They’re clear. Bright.

The demons haunting him have been exorcised.

I open my mouth, unsure of what to say, when he starts closing the short distance between us. “You look—”

“Like I fucking missed you.”

Blake takes my face in his hands and kisses me with more passion than I thought humanly possible. With just his mouth, he breaks me and puts me back together all at once. I’m putty in his hands, desperately clinging to his shirt like that can keep me from melting onto the pavement. 

His lips ease the jagged knot I’ve been carrying around in the spot my heart should be. His tongue soothes the pain and heartache I’ve been lugging around like a five-ton suitcase.