Covet (Sinful Secrets 3)

I give him what I hope is a kind-looking smile. “Thanks for telling me that.”

He shakes his head then clears his throat. I run a hand back through my hair. “I just wanted to greet you,” he tells me, in that halting way that very elderly folks have. When I feel sure he’s finished speaking, I nod.

“Thank you. Looking forward to spending time here again.”

I get out the door, but kids are outside. These are older kids—teenagers. I see them notice me in a sort of domino effect: one then two then three, now eight, and finally a hush falls over the group. Some look down, a few grin, and one girl’s jaw drops right before her cheeks flush.

I can’t help laughing. “C’mon, guys. You’re making me self-conscious.”

That’s all it takes to break the ice. The youth of Tristan da Cunha crowd around to see my iPhone, begging me to show them videos of other Sox players, pleading for me to sign their clothes and, in one case, a hand.

The look in their eyes…especially the guys. It’s pretty sweet at first, but soon I feel like I can’t breathe. They all talk fast and loudly, desperate to impress—to impress me. Their questions never end, and that’s okay, except my hands are shaking now. My throat is dry. My head is pounding.

By the time a brown-haired woman in a pale pink pants suit walks up, my eyelid is twitching.

“Homer? Hi—I’m Mrs. Dillon, hospitality coordinator for the island. I’m here to help you escape,” she teases, in a soft, low voice.

Thank fuck she’s pretty low key, because her appearance heralds another half hour of on-air time. We get into a green Land Rover and she drives me down the road, onto another little road, and up the foothills to a little Hobbit cottage tucked into a grassy hill, under a sky of storm clouds. Inside, she shows me everything, even opening the freezer and trying out the faucet in the bathtub. I appreciate her hospitality, but when she leaves, I lock the door.

Back in the bedroom, I open my bag, fumble past some folded clothes, and snatch out one of two oversized ibuprofen bottles I’ve got rolled up in two editions of ESPN Magazine.

I wrap my fist around it, feeling lightheaded at the clattering sound it makes. Still, I walk around the house again, checking things out. I open a few windows so I can listen to the rain when it comes.

I’m okay, I tell myself. Sweat prickles along my hairline as I look down at the bottle. I want to take the top off, but not yet. If I see the shit inside, sometimes it’s too hard to hold off. I’m not due for another mini-dose of subs for two more hours. With that taper and the Valium one, I’m allowed to take a little extra—but I don’t. I didn’t bring much extra. Don’t want room to fuck up.

So far, knowing what will happen if I cave to either craving has been enough to keep me straight. If I blow through the subs or the Valium all at once, the post-acute withdrawal will be worse than it is now—and on the island, there’s no getting more of either drug.

I poke through the fridge and pantry, but I don’t think I can eat, so I step onto the patio behind the house and watch the clouds gather and burst. I lean my back against the wall and shut my eyes and feel my body tremble.

You’re okay. This is the best place for you. Good things coming.

Back inside, I force myself to eat an apple, drink some water.

The rain is really coming down now, bringing darkness early. Good. I lie on the too-soft bed and stare up at the ceiling. I laugh softly.

Here I am.

Just a few steps and I’m in the bathroom, running the faucet of the claw-footed tub.

Another few minutes and I’m sinking into a pile of minty-smelling bubbles.

I squeeze the ibuprofen bottle in my hand and grit my teeth. My chest feels hot and tight. I dry my hand off on a towel, twist the top off…peer inside. It’s the tiny Ziploc bag of papery amber fragments that gets my blood pumping: the Suboxone strips, cut into micro-doses. My hand shakes as I work the baggie’s zip-seal open. I just want to touch one of the strips. Sometimes a fake-out like that helps…something to chill me out.

I stick my fingertip into the baggie. It’s no bigger than a business card. I feel the strips. So many of them. My jaw aches as I clench it against the urge to stuff a dozen of the little fucking triangles under my tongue.

I’m not the praying kind, but I send one up.

Help me. Please.

Then I lean my head against the bathtub’s rim and breathe.

* * *

Finley

Carrying a bleating lamb down a muddy trail in the midst of a storm is quite a challenge. I couldn’t do it if I didn’t know the trail by heart. But I do, and so we’re making it.

The sky is black as night and pouring buckets, with rolling clouds that move and shift so quickly they seem supernatural. Wind blows sheets of rain across the valley out below me, turning all the dirt paths mud. Another strong gust makes me wobble, but I dig my heels into the squishy ground, wrap my little lambie baby closer, and lean my head back slightly so my jacket hood falls lower over my forehead—and I keep going. Slow and steady wins the race.