Being around Jesse more and more…it’s getting difficult not to think of doing a line, or taking a hit, of letting go, getting one last high... I know he’s always got a bag of something on him.
So for now, I dull the cravings with beer, and stay away from the hard stuff. I attend group meetings. Never talking, just listening, but I’m there. Then I head to my mostly empty, cavernous apartment alone.
That’s the hardest thing I’ve faced so far; living alone. All of my stuff fits into one corner of the bedroom. I have no cooking supplies. No TV. No real furniture. The apartment came furnished with the bare essentials; bed, couch, a small bar connected to the kitchen with two stools. But it’s the littlest, saddest, most depressing apartment in the world.
Darla filled any space with her large presence. Without her, the place is a hollow shell. I try to spend as little time there as possible. Though I did buy a home warming present for myself: a calendar. It hangs on the fridge, and every morning before work I cross out another day. My probation hearing just under five months away circled in thick red marker.
I’ve never had to do anything by a schedule, ever. Now, that’s my life. Everything scheduled down to the hour. Group meetings. PO appointments. Bill payments. Like electric and water. Things I’ve never had to keep up with before.
A wave of unease washes over me as I start to think about all the things I have to keep track of. And I wonder, not for the first time, if Nurse Bridge can be coaxed into recommending me to a doctor where I can score some anxiety meds.
But then there’s all the hassle I’d have to go through. Approval from my PO; statements sent to my counselors at group about my medication so my drug tests don’t pop. It’s not worth the effort. I’ll stick with beer.
The irony in all this: I was always the responsible one out of the Dar and me duo. The one who looked out for her, who made the plans on the road, who found us work gigs and places to crash. Who kept her safe, like a big sister, who took care of us…and I’m realizing for the first time in my life that I don’t have a fucking clue how to be a grown up. Not the real kind. I was so full of shit.
I take a sip of lukewarm beer and gaze out over Parker’s Dragway. The race track.
I’m always jacked before a race. My adrenaline amped. My nerves revved. I’m so wired and I haven’t even done any blow. The thought kicks my pulse. Before every race, I always took a good luck hit. Got myself right, focused. The craving is hitting hard right now.
It’s like that learned memory shit or whatever Doc Sid always ranted about. Something about how your body and mind recalls things in an inebriated state, and can’t do them or enjoy doing them without the high it’s used to getting as a reward. Some other shit about dopamine—I can’t remember it all. But suddenly, I’m freaked that I won’t be able to race.
I don’t know if I can ride tonight without the blow. I just don’t know. I feel like I should back out, wait a couple of weeks until I get past the hard cravings. But then…will I ever be able to do anything again? Fuck.
My hands tear through my hair, feeling the clamminess of my scalp. It’s a million degrees out here on the surface of the sun, and I’m covered in chills.
“You want anything, baby doll?” Tank stands at the bottom of the bleachers, pointing toward the concession stand.
Shaking my head, I wave him on. If I drink anything more, or try to eat, I’m sure I’ll lose my stomach. I set the bottle of beer down and wrap my arms around my legs.
“This seat taken?”
Boone’s deep voice sends a trill up my spine. My arms still secured to my legs, I look up. His massive six-foot-self blots out the lowering sun. I can’t believe it, but I’m so relieved to see him.
I wasn’t sure if I’d done the right thing yesterday by inviting him here. Earlier at the coffee shop, I was regretting it, thinking I’d lowered the barrier between us too much. Hell, I worked hard at releasing him, trying to keep him away from my scene. But yesterday kind of changed everything. He seems to be in the midst of his own messed up scene, so I don’t feel I’d hinder his “personal growth.” And I really need someone who understands what I’m going through near my side today.
Not that I can’t do it on my own. I’ve damn well been doing it so far. But today is a huge test. I need the added encouragement, it seems, and getting that little extra backing from a really hot guy never hurts. I wouldn’t even mind hearing some of his sobriety campaigning right this moment. At least he gets the deal.
“Take any one you want, guy,” I say, smiling.
He settles on the metal riser next to me. I can feel the warmth of his body against my side, my thigh, heating the chill from my skin. It feels good, and I’m tempted to lean into him.
“So you come here to watch?” he asks, like we’re just getting acquainted. Like we haven’t been in rehab together, or swam half naked together, or thought about sexing each other up together.
A nervous half smile pulls at my face. Not nerves from being around him; it’s really the fact that I feel so out of my element. And now, Boone’s presence just confirms that everything has shifted. Some guy from rehab, here at the track, where I race. Where Dar would be partying and cheering me on like a lushy cheerleader while picking up a new boy toy.
Everything feels so far out of trajectory.
Why did I invite him again?
“Yeah, to watch, and other things,” I finally say. His brow furrows. “I’m racing tonight.”
A splash of fear registers on his face. “That’s pretty dangerous. Don’t tell me this is your way of trading one high for another?”
“Har,” I mock laugh. “Believe it or not, I race all the time. Well, I used to before my bike got totaled.” I look past the stands, away from him, to where two motorcycles are gearing up to race down the dragway.
I feel Boone’s hand, his fingers sliding through my hair, as he slips a stray lock behind my ear, turning my attention back to him. “Is that how y
ou ended up at Stoney?” he asks.