Holding On To Heaven (Allendale Four 2)

“Is it?” he asked nonchalantly. He knew it was, because he and the guys were all on the same page; the ‘keep Heaven safe’ page.

It was pretty sweet.

I ignored him and worked on my face. I’d gotten pretty good at cosmetics at Peaceful Harbor. My roommate was obsessed with hair and makeup—she had big dreams of working in the movie business one day. The program allowed us the essentials—it wasn’t prison, but a therapeutic program with constant group, family, and individual therapy. We had art and yoga. During down time, Bianca begged me to be her model and then later I morphed into her student. I realized, after all that dressing up I’d done, I kind of liked fashion and creating costumes. After four weeks of intensive therapy and tutelage from Bianca, I could whip up a hell of a smoky eye.

Through the mirror I studied Oliver as he combed through my bookshelf, pulling out each one. He was assessing me, like I was assessing him—tip-toeing around the fact this wasn’t new but it also wasn’t the same.

Things had changed a lot over the last few months.

It was an odd place—a particular state of limbo—when you tried to take your life and failed.

Everyone around you is relieved but you—I—just feel lost. More confused than before. Embarrassed. Guilty. Raw.

I hated the concern in their eyes. The tense set of their jaws. The fear that lingered and their tentative touch. But the worst thing…the absolute worst thing was the fact that Anderson nearly drowned.

My memory of anything other than walking onto the beach was fuzzy at best, but they told me that Anderson saved my life, diving into the dark, frigid water to find me. Hayden performed CPR. Oliver called the ambulance and Jackson took care of Anderson.

I stayed in the Allendale hospital for a week before they found me an open bed at Peaceful Harbor. My father tried to see me, but I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. I wasn’t ready. My mother and doctors agreed. It was my choice. It should have left me empowered, but I just felt hollow.

Despite all this, there was one person I wanted to speak to alone: Anderson.

“You shouldn’t have risked yourself like that,” I’d said. We were sitting across from one another in uncomfortable vinyl chairs. “You could’ve died.”

“You almost did. I wasn’t willing to risk that.” I started to argue but he looked up at me with haunted, green eyes. The rings underneath were as dark and pervasive as my own. “You’ve never understood that we’re in this as much as you are, have you? That you’re not alone. If it wasn’t me, it would have been Oliver. If not Oliver, Hayden. If not Hayden—”

“Jackson. I get it. But it’s not fair for me to risk your life.” I’d stared at my hands, not his face, because I loved his face so much and it hurt too much to see the worry etched all over his. “You have so much to live for; swimming, the Olympics, school. You’re going to be an incredible man.”

He took my hands in his. They were warm and rough. A scab grew over his knuckles. “I love you, Heaven. I can’t help it, but if you can’t see the value in your life, I don’t know what to do anymore.”

I didn’t want him to leave. I loved him too, at least I thought I did. Right then I felt nothing but pain and despair. The feeling wasn’t active but more passive. A constant pull against my mind and body.

That moment, looking into his beautiful face, knowing I almost risked that, it was when I realized I needed help.

I just needed time to get better. Healthy. For real this time, not just a Band-aid over the old wounds, but healing them for real.

So I started at Peaceful Harbor. And it sucked. They searched for contraband, which could be anything from mechanical pencils to earrings. They confiscated my phone, inspected my shoes. Took my jewelry, laces, and belt. It wasn’t a prison, but at times it sure felt like it was.

I started with a psychiatrist and they fed me round, brown pills. Bianca sat next to me and I saw the gnarled scars on her wrists. For the first time in a long time I didn’t feel so alone—so lost.

Family therapy? Well—it was worse than anything. The boys gave me their unconditional love. They’d always had, but my mother? She had to get her head out of her ass, and my father’s, before we could work through it all.

Stuff came up; like how my dad was a really shitty guy. Emotionally abusive and manipulative as hell. With my therapist sitting next to me I told my mom I wasn’t coming home if he was there. Ever.

To her credit, she kicked him out that day and found her own therapist. She had some shit to work through, too. People like my father spend their lives mind-fucking everyone they know. It makes you second guess yourself. Question your judgement. I understood that a little better now. I looked at my own reactions to things; why I was so reactive? Self-destructive? Why I pushed away the people I loved?

I did have choices. I had control. I had a support system. And frankly, something in my brain was a little out of whack. The meds helped getting the chemicals back in line. When all of that got stabilized and I felt less neurotic zombie and more like Heaven, I came home. The therapy wasn’t over, but the healing had begun.

I coated my eyelid in a final dusting of silver powder, still aware of Oliver as he made it around the room.

He fingered the photographs I’d pinned to a bulletin board. “I like this one,” he said. I was about five years old, holding a giant sunflower as big as my head. Oliver turned to me to say something else but stopped cold.

“What?”

“You’re just beautiful. I never get used to it.”

I shook my head. “You know, if you say it too much it may lose its effect.”

“I’ll take that risk.” He walked over, nearly killing me with the lines of that suit. It accentuated his everything and it stirred the spark of desire I’d only recently been feeling again. He stood before me and touched my neck. “You know Anderson used to talk about this sweatshirt all the fucking time. I think he went home and jacked off to the Clemson spiritwear catalogue the way the rest of us used Victoria’s Secret.”