Wrath (Sinful Secrets 4)

"Joshua. What are you thinking? Do you want to come home? We weren't sure that you should do this, given...spring. But this is college. You worked hard to get here. We're so fortunate you didn't have a second seizure after the one last fall, and now this?" Mom sweeps my hair—damp hair—off my—clammy—forehead. It makes me shiver.

She rubs the blanket over me, which makes me notice the square sticker things with little wires stuck to my chest. I think it’s heart monitor stuff.

There's an IV in my hand. I look away from it, down at my legs, but I see Carl that way. I close my eyes.

Mom strokes my hair again.

"We're not angry with you, honey. We don't know what to do. What do you need? What are you not telling us?"

Gee, I don't know, Mom. Maybe that your stepson fucking wrecked me?

"Was it me calling?" She sounds, and looks, horrified at the prospect. "I was worried that mentioning him might set something off. I didn’t know it would be like this.”

I swallow again, which hurts so fucking bad I get a cold sweat.

"If your throat is sore, that's because the doctors had to put a tube in your throat. It was in there for almost six hours." My eyes flip open at that. "They stuck a tube down your throat to help you breathe. Just like when you go to sleep for a procedure. If Jenna hadn't called the ambulance, you might have died."

"She called the ambulance?" Oh holy fuck, it hurts to talk. I grit my teeth as more tears pop into my eyes.

"Yes, she did," my mom says curtly. "She said she tried to get you off the floor, but you were much too heavy. Completely passed out."

I think I remember that.

I look at Carl.

"How ya feeling?" He stands up and comes to the other side of the bed. For some reason, since Ezra left, Carl is the nicer one of he and my mom. He always seems like he cares how I feel. Whereas my mom mostly seems panicked, furious, shocked, or upset.

"Not that good." I try it in a whisper, but it still hurts.

"I'm sorry, bud." Carl ruffles my hair, and my eyes fill up with shimmering tears.

I want to say I don't remember anything before right now. I remember lying on a bed inside the fraternity house and looking at the ceiling. I think I remember walking down the frat house stairs with Jenna. But that's it.

No...that's not it.

I remember thinking that I hope Carl tells Ezra.

Thinking of that makes the tears fall. My mom hands me tissue, and I wipe them up and don't shed anymore while she and Carl visit. I tell them I was drinking something strong, and since I haven't drank since March, that time I wrecked my car, my tolerance was low.

"I really hope that's true, Josh," my mom tells me. She looks angry again. I swallow, which makes my eyes water.

I can't fucking blame her.

"We met with a social worker while you were asleep," Carl tells me. "What he recommended is for you to set up with a counselor. Do some sessions. Just until you're feeling better."

"I feel fine." I know it's stupid to claim that, but I can't help myself. I don't want to talk to someone. What the fuck would I tell them?

I loved someone, and he left, and he's never talked to me again? What a fucking loser.

My dad left, and my mom doesn't like me now that I'm a fuckup?

Shit...the only person I like anymore is Carl, but he's Ezra's father. Even though Ezra didn’t keep in touch with Carl, Carl is his next of kin—his blood relation. I hate Carl for that just a little.

My throat tightens up, but Mom's talking about this little puppy she and Carl got the other day, so that distracts me. The two of them hover around my bed until the nurse pulls out my IV and a doctor comes by to give me a talk about the perils of “binge drinking.”

I point to my sore as fuck throat and tell her I'm never drinking again. Mom is looking looser by the time I'm getting discharge papers. She assures the social worker, who drops back by, that we'll do counseling. I sort of want to fucking scream that that won't help me—nothing will—but I nod and pretend. It's what I'm good at now.

I try to convince Mom and Carl that I want to clean my place up alone. That I'll catch an Uber, call a friend, but they won't have that. It takes energy to act like I feel mostly okay as I walk to their car, parked way out the fuck in a side parking lot.

They get me some fried chicken from Zaxbys on the way home, and I pretend I'm hungry for it. The meal comes with toast, so I choke that down. Twice, as Carl's driving, his eyes meet mine in the rear view.