Losing Track (Living Heartwood 2)

Nudging his glass with his knuckles, he slides it toward me. “Only one way not to be hung-over.”

I hike my eyebrows. “You’re encouraging me to get wasted? Dude, this is so not the guy I’ve come to know and be annoyed by.”

A glimpse of a smile. Shrugging, he picks up the glass and downs the rest of the Jack himself. Setting it down hard, he says, “This is the one day a year I think I’ll make an exception.”

I part my lips, ready to probe a bit, but I decide against it. Whatever the issue is, it has to be a heavy one, and handled delicately. And I don’t feel my usual, tactful self right now. I’m off my game. I’ve barely slept and my head is pounding.

And I smell like a bar.

I want so badly to take a shower and restart this morning, but as I watch Boone pour another shot, I’m scared to leave him alone. He might leave, or shut down, or throw up his walls—the ones that, for whatever reason, have seemed to come down for this rare second.

I bite the bullet.

Slipping off the stool, I head for my backup stash of vodka. Not my first choice, but it works well in a bind. Suzie gave it to me as a parting gift my first night out of rehab. Granted she didn’t buy it for me, or wrap it, she snaked it right off the liquor shelf behind the bar. Drunk and all huggy. I smile at the memory.

Shaking my head, I refocus my thoughts on the here and now. On Boone. I grab the unopened bottle of vodka and a glass and rejoin him at the counter. “Backup reserve,” I say. “Just in case.”

He chuckles. “I actually thought hanging out with you might keep my mind too busy to think. Keep myself preoccupied, focused on you…” he trails off. “It’s funny how well we lie to ourselves. I pretty much put myself right in the lion’s den.”

I try not to take offense, because hey, he is right in his own personal den. Drugs and alcohol runneth over here. But I shouldn’t have to watch my P’s and Q’s for anyone. I’m not responsible for him or his choices. That much I did take away from my short stint in rehab.

Instead, I open the vodka and pour myself a small shot. I clink my glass against his and say, “To the lions,” before I toss it back. My gag reflexes fight back, my throat thickening, and I force the warm, sour-tasting liquid down.

Boone nods and finishes the rest of the amber liquid in his own glass.

As the vodka does its magic, easing the throb at my temples and for the moment, clearing away the fog, a bit of bravery fuels me. I stare ahead, through the windows, at the gray early morning. The sun not out just yet, but the sky preparing for its entry.

“Why is today the exception?” I ask. He peeks over, his brow furrowed. “Why did you subconsciously put yourself right in the lion’s den? I mean, you know when you’re either strong enough or not to resist temptation. I’d like to take the blame”—I pull back enough to fan my hand over my body like I’m a showcase of hot sex; he laughs—“but I don’t really think our tryst had anything to do with your falling off the wagon, Boone. I won’t take that bullet.”

With a forced exhale, he runs a hand through his hair. Then down his face. I’m sure he’s feeling pretty numb by now, physically. But the lines etched around his eyes and mouth convey how much he’s suffering internally.

“I thought I could avoid Hunter’s birthday,” he finally says.

My heart jackhammers in my chest. “Boone, why the hell didn’t you say—?” I stop myself short. For some reason, maybe it’s Dar’s recent death, the thought of how we celebrated so hard the week of her birthday, all of it—but I can’t understand how Boone wouldn’t say something to me. To anyone. Or maybe he did. Maybe his counselor or whoever knows.

But still. Hanging out with me, in a den full of alcohol…I would’ve found a better way for him to deal with this had I known.

I realize just how self-absorbed I’ve been lately. How, with all this shit I have going on, I haven’t stopped long enough to consider maybe he’s fighting his own demons. He always comes across as so together, so strong, so sure. But it’s a façade; no one has it all figured out all of the time. And with his need to “deal” by fighting, accepting pain as his own form of personal punishment, I should’ve been a better friend. There for him, somehow.

I should have not gone to the bar last night. I should have not gotten fired up over Jesse and our issues. I should have—for once—not thought I could toss meaningless advice out there like life’s guidelines, and been more present for him.

But that’s done now. I can’t turn back time. As lame as that sounds. So I fill my glass with a heavy splash of vodka and take a slug before I commit to making it up to him now.

“You should’ve told me. We could’ve been better prepared for today, had something planned.” I lay my hand on the bar, close to his, but not touching. Just a gesture for him to know I’m here. “As much as you want to help me, you could have allowed me the chance to maybe help you.”

“I appreciate that, Mel. I do.” He looks at me, his hazel eyes glassy and bloodshot. “But nothing could prepare me for today. It’s probably better if I let it crash all around me.”

“I get that. But we can still try.” I walk my fingers toward his glass and slip one over the rim, then slide it away from him. “I don’t think you really want to do this to yourself. You’re going to punish yourself so hard for this later. I know what it feels like to not want to deal, Boone. T

o just get so wasted you don’t have to face reality. Fuck, it’s my MO. I mean, I do a pretty damn good job of pretending I’m a hardcore biker chick with nerves of steel, but we both know the truth.” I smile, and his lips tip up just enough to offer a small one back.

“Anyway,” I say. “How about we don’t count this past twenty-four hours. We both had a lot of shit on our plate, and we both fell pretty hard off the wagon. But if we chalk it up to life sucks, and sometimes you have to suck with it to get by, we can start fresh again after a nap.”

He nods a few times. As if he’s considering the possibility that we could erase the day. Erase and start over. Then he pours the last of the Jack into his glass.

“First, I want to finish what I started.” He chugs it back, his throat forcing the drink down with obvious struggle. He slams the glass down. “I just have to knock myself out. I just wasn’t…I tried not to remember today. But it hit like an atomic bomb. I just need not to think.”

“All right.” I down the rest of my drink, too. “Now let’s go forget about it.”