My Remedy (Open Door Love Story Book 3) (14 page)

Leeanne scrunches up my sweats so it’s easy for me to get my feet through the leg holes and then she pulls them up to my mid-thighs. “Sock and shoes next.” She slips my footie socks onto my pointed toes. “Um, yes, I talked to your aunt and a younger guy out there.” Leanne grins kindly. “He shot up out of his chair as soon as I walked into the waiting room. He’s anxious to see you.”

“He’s not the father,” I say, looking down at the woman who’s tying my shoes for me.

Leeanne shrugs. “Okay, let’s stand and I’ll get your pants pulled up.”

“Where were you two days after my first CrossFit class?” I ask.

“Huh?”

I shake my head. “Nothing. Inside joke.”

After I’m fully clothed in my comfy cozies, I loop arms with Leeanne and she walks me out to the waiting room. Duncan meets us at the door.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he says, the dark circles under his eyes making them appear even more puppy dog-ish than usual.

“I like sweetheart much better than babe,” I say, looking past him to see Aunt Nina hanging back, chewing on her bottom lip.

“I’ve got her if that’s okay,” Duncan says, gesturing to where Leeanne and I have our arms linked.

“Sure,” Leeanne says, letting Duncan take over Izzy guide duty. “I still need to walk with you out to the car though.”

Aunt Nina holds up her keys as a signal she’s ready to go, and we all follow. Duncan has such a grip on my arm, like he would pick me up and carry me if the situation warranted it. I think about another time he picked me up ... yeah, that isn’t happening for a while.

I get into the backseat of Aunt Nina’s car and Duncan buckles me in. I tilt my face up toward his, hoping he’ll kiss me. He does ... on the forehead again.

“Cool if I sit in back with you?” he asks.

“Sure. What about your car?”

Duncan shuts my door and goes around to the other side and gets in. “I left my car at the gym.” He nods toward Aunt Nina, who is watching us in the rearview mirror. “I’m going to get you settled while Nina goes to fill your prescription.”

“I’m glad you guys got it all figured out.”

Aunt Nina purses her lips and turns on the car.

The drive home is quiet. I don’t know what the hell you’re supposed to talk about after the last couple of days we’ve all had.

“So, Duncan, why don’t you tell me why you thought drinking and then beating loser boy was a good idea?”

“Well, Izzy, