He nods. “Yep.”
“Not because it’s a trigger…” I prompt.
“No, well, I guess it can be. But honestly, I went celibate because I was more concerned about getting a piece of ass than what was happening to Hunter that night. So it had to go. I couldn’t have sex without seeing his face, feeling like shit, so it had to end. Along with my old friends, places I hung out, everything.”
This is so messed up. For someone who acts like they have it all together, have all the answers, Boone is wrong. “I’m sorry, Boone. I really am. What happened to your friend, it was a horrible accident. But you do understand that’s what it was, right? An accident? I’m sure your counselors have preached this to you, but you need to hear it from me.” I reach over and palm his cheek, turn his face toward me. “You didn’t kill your friend. Hunter’s death, though tragic and maybe avoidable, was not your fault.”
As the words leave my mouth, I hear all the things said to me at Stoney. Things I blocked out—not willing to hear because I full-on knew Darla’s death was my fault. But saying them now, to Boone, I feel that blame slowly start to dissolve. I never would’ve done anything on purpose to hurt Dar. Ever.
Doesn’t make the guilt stop—but it might be a start.
His hazel eyes glaze over, red, on the brink of shedding tears. But he coughs, clearing his throat, and blinks. A tough guy’s way of stopping the waterworks. “So yeah, after I didn’t have anything in my life but the pain and guilt, I went a little—” he struggles to say the rest “—crazy. I got into a fight one night with this real douchebag. He was in a checkout line, giving the girl ringing him up a hard time, and I just hauled off and punched him.”
I can’t help it, I laugh. Imagining ultra-straightedge, always-in-control Boone losing his shit in the middle of a store—well, it’s not funny, but it’s amusing. “That’s how you got started with the backyard brawling?”
“No, that’s how I found out that I had an outlet. I actually didn’t beat the shit out of the guy. I stopped and ended up letting him kick my ass. It felt right. And afterward, I slept that night. I hadn’t slept a full night since Hunter died. And for a split second, my conscience was clear. I ached and bruised and was locked up, but the all-consuming pain was less than it was the day before.”
“Then that’s when you went looking for it.”
He nods. “I play the part at Stoney. Tell a story and talk to counselors, putting on a good show to keep me in line. But the real release, the freedom from my addiction owning me, comes from getting my face punched in.”
“Damn. Do you even know how warped that is?” I dip my head, finding his eyes. “You’re punishing yourself. I mean, what if the next time you don’t walk away from the
fight?”
Something seems to resonate within him, his features conveying acceptance. Shit. This guy has a death wish.
“I know,” he says. “But how much more warped is living a user’s lifestyle, Mel? That’s rolling the dice every day, isn’t it? I don’t think an addict can ever truly be a healthy individual. I mean, shit. Who the hell is really mentally healthy, anyway? But brawling, I at least have control over that. I say when, who, how long. And it doesn’t hurt anyone else. Not even me. Because I get more benefit from it than injury. It’s better than a prescription.” His gaze is so intense, my breath halts. “It sure beats the hell out of lame ass NA meetings.”
“At least you admit they’re lame,” I say, pushing my hair away from my shoulders. “You should have owned up to this a while ago, we would’ve had so much more to talk about.”
This gets a tiny, crooked smile, and I can see he’s relieved I’m not probing further on his relationship with Hunter. For all I know, the guy is gay. Or maybe bi-sexual. He swore once before that he wasn’t, but maybe that’s only because he didn’t want to think about it. Have me ask questions. I mean, he did have a hard-on at the lake. But then, that could be nearly a year’s worth of pent-up sexual frustration needing to vent.
Regardless, I like seeing this side of Boone. The reckless, get-out-of-my-way rebel. It’s hot. And he needs to know that he can move on. Especially since he admitted that sex isn’t a trigger for him. He’s only punishing himself.
I push off the couch.
“Where are you going? It’s your turn to answer some unpleasant and uncomfortable questions.”
On my way to the bathroom, I say, “I’ll be right back.” If I’m going to commit to this, I can’t be the least bit sober. I don’t want to harbor any guilt for what I’m about to do.
Boone
Taste only yearning, make me full
I NEED TO GET the fuck out of here.
Mel’s been in the bathroom longer than needed, and I know she knows I’m aware of what’s going down in there. She’s got a stash. I’m pretty sure it’s not blow, because she’s more than skeeted up; she’s overly wired and teetering on sketchy.
Jesse looked like he was jacked on meth. And if that’s what she’s on, then she’s not coming down for a long while. Only thing I can do is keep her from getting bored, going out and doing something that might get her hurt, until she comes down. Which won’t be pretty.
My own cravings are through the freaking roof. Just knowing she has a bag of something in there is causing my hands to slick with sweat. My stomach to roil with cramps. It’s for just this reason I choose to be a loner. I should have kept it that way.
I’m two seconds from walking out the door, needing to put my fist through something, when Mel exits the bathroom.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she says. “We were getting somewhere. Don’t ruin it.”
I exhale, so tired my bones ache. But I commit to staying just long enough to make sure she won’t up and leave the moment I do. “All right, then. My turn.”