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

“Yeah? So then, you know.”

“I do. I know Jase is not a fucking addict. He was a pissed-off teenager, mad at the fucking world because his dad, who was incredible, died. His mom became a zombie-like shell of herself. He thought football was his way out of that hell, and then fate came for him. He was pissed, and he used the wrong things to cope.”

“Isn’t that every single addict ever?”

I should have more sympathy. Maybe I do, but it’s clouded by hatred for my mother. She let us down because she chose that life. We didn’t have a choice, but she did. And I will always hate her for that.

“No. He’s not a fucking addict. I promise you that. He goes to meetings because he feels fucking guilty for that one year of his life.”

His large body crowds mine. I don’t think he would hurt me, but honestly I don’t know him. Still, the room is crowded. Surely no one would let him do anything to me. “Look, I didn’t say I hate him and want nothing to do with him.” I lower my voice, feeling slightly weird about the next thing I know I need to say, but he already knows I slept with Jase, “I just can’t have sex with him.”

“Right. Because he’s not fucking good enough to fuck you.” His hand moves forward as he grasps a piece of my hair that fell out of my ponytail. He lets it slide through his finger and thumb, snarling at me, “You can’t let him between your legs again because now you know he goes to NA meetings.”

I bat his hand away furiously. “I don’t want him inside my body because I don’t want to fall for an addict.” I emphasize the word addict, and I watch his eyes flash with anger.

“He’s not a fucking addict. I know addicts. And so does Jase.” He leans in closer, his lips curled in anger and his handsome face contorted with fury. “He was there when we had to drag my mom home in the middle of the fucking night from the bar when we were twelve. Right through Main Street to my house because she could barely fucking walk and the bar was closed.” I close my eyes, pained from the image. But he doesn’t stop. “He was there when we came home from a grueling football practice, dirty and sweaty, and Mom was passed the fuck out on the couch, my two little sisters trying to wake her up when she had a needle hanging from her arm and all kinds of drug shit lying around everywhere. Thank God the girls knew not to touch Mommy’s stuff.”

“Stop,” I choke out, hating the similarities between Finn’s mother and my own.

“Or, how about the time I came home to some motherfucker on top of my ten-year-old sister, trying to pull her pants off?”

“Stop, Finn.” I’m pleading with him, unable to take it anymore, a rogue tear escaping me. I wrap my arms around my waist and fight the sobs. “Why do people like that have kids?”

“Because they’re too fucking high to remember birth control.” My eyes meet his, and I see some of his anger has dissipated. “He messed up, Mya. He was in pain and didn’t know how to cope. That can happen to anyone.”

“So can addiction,” I breathe out quietly and sadly because I don’t want Jase to be an addict. I don’t want to push him away, but that’s all the more reason I should.

“Look, he’s worked so fucking hard to right his wrongs. He’s one of the good ones, Mya. Don’t call him a junkie. Don’t call him an addict. And don’t pull him to you if you’re only going to push him away. He seems light and fun, I get that, but there’s a darkness under there.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“He’s not going to use again, but he will punish himself.” He eases back. “He doesn’t come from addicts. His father was a goddamn hero. His mother was a saint who missed her hero. It’s not in his DNA, so it’s not in his nature. And he wasn’t raised by addicts or abused. Maybe he was a little neglected, but still, it’s not nurture either. He has none of the hallmarks of addiction.”

“He really just goes to those meetings out of guilt?”

“And fear.” He seems to be thinking over it and nods his head. “Yeah, he’s afraid he could become that. I was fucking hard on him when he started drinking and mixing it with the pills. I was a fucking dick to him, unable to handle my best friend turning into anything close to my mother.”

“But you got over it?”

He nods his head, his fingers brushing over his chin. “Yeah. I did. Thank God, he forgave me for it, but that’s just Jase. He fucking cares. And so help me if you crush him—”

I don’t let him finish, “I won’t be here long enough to crush him.”

“You did the second you looked at him like he was a junkie.” He leans into my ear. “Fix it.”

He pushes away and leaves, heading toward a pack of wasted girls. I turn on my heels, stopping outside of my bedroom door but looking at his.

He’s where I want to be, and I hate it.

Life is all about choices. I’ve been safe for so long and still I ended up alone without my brother.

I walk to his door and push it open, seeing him asleep on his bed. I turn and push the door closed as quietly as I can before climbing in with him, draping my arm over him.

I won’t stay long. But for now, I need him.

Maybe he needs me too.

I wake when I feel a warm body curled against my own. At first, I think it’s a drunk partygoer who’s climbed into my bed. I’m not in the fucking mood for this shit. But when I