Page 15 of A Man To Remember (Skin on Skin #3)

Austin settles back against the couch cushions, fully dressed again, and watches me with that photographer's eye that sees too much—one that makes me want to hide and be seen all at once.

"You've changed a lot since high school," he says finally.

The observation sits between us like a test I'm not sure how to pass. My fingers find the hem of my shirt, twisting the fabric.

"Yeah, well." I clear my throat. "Had to, really."

"Jamie mentioned... some things. Over the years." His voice is careful, like he's walking through a minefield. "Said you went through a rough patch."

"Rough patch." I let out a hollow laugh. That's one way to put it. "That's generous."

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, hands clasped. The position feels defensive, protective, but I can't seem to make myself sit back.

Austin waits. Doesn't push. Just watches with those dark eyes that have seen too much.

"I was a fucking mess back then, Austin. Like, completely gone."

The words taste like ash in my mouth. I've told this story before—in meetings, to sponsors, to therapists—but never to someone from before . Someone who knew me when I was still pretending everything was fine.

"Started when I was sixteen. Tore my rotator cuff during football season.

Doctor gave me something for the pain, and.

.." I shrug, like it's simple. Like it wasn't the beginning of the end.

"First time in my life I felt normal. Quiet up here.

" I tap my temple. "No anxiety, no pressure, no noise. Just... peace."

Austin nods, understanding flickering across his features. Does he really understand? I have no way of knowing.

"When the prescription ran out, I told the doctor I was still hurting.

Got another bottle. Then another. When he finally cut me off.

.." I trail off, remembering the panic. The desperate scrambling.

"Well, there are other ways to get pills.

And when pills got too expensive, there were cheaper alternatives. "

My throat tightens to the point where it's hard to swallow.

I haven't talked about this part in years.

Most people in recovery skip over the details, the progression.

They jump straight to rock bottom, to the wake-up call.

But Austin is listening like he actually wants to understand, not just hear the sanitized version.

"It escalated fast. Pills, coke, whatever I could get my hands on.

Anything to make the world feel manageable.

" I glance at him, checking for judgment.

I find none. "By senior year, I was high more often than I was sober.

Failed most of my classes, barely graduated.

Jamie used to cover for me when I was too fucked up to go to school. "

The guilt sits heavy in my chest, familiar as an old scar. Jamie making excuses for his train wreck of a brother. Lying to our parents, cleaning up my messes, pretending everything was fine when it so obviously wasn't.

"I don't remember most of it," I admit. "It's just… one massive fog. Bits and pieces, but mostly nothing. Like those years happened to someone else."

Austin shifts beside me, and I can feel him processing. Fitting it into whatever picture he had of me from back then.

"After graduation, it got worse. No structure, no consequences.

Just me and my habits, full-time." My hands are shaking now.

They always shake when I get to this part.

"Had this friend, Marcus. We used to get high together.

Good kid, you know? Just got mixed up with the wrong crowd. Which was me, mostly."

I pause, gathering courage for the hard part. The part that still wakes me up at night.

"Two years after I graduated, I went to his place. We had this routine—I'd bring the money, he'd bring the connections. Except when I got there..."

My voice cracks. Even years later, it destroys me.

"He was on the floor. Blue around the lips, barely breathing. Needle still in his arm." The image flashes behind my eyelids, vivid as yesterday. Marcus collapsed by his coffee table, skin gray, eyes rolled back. "I called 911, started CPR. Kept going until the paramedics got there."

Austin's hand finds my shoulder, warm and solid. I lean into the touch without thinking.

"He made it. Barely, but he made it." I swipe at my eyes with the back of my hand.

"I thought... I thought it'd be okay somehow, you know?

That we'd get clean together, figure our shit out.

At the hospital, he wouldn't even look at me.

Just stared at the ceiling while I tried to apologize.

" The memory sits like a stone in my chest. "His parents showed up, took one look at me, and they knew.

I was the reason their son almost died."

Austin's thumb moves against my shoulder, a small comfort I don't deserve.

"Within a week, they moved him away. Different state, fresh start, all that. I never heard from him again." I let out a hollow laugh. "Can't blame him, really. I was poison. Still using, still making excuses. He chose to save himself."

"That's not your fault."

"Isn't it?" I look at him, really look at him. "I was the one who brought him to my dealer. He was just smoking weed and drinking beer until I introduced him to the hard stuff. I nearly killed my best friend, Austin. And then I lost him forever because of it."

"That's not how it works, Jesse. You know that."

I want to argue, to insist on my guilt, but the words won't come. Instead, I just sit there crying like a child, grieving for a friendship I destroyed and years I'll never get back.

"What happened after?" Austin asks gently.

"Rehab. Three different facilities over two years. Kept relapsing, kept thinking I could handle just one more time, kept proving I couldn't." I scrub my face with my hands. "Amazing how fast you burn through people's patience when you're an addict. Eventually, I ran out of second chances."

"But you got clean."

"Eventually. Seven years now. Still go to meetings twice a week. Still wake up some days wanting to use so bad I can taste it."

