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I fixate on our arms touching. The hardness of his muscular forearm beside the softness of mine. His ink-black swirls a stark difference from my spotless skin.
I trace the pictures on his arm, my fingers skating up his wrist to the crook of his elbow. That’s when I notice the scars. Four, raised, dark-purple bumps in the midst of his tattoos. Kimmie’s voice connects the dots in my mind: Met him at an NA meeting.
TJ’s breathing changes as he shifts in his seat. He tries to pull his arm away from me, but I grab on tighter. Lowering my lips to the inside of his arm, I kiss the scars from his past. His eyes squeeze shut, like it pains him to watch something so tender.
“You shouldn’t feel ashamed.” My fingers continue along his arm, his bicep, and around the curve of his shoulder.
His eyes open and he hits me with his heated gaze. Raw, potent. Need and desire well inside me like the surge of a storm.
I don’t know who moves first or if we act at the same time, but in the blink of an eye I’m straddling him. His hands are in my hair, lips fused to mine. Our mouths open simultaneously, tongues stroking each other. Each move is deliberate and greedy. My hips rock against him and he grips my hair tighter, groaning into my mouth.
I’ve heard adrenaline makes you do crazy things. Is that what’s coursing through me right now? Or is it something more? That thought brings a myriad of emotions, but I push every single one away. I’m living in the moment. I’ll worry about my decisions later.
TJ’s warm tongue slides down my neck, nipping and sucking at my skin. Just as I’m about to lift the hem of his shirt, he stops. His hands, his mouth—everything freezes. The sound of our quick breaths fill the cab of the truck. Then slowly, he pushes me back onto the passenger seat.
I wait for him to say something. Anything. He won’t even look in my direction. Did I do something wrong? I want to ask, but I’m afraid to hear his answer.
So I let myself out of his truck, I get into my car, and I drive away.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Past
TJ
Dear Diary,
Dear Journal,
Maybe I don’t have to address this to anyone specific …
My therapist told me it might be helpful to write my thoughts and emotions in a journal. I told him it was a stupid idea. He told me he’s the one getting paid six figures and so I should listen to him. The dude’s funny. I like him.
Therapy isn’t what I thought it would be. Reggie suggested I talk to a shrink about my childhood. By suggested I mean he told me I had to go. He’s footing the bill, so it’s not like I’m losing anything.
Reggie’s also letting me crash on his couch. Since I can’t pay rent, or any of the other bills, I help out at his gym. I’m answering phones, cleaning toilets, whatever he needs me to do. He’s holding onto my paychecks. He said he’ll let me have the money once I complete the twelve steps. Sometimes I wonder if I can trust him. The truth is, I don’t really have a choice. The man gave me a place to live, got me sobered up, and he cooks for me every night. He’s even teaching me how to cook. Reggie has done more for me in two months than my own father did for me in thirteen years.
I still hate going to the meetings. Reggie has me going to both Alcoholic’s and Narcotic’s Anonymous. It’s crazy to hear some of the shit people do when they’re fucked up. Some people have it a lot worse than I do than I did. It doesn’t make me feel better, but it’s interesting to see that even the executive in the Armani suit and the mom from the suburbs have something in common with me. Some of the strongest people there fall off the wagon. Yet, everyone supports them and they get back up and keep trying.
I don’t know if I’ll ever relapse. I sure hope not. Withdrawal was a real bitch. Felt like I was dying. Maybe I’ll write a journal entry about what it felt like, so if I ever get the urge to use again, I can read it and remind myself how much it sucked.
I think I’ll go do that now.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Present
Carla
I stare at my phone, willing it to make a noise.
No dancing dots. No response. No ring.
I sigh and scroll for Roger’s number instead.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Rog. Can you explain why I’m staring at a sign on the gym door that says, ‘Closed for vacation’?”
