Recovery by Nicole Dykes (best time to read books .txt) 📗

of players. On the bottom of the pile with my knee bent all the way back.” She looks pained for me. “The hope was that it was just twisted, maybe torn. But the fucker was broken and bad.”

She doesn’t say anything still.

“I had a couple of surgeries, but it was over. The games went on without me, and I never fully recovered from it. I still fucking limp sometimes.”

“I haven’t noticed.”

I smile at her now, but it fades. “The doctor who handled everything for me was a former player. He prescribed Oxycontin. I’d never taken anything like that before, but he said it would help. I trusted him, and I was in pain.”

“You got addicted.”

She says it as a statement as if all the dots are connecting now.

“I don’t know.”

She looks confused now, maybe a little angry. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean I was pissed, so fucking pissed-off. I had no one and nothing. I had Finn, but he still got to play, go on with his life. And I resented him for it. I pushed him away, so I really had nothing.” I still can’t believe the fucker forgave me for that shit. “I started partying a lot, and I mean a lot. I have no idea how I got through my senior year, but I did graduate. And graduation night, I popped a couple pills and drank a shit ton.”

She’s watching me nervously now.

“I drove myself to a party, and I thought I could drive home.”

She covers her mouth, shaking her head, preparing herself for something horrible.

“I almost made it but crashed into the stop sign by my house.”

“Were you hurt?”

I shake my head. “Not really. The airbag split my cheek open, but that was it. I did get a DUI though. It was my first offense, and I was the hometown fallen football hero, so I got a slap on the wrist. Community service.”

She looks slightly appalled, and she should be. I think back all the time on the what ifs. What if I’d have killed someone that night? What if they’d have been harder on my first offense? What if I hadn’t wound up underneath all those big motherfuckers in that game?

None of it matters. Not really.

“Anyway. I didn’t stop. I kept drinking, partying. Mixing it all with the pills they kept refilling because I told them I felt pain that I didn’t.”

Her hand falls to her stomach. She looks sick, instinctively knowing there’s more to the story. And she’s right.

“On the Fourth of July, I went to a party out at the lake, the one they had every year. I got so fucked-up, I don’t remember anything except being loaded into an ambulance and seeing two other stretchers. Smashed-up cars.”

Her eyes flutter closed, and I see a tear fall.

It’s ripping me apart going through this again and knowing she won’t ever look at me the same, but it’s my reality. It happened. “I broke my arm that time and my good leg.” I swallow, “and when I got to the hospital and my casts were put on, I was greeted by two officers who told me the couple in the other car should be okay, but the girl was in surgery.”

She just listens to me. The silence in the room is sickening.

“Turns out, they were in the class below me. Good kids. I probably never noticed them because they were the smart kids. They weren’t drinking. They went to see the fireworks. He broke his nose. She . . .” I still see their crushed car in my mind when I close my eyes and quickly reopen them. “She had a pretty bad cut on her side and broke her arm too. She needed surgery to correct it, but she was okay. They lived. I lived.”

She seems to breathe a sigh of relief, but I don’t feel any less guilty over that fact, that they lived. Because I could have killed them that night.

“They couldn’t completely sweep it under the rug this time. So, I got ninety days in jail and two years on probation.”

“You went to jail?”

I nod my head, finally sitting up to fully face her. “Yes, I did. And when I got out, I started going to meetings. I apologized to Finn, and the son of a bitch forgave me. We started taking classes to learn tattooing, and life moved on.”

“So, you’re an addict?”

“The counselors I’ve seen don’t seem to think so. I don’t crave it, Mya. I just don’t. I can have a beer and not want anymore. I stay away from the pills. But I don’t know if I’m really addicted to them or if I just fucked up during a really bad time in my life.”

She shakes her head, tears remaining in her eyes. “No. You go to meetings.”

“Because I never want to do that shit again. Because I’ll never forget seeing those kids being loaded into an ambulance and thinking they could have died because of me.”

Again, she shakes her head and stands up. “You were addicted to alcohol and pills your senior year.”

“I wanted to get fucked-up, and I did. I haven’t had another problem since.” I stand up too, but when I approach her, she pulls back, and I stop. “Mya, why are you afraid of me?”

“Because I am.” She lifts her chin. “I . . .” She takes a deep breath. “I don’t think you’re a bad person, but I can’t . . .”

I want to walk closer but don’t. “Can’t what?”

“We can be roommates, maybe even friends. But I can’t sleep with you anymore.”

I don’t get it, but I have to respect her choice. “Okay.”

“My mother . . .” She shakes her head, her tearful eyes meeting mine which fucking guts me. “She’s . . .” She looks about two seconds from losing it, and I know this girl is on the edge. “I just can’t.”

I nod my head at her, again not making a move closer to her. “Okay.”

“Okay.” She grabs the door handle and pauses. I think she’s going to say something, but she