Austin's quiet for a long moment, eyes drifting somewhere around his lap, his hand still on my shoulder, forgotten. And even though a part of me is dying to know what he's thinking right now, I know better not to ask.

When he finally speaks, his voice is careful again. "Is that why you don't remember me?"

"Probably. I mean, I remember some things. Bits and pieces. But mostly it's just... blank." I glance at him sideways. "I'm sorry I don't remember you better." I let out a pathetic chuckle. "Although I can imagine I wasn't the greatest of friends."

Something shifts in Austin's expression. A shadow crossing his features, there and gone so fast I almost miss it.

"We weren't friends, Jesse," he says quietly.

"What?"

"We weren't friends. We barely spoke."

"But Jamie said—"

"Jamie was my friend. You... tolerated me. Sometimes."

My stomach drops. The tone, the way he's suddenly not meeting my eyes—it feels like a prelude to something I'm not sure I'm ready to face. "Then why are you here? Why any of this?"

Austin takes a deep breath, like he's preparing for battle. "There was a party. Halloween. At Sarah Chen's house. Remember?"

I shake my head. Another blank space.

"You walked in on something. In one of the bedrooms upstairs." He's staring at his hands now, fingers twisted together. "I was... I was with someone. Another guy. We were kissing."

The words hit me like cold water. I try to reach for the memory, but there's nothing there. Just empty space where the recollection should be.

"I don't remember."

"I know. But I do." His voice is steady, but I can hear the effort it's taking. "You just stood there for a minute, in the doorway. Like you couldn't process what you were seeing. Then you left. Didn't say anything, just... left."

Something cold is spreading through my chest. A creeping dread that I can't name but can feel in my bones.

"The next Monday, everyone knew. Everyone. By lunch, kids were whispering in the hallways. Someone spray-painted a slur on my locker. Teachers pretended not to see it."

No.

No .

Just... no.

"Austin..." The word comes out strangled.

"Ever since then, my life was..." He shrugs, but there's nothing casual about it. "Different."

The room tilts around me. The dread in my chest crystallizes into something sharper, like a sword puncturing my ribcage, pushing deeper and deeper with every shallow breath I take.

"I told them." It's not a question. The knowledge is there now, settling into place like a tumor. "I outed you."

Austin doesn't respond immediately. Doesn't need to. The answer is written in the careful way he's not looking at me.

"I don't remember," I whisper, but it sounds pathetic even to me.

Like an excuse.

It's nauseating.

"I know you don't. That's what makes it..." He finally looks at me, and the pain in his eyes is devastating. "It was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. And for you, it was probably just something you mentioned at a party while you were high. Gossip you forgot as soon as you said it."

My hands are shaking violently now. I press them together, trying to stop the tremor, but it spreads through my whole body.

"What happened to you? After?"

"Jesse…"

"Tell me."

"The bullying got pretty bad. My parents found out and..." He gestures vaguely. "Let's just say they weren't as evolved as they pretended to be."

I think I'm going to be sick.

"Austin, I'm so sorry. I had no idea—"

"I know."

"I would never... I mean, now I would never..."

"I know that too."

I jump to my feet. I need to move. Need to do something, anything, with the energy crawling under my skin. "I destroyed your life."

"Jesse—"

"No, I did. I saw something private and I turned it into gossip. I ruined everything for you because I was too high to think about consequences." I'm pacing now, wearing a path in Austin's carpet. "What kind of person does that?"

"Someone who was sick."

"That's not an excuse!"

I stop pacing, and turn to stare at him. He's watching me with something that might be compassion, which is somehow worse than anger would be.

"How can you even stand to look at me?"

"Because you're not the same person you were then."

But I am, aren't I? Deep down, underneath all the recovery and therapy and meetings, I'm still the selfish piece of shit who destroyed someone's life and then forgot about it because staying high was more important than dealing with the fallout.

"I have to go." The words tumble out on autopilot. "I can't... I need to..."

I'm grabbing for my jeans, pulling them on with shaking hands. Austin stands and reaches toward me.

"Jesse, wait—"

"Don't." I jerk away from his touch. "Don't touch me. I can't... I can't handle you being nice to me right now."

"Where are you going?"

"Home. Away. I don't know." I'm pulling my shirt on inside out, but I don't care. "I need to think. I need to process this."

"We should talk about it—"

"Talk about what? About how I ruined your life? About how I'm such a selfish piece of shit that I don't even remember doing it?" My voice cracks. "There's nothing to talk about, Austin. I hurt you. Badly. And I can't take it back."

I'm at his door now, fumbling with the locks through my tears.

"Jesse, please—"

But I'm already gone, running down the hallway like the coward I've always been.

I make it to my car before I completely fall apart, sobbing against the steering wheel. My phone buzzes with a text, probably from him, but I can't look at it. Can't face whatever kindness he might be offering that I don't deserve.

The drive home is a blur of tears and self-loathing, my brain spinning with fragments that might be memories or might just be my guilt filling in the blanks. A party. A bedroom door. The look on someone's face. The casual cruelty of teenage gossip.

By the time I reach my apartment, one thing is crystal fucking clear:

I don't deserve forgiveness for something I can't even remember doing.

And I sure as hell don't deserve Austin.