Page 38

THIRTY-EIGHT

ELI

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Elliot Carson?”

My stomach clenches, my foot tapping against the cement. “Yep. This is he.”

“Hi, Elliot. This is Mark, from Stepping Stones Rehabilitation Center. I’m returning your call from this morning. You’re looking for some information?”

I sit on the front steps of the church, leg bouncing and my heart thumping in time to my jitters. The sun beats down like a warning—do not pussy out of this call.

“Yeah.” I blow out a breath. “I’m calling about my father. He, uh…” I swipe my hand through my hair, tugging on the roots, searching for what to say.

How can I verbalize something I’m still attempting to understand?

“He drinks a lot. He’s…not himself anymore.” My teeth clench, a ball of anxiety lodging itself in my gut. “I don’t even know why I called. I doubt he’ll even go willingly, but—” The words stick in my throat. I grip the phone tighter. “He needs help. I need help. I don’t…I don’t know what to do.”

My limbs feel shaky, fear trickling through my heart, afraid that this man, Mark, will brush me off. Terrified of a stranger telling me I’m on my own. That I’m overreacting.

That ball of anxiety breaks free, ricocheting against my insides, leaving holes from where it hits. Mark’s voice is in my ear, but I don’t hear his words, my mind bogged down by my sudden realization.

I’ve been ignoring Lee’s pleas for years when she’s been on the other end of the line, probably feeling terrified of me rejecting what she says. Every time.

Holy shit.

I am the villain in this story.

Turns out, Pops is human, prone to making mistakes just like the rest of us. He’s not the man who raised me, and coming home has shattered any illusion I had left. The shame that’s kept me away for years, the absolute terror of seeing the disappointment in his eyes—it’s all a moot point.

There’s nothing in his gaze except the fog of whiskey, and the shadow of Ma’s absence.

I have no clue how to handle him. But I know my sister shouldn’t have to. Not alone. Not anymore. I pray I’m not too late.

“Are you there?” Mark’s voice brings me back to the moment.

“Yeah, yes. I’m sorry. I just…” My stomach rolls.

He sighs. “Listen, Elliot. I know this is hard. The first step always is. But you’re calling. You’re doing it. You’re taking that first leap, and all we can do is hope your father does the same. You can’t force someone to change if they aren’t ready. The decision is always theirs.”

My forehead drops to my hand, and I nod against my palm.

The decision is their s.

I’m not very hopeful. It took me years to see the truth, and if I’m still struggling to face it, then I’m doubtful Pops ever will. After all, I modeled my stubbornness from him. A watered-down replica of the traits that live in his flaws.

It’s hard to admit things about the people you love, the ones you’ve spent your entire life revering. Feels a lot like betrayal to the man who raised me.

It’s even harder to admit things about yourself.

I’ve ignored a lot in my life—I’m a master of avoidance. It’s not a badge I wear with honor, but it’s one I wear all the same. Coming home has loosened the stitching, warping the edges and letting them dangle off my soul. Maybe it’s time to rip it clean off.

Pops is an alcoholic.

It’s obvious in the pallor of his skin and his liquor-soaked breath. Plain as day in Lee’s shoulders as they slump under the weight of his addiction. It screams from the slur in his speech and the defeat that pours from Lee’s gaze.

Still, none of that is what made me open my eyes .

It was the look in Chase’s stare as he pleaded with me to just fucking see before it was too late. I don’t know what Chase went through, but I know what it looks like when regret lives inside you, and his was spilling on the floor with every word he spoke. He doused me in the icy water of truth and woke me the hell up.

Now I’ll never sleep again .

There’s no hiding the handles of Jameson clinking in the trash after being emptied through the day—snuck into Pops’s coffee cups and his Dr Peppers. No ignoring the boxes of beer, broken down by the back door, slid behind the garbage can to keep out of sight.

I have no clue how he’s kept it from the town for as long as he has. Maybe the town is choosing not to see it the same way I have for all of these years. I know I’ll never be able to make up for the past. There’s no magic button to reset all the ways I’ve failed the people around me, all the ways I’ve failed myself.

But I can keep from regretting my future.

I give Mark my email and hang up the phone, knowing I won’t go back inside. I can’t handle Becca, knowing she’ll see the pain that’s rubbed raw and exposed.

Instead, I study the church cemetery across the lot. My vision blurs the longer I stare, queasiness stirring in my stomach when I think about Ma’s grave. I’ve only seen it once—the day she was buried—mounds of dirt coating my soul as it was shoveled on top of her remains. I remember the feel as it soaked into my skin, infusing every pore with grime that even the strongest soap can’t wash away.

But more than that, I remember the feeling of complete and utter isolation in a sea of family and friends.

Lee had Jax and Becca. Pops had Sam. But I was just there , falling, with no one to catch me, dropping in the six-foot grave that was meant for Ma. I’ve laid there ever since, searching for a helping hand.

There was a time I reached for Becca’s. Thought she’d be the one to help me climb. But she only pushed me farther down, embedding my soles so deep, no one else could ever dig me up.

I’m tired of letting the past fester and rot in the deepest parts of me.

Tired of being afraid.

It’s time to find my own way out.

* * *

It’s after dinner when I decide to talk to Sarah. Shouldn’t I be able to share the roughest parts of me with the woman I’m spending the rest of my life with?

Shouldn’t she want to know?

She’s sitting on the bed, fresh out of the shower, rubbing lotion on her legs.

I’ve just changed into basketball shorts and a white tank, and I’m gripping the edge of the dresser, watching her in the mirror.

“I think I’m gonna visit Ma tomorrow,” I blurt.

“Hmm.” She hums, rubbing the lotion on her skin.

I wait to see if she’s going to say more. Maybe offer some support and recognize that I’m vibrating from the effort to stay in one piece.

She doesn’t.

I spin, the lip of the dresser biting into my skin as I rest against it. “Yeah. I haven’t seen her grave since she’s been buried there. I’m a little nervous, to be honest.”

She stops, putting the lotion to the side and peering at me. “Why would you be nervous?”

Maybe her words are normal, but they feel like a thousand knives aimed directly at my chest. What does she mean why would I be nervous? I may not have opened up to her much, reveling in the surface level she provides, but isn’t it obvious?

“I haven’t been to see her since she died.” I repeat the words slowly, raising my eyebrows.

She smiles and lifts her shoulders. “You’re here now. Better late than never.”

Is she being obtuse on purpose?

Maybe she thinks she’s helping, but she’s not. She’s just hammering home the fact that even though we’re right next to each other, there’s a rift that stretches wide, and maybe there isn’t enough between us to fill it.

“Right.” I sigh, shaking my head. “You’re right. It’s not even a big deal.”

She grins, tilting her head. “Can I come with?”

“No.” My response is sharp and swift.

She winces. “Oh, okay. That’s fine. I ju?—”

I grimace, swallowing the bitter pill of realizing she just doesn’t get it.

I inhale deeply, searching for some grace. “I’m sorry, it’s… I need to do this alone. You understand, right?”

She bites her cheek and nods, but I see the tremble in her lips. I wish she would say what she wants to say, instead of keeping things so calm.

I’ve always been content in the fact we never fight. We’ve never had to douse the flames of a blaze we can’t control.

Sarah’s always been my Novocain, and I’ve bathed in the numbness she provides.

But even the strongest drug wears off.

And I crave a hint of fire.