Page 42 of Three Months Yesterday

But the moment that shifted and I couldn’t get my hands on oxy, everything changed. Saying yes to new experiences became easier and easier, even if I knew it was a bad idea.

To say I’ve tried everything at least once wouldn’t be an exaggeration. Just like it’s no exaggeration to say some of the things I did are worse than anyone could possibly imagine.

I’ve never killed anyone—unless you count my parents—or forced anyone into a situation they didn’t want to be part of, but I definitely hurt people and destroyed friendships.

I let the drugs and alcohol consume me. Outside of music, they were the most important thing to me, and it showed in every decision I made. The fact that Ryan is still part of my life is potentially more of a miracle than the fact I walked away from that accident with only the temporary loss of my voice and a few physical scars.

When I finally let my gaze move back to Madison, the question is clear in her eyes even if she doesn’t voice it, but I give her the answer anyway.

“I’ve been sober for almost ten years.”

“Beckett,” she breathes out, her hand squeezing mine. “That’s amazing.”

I won’t argue that with her. I know how hard it is to get sober and how it can be a struggle every day to continue turning away from something so easy to fall back into.

Ten years is something to be proud of, but it doesn’t mean I’m healed. If I manage to stay on this path, I will forever be a recovering addict. That label will never disappear.

“Thank you.” I feel the heat in my cheeks and it’s almost comical how easily I blush around this woman—even in a serious moment like this. “It doesn’t take away from everything I’ve done.”

“No, but we’ve all made mistakes.” Her hand slips from mine as she shifts in her seat, angling her body to face me, her knee knocking against mine. “We’ve all done things we wish we could change. Maybe some things are worse than others, but that doesn’t make someone better or worse. All that really matters is what we learn from everything we do—good and bad.”

“That’s pretty philosophical and clever for someone so young,” I tease, a smile forming as our conversation turns to something lighter. “You shouldn’t be old enough to understand something like that.”

I have to remind myself that Madison’s only twenty-eight. Her work ethic and understanding of the world around her constantly surprises me. Then again, I shouldn’t use my twenties as a comparison for the average young adult. Not only was I in the spotlight with the world focused on me, I was deep into my addiction, just starting to dig my way out at her age.

“Hmm, remember, I’ve got an old soul. Besides, it’s not about the age of the engine, but the miles on it that counts.”

I’ve never heard that before, but I think it may be one of the most accurate things I’ve ever heard, and my brows lift at the thought.

“All right. Tell me more about this old soul.” My body settles into the cushions, feeling more at ease knowing the hard part of our conversation is over.

Talking about my issues with addiction isn’t something I find difficult anymore—my journey to recovery is one topic I’m always willing to talk about publicly—but that doesn’t mean I don’t get nervous talking about it with people whose opinions matter.

And Madison’s opinion might be the one that matters most.

In comparison to everything Beckett just told me, the mileage on my engine is nothing. I’m aware comparing anything is rarely time well spent—no situation is ever truly the same—but that doesn’t stop me from feeling silly telling him what I just did.

Looking at everything objectively, I haven’t experienced all that much in my life to account for the “old soul” my mother likes to say I have; and if I’m being honest, I wonder if this is one of those backhanded compliments used to explain away my atypical behaviors.

I can freely admit my interests don’t align with most people my age, but that doesn’t stop me from pursuing them—when I have time.

A disbelieving laugh slips free at the thought of sharing anything about myself when nothing in my life comes close to the trauma he’s experienced. “I don’t know,” I murmur, my eyes bouncing around the room to avoid his gaze for a moment before finally landing back on him. “What do you want to know?”

His mouth opens and closes, as if he wants to say something but changes his mind. The words that come out of his mouth make me wonder what his first thought was. “Anything you want to share. What interests you about the classics?”

“It’s not that interesting of a story.” I chuckle, leaning my elbow on the back of the couch and propping my head up.

I know I held Beckett’s hand through his entire story, but there’s something about sitting this close to him—his arm draped along the back of the couch and our knees touching—that feels far more intimate. It’d be so easy for one of us to lean forward and our lips to brush.

Where the hell did that thought come from?

“I bet it’s more interesting than you think.” Beckett presses his knee against mine, a small smile forming on his lips.

“I don’t know if this will surprise you or not, but my mom was kind of strict growing up.”

The smile slips from his face, and I can’t say I blame him. While my dad and Wyatt can be oblivious to the things my mom says, Beckett clearly caught on to the way they impacted me at dinner last week.

“I know the stereotype is that parents tend to get less strict with each subsequent child, but sometimes I think the opposite happened with my family. Or maybe it’s just that I was the only girl and I wasn’t planned, so it hit them differently.”