Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 72945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
The silence is a thick spiderweb of conflicting emotions between us. I slowly turn around and her face is twisted in a mask of pity and uncertainty. I can’t blame her—how can I be so cavalier about Rodrick’s drug use, when my own father died of the same hellish disease?
She’ll never understand the desperation and the helplessness. Trying to get an addict to see that their behavior is broken and that they’re self-destructing is impossible—they have to reach that conclusion on their own. The hardest part is wanting to help them, wanting to give them whatever they need, and knowing they’ll only turn around and get more drugs. My father didn’t want to see the truth about himself because he already believed he was finished and dead. Crawford took the one thing my father loved and destroyed it, and my father turned to opiates to drown out his feelings of worthlessness and inadequacy.
I’m afraid this film will be like that for Blair.
I can’t fix Rodrick. I’m painfully aware of my limitations. I can only try to make sure he doesn’t kill himself until he realizes how bad he’s gotten, even if it hurts me every time I see the man lost in the drug haze. I remember my father like that, and I doubt I’ll ever forget the suffering he went through, or forgive myself for failing him.
I step toward her and spread my hands wide. “We’re not perfect. Nobody is ever perfect. Some people get lucky and succeed and others don’t. But if you measure your life by the wins, you’ll have a sad and miserable existence, like your old man. Life is about more than that.”
She looks away and crosses her arms over her chest. “I know you’re right. And I still can’t help it.”
“It took my dad’s death to accept that I don’t have control over the world. I do what I can, but there’s too much outside of my hands, and if I sit around and worry about all that shit, I’ll never be happy. I try to live with what I have and make my meaning where I can.”
“This is just a movie for you then?”
I walk toward her. “No. This is freedom.”
“From what?”
“From a boss. From the world. I want this because of what it can afford me, not because this movie in particular will make me the person I want to be. You can’t live like that. You can’t let one thing define you.”
She chews her lip and lets me stand inches from her. I touch her arms and let my hands linger as she tilts her chin up toward me, tears glittering in her eyes. “I’m sorry about your dad. I’m so, so sorry. I really didn’t know.”
“I never told anyone.”
“Not even Ansell?”
“We keep things from each other. It’s part of how our friendship works.”
She doesn’t pull her eyes away as tears roll down her cheeks. I wipe them away slowly. “Why did you tell me then?”
“Because we’re dealing with an addict now, and I don’t want you obsessing over the things you can’t control. They won’t fix you.”
“Like we can’t fix him?”
“Exactly.”
“Fuck, Baptist. How did we get here?”
“I don’t know.”
She puts both hands on my chest. The bare touch of her fingers sends an electric jolt into my spine and we stand there staring into each other’s eyes. I want to tell her so much more—I want to share with her the pain I’ve gone through for years processing what happened to my father and dealing with the guilt I feel over my role in his death. I want to explain to her why I’ve accepted Rodrick’s drug use, and why I won’t try to force him to quit, even if I could.
But there are no words anymore. There’s only her, standing close, breathing slowly.
There’s only my Blair.
I lean forward, and I kiss her.
Chapter 18
Blair
I have to tell him.
My body’s screaming for me to tell him. After he just opened up and told me something so personal and vulnerable, I need to tell him the truth. He’ll hate me if I keep hiding it from him.
If I keep hiding his baby.
But I can’t find the words. I can’t open my mouth. His skin is like fire beneath my fingers, burning hot and smooth, and I want to run my hands along his tattoos. I want to feel every inch of him, every hard muscle, every contour of his finely chiseled abs. I need him more than I ever imagined I could.
He’s filled with pain. So much pain and so much anger. I can see it in his eyes—he hates the world for taking his father away, and yet he doesn’t blame it.
He keeps going.
That’s what I need to do. I have to learn to keep going, even when my father threatens to drag me down, to drown me in my own self-loathing and misery.