Wide Open (4 page)

To be completely honest, I fell hard off that wagon once or twice. I couldn't believe how difficult it was. That first pill or sip or hit after days and days of not having anything was like pure ecstasy, my body betraying me and making me believe it was what I needed and wanted.

But Joey came and got me from wherever I was, yelled and told me how I needed to get straight, snuck me back into the shelter, and made me promise never to do it again. Finally, that promise stuck. It's been more than a year since that wagon had caused any problems for me. After I moved out of the shelter and got a job, with their help, I was clean for the most part, but every now and then it would hit me out of nowhere, and I caved. Then I felt guilty as hell, called Joey, and she'd yell and carry on, come and stay at my apartment that night to make sure I was sober and the high was gone before she went back home.

Yeah, Joey's a girl. And she was my unofficial sponsor. She was also moving away to Houston for a job since she graduated and got her degree and had a position lined up to be a social worker. I'd never done Alcoholics Anonymous or any Narcotics Anonymous or any other anonymous there was. Joey always kept me in line, even as she finished up her schooling and helped her pastor father in his shelter.

She was four years older than me, but a petite little thing who looked like a teenager. She was like a sister who wouldn't stop badgering me.

And I loved the hell out of her for it.

Her hand covered mine on the envelope. She smiled, her blond hair moving on her shoulders as the wind blew through the outdoor café we always met at.

I put my finger under the tape and ripped the top off the envelope. I read the words twice before looking up. She could tell what it said just by my face.

She stood up and jumped, her heels hitting her butt as she squealed and jumped over and over again. I stood, and she wrapped her arms around my neck, so I wrapped mine around her waist. The age difference hadn't ever bothered me. I had a head and a half on her. I'd shot up in the last year a considerable amount. Eating right and sleeping for more than a few hours was probably to thank for that.

She leaned back, her face close as she grinned. "I'm so proud of you."

Joey was beautiful. Really, seriously beautiful. Her blond hair and slim body made her a prime example of what a guy would want in a girl. Add her wit, sharp mind, and a smile that blinded you, and the girl was lethal.

In truth, I even thought I had a crush on her at one point. But it didn't last long, and that was many, many months ago. I realized she was more than a girlfriend to me—she was one of those people put in your path to change your life. She changed mine until it was unrecognizable.

I'd never be able to repay her for that.

But I was a scrawny, pathetic human back then. Now, I'd put on about forty pounds, got haircuts, brushed my teeth on a regular basis, worked out in my apartment every day, and went running almost every other day. It not only kept me healthy and clear-headed, but it kept me busy.

You know, idle hands and all that.

And how true that was. The fight in me between wanting to stay clean and wanting just one more hit was a constant battle that raged more on some days than others.

She pinched my upper arms between her thumb and fingers in several spots and grimaced. "Eew. Stop working out so much. You're going to be a meat-head if you don't cool it."

I laughed and squeezed my arms around her, making her laugh and make dying noises. "Ah! Do you really want the newspaper headline to say: 'Minister's Daughter—Death by Meat-head!'?"

"Depends." I set her feet to the ground and sobered. "Would it get you to stay?"

She laughed. "Come on, Miles." I told her I hated the name Milo, so she started calling me Miles. "Don't make me cry. If there was a job for me here, I'd stay." She smoothed the front of my shirt. "But you're going to be fine."

I sighed. "I wish I could believe that, Joe."

"You will," she said harder. She took my face in her small hands. "You don't need me here to keep you clean. What you need is to call me every day and make sure to remember I'll hurt you if I find out that you cheated. Maybe do what Dad said and join one of those little groups or something."

I sighed. We had this conversation every day since we knew she was leaving. She was worried about me. I knew. I'd never been to a group, and I didn't want to start, but I…was scared, if I was being honest. I was scared the second she was gone I'd fall off that wagon harder than I ever had. And no one would be here to pick me back up.

She bit into her lip. "Miles, please. Please promise me you won't break my heart and light up the second I walk out the door. You know how disappointed I'll be."

I nodded, and I meant it. "You're going to be so great in Houston. I want you to go and not worry about me. You get settled into your new job. I'll be fine."

I gulped. She tilted her head to the side. "Call me anytime, every day. You know you can, right? I can still kick your butt over the phone."

"I know." I chuckled. "I'll call."

"You better. Promise?"

I nodded. "Of course. Thank you for…" I shrugged. I didn't know what else to say. "I love ya, Joe.

She strangled me with her grip. "I love you, Miles. Like a crazy person. I'm really proud of you."

"Thanks."

I watched her climb into her crappy yellow smart car and drive away to pack her things to go down with her parents tomorrow. She had invited me along, but they hired a company to do all the heavy moving. I figured her parents would want her all to themselves, especially since I had invaded their lives two years ago and hadn't stopped being a pain since.

I sat down and looked at the paper that said I could finally look for a real job that would pay better than the garage I worked in. If I wanted to. It was because of Joe I had this sheet of paper.

I gulped as I felt the feeling creep over me, as familiar as breathing. As I looked at the great thing I had accomplished on that table and wished the best for my best friend as she got on with her life…

All I wanted to do was get lit.

Maya

"You need to stop and go to work."

I turned and playfully glared at my brother who sat on his couch, his grey sweats hanging loosely on his thin body.

"I'll be on time for work, Will." I continued loading the dishes into the sink. "I'm going to bring you some dinner when I'm on my break, okay?"

He shook his head, just barely. "You don't have to."

"I know that. I want to."

My older brother quirked his lips with a half-smile. "Thanks, creep."

I shut the crappy apartment fridge and brought him a bottle of the green health juice I made for him. "Here."

He wrinkled his nose. "What's in it this time?"
"Carrots, flaxseed, and kale."

He handed it back to me. "You first. Take the poison off, sis."

I put on a brave façade, putting it to my lips and sucking the juice from the built-in straw. It was like rotten…something. "Mmmm," I faked and handed it back. "It's so good. Better than donuts."

"You are such a bad liar," he laughed and took a sip. He sighed as he gulped it down. "Not bad," he lied, looking down at the floor. "I'll drink it, I promise."

I knelt down and put my fists on the top of his knees. "It'll make you better," I said and smiled, though I knew he could tell I had very few smiles left in me. "If we do all the things we're supposed to do—eat right, take all your meds—you might not be sick anymore."

He nodded and mimicked my fake smile. His words were spoken so sadly that it was hard to stop the thinly veiled grief from making an appearance. "Yeah. Thanks for doing this. It'll work." He nodded faster. "It'll work."

I leaned toward him and put my arms around his neck. He squeezed me as tight as he could, and it made my heart ache at the way his shoulder bones stuck out, digging into my own. "I love you, creep."

"Creep, I love you so much more," he answered and kissed my forehead. "Now get out of here."

"Fine," I spouted and kissed his cheek. "See you at lunch. No arguing."

He smiled in allowance. "Okay. Fine."

I saw him as he eased back down to lie on the sofa. I locked the door behind me and walked lethargically to my old '89 red Chevy truck. It wasn't really red anymore. More like a rust color, but that had more to do with the actual rust than the paint.

I didn't care. It got me from point A to point B, most of the time. The leather seats were a little cracked in a few spots, but the heater worked like nobody's business.

I pulled into the call center and slung my shoulder bag on as I hurried inside.

"Sorry," I spouted as I opened the door to find Marybeth there, her usual cup of coffee in hand. She drank coffee all day long.

"Don't worry about it, honey," she said, her sympathy jumping from her lips in a tone that told me she was far from being over with playing the I-feel-sorry-for-you card.

"Sorry I was late," I said slowly. "I know you hate that."

"I can't be mad at you for being late with all you have going on," she coddled.

"Marybeth, my brother is dying, not me," I said louder than I had intended. She looked as if I slapped her. I pushed a breath out slowly and looked at her. "I'm sorry. He's just not doing too well. And I don't want to be treated differently just because he's sick." I shook my head, knowing I wasn't explaining myself very well. "It makes me feel worse. Just…yell at me for being late, Okay?"

She cocked her head to the side and nodded once. "Okay. And you, missy, need to learn to let people help you. There is absolutely nothing wrong with me giving you a break every now and then." She placed her hand on my shoulder. "Honey, we need a break sometimes. There's nothing weak about that."

I gulped and nodded, feeling bad for snapping at her. Ever since we found out that my brother's recent sicknesses was actually lung cancer, people had treated me differently. He wasn't a smoker and neither of my parents had been. He never worked construction or around chemicals. No explanation for it. The doctors said sometimes lung cancer could come for no reason at all.

It was just my brother and me. Our parents died—Mom from breast cancer when I was fourteen and my dad two years later from an accident at his construction job. Now, three years later, Will was older than me by almost four years and I was watching him die.

We'd spent every cent of the insurance money my dad left us on Will's medical bills, trips to specialists, and medicines. Even the rent had to be paid from it sometimes because I would have to miss so much work. And now there was nothing left. But it didn't matter anyway because what he had was incurable. That's what they said after it was all said and done. That we were just fighting time, that the end would come soon.

I shook that thought away. I wasn't giving up. There had been a drug trial, an experimental thing, that people were signing up for. The credit cards were maxed out, the bank refused to give me a loan since we used the insurance money to pay for Will's medical bills instead of Dad's house payment. So they took it. I could never have afforded it anyway. But the drug trial didn't work. In the end, we lost the house and Will was still sick. But we kept trying.

I worked at the community center, which paid jack lot of nothing, but I needed to be here. After my mom died, I let teenage rebellion take me over and ruin anything that was left of the good girl my mom had raised. I was so consumed by my grief that I let everything go. I look back at my old self and shake my head. My dad and brother were hurting, too, but had managed to keep it together. They reached out to me, but I pushed them away and let the drugs and my new friends take me away.

I pretended like I was the only one in the world who had ever lost someone they loved, ever had their heart broken and grieved over someone. I wasn't. I felt so bad for being selfish and letting my dad not only have to deal with missing my mom, but worry about me, too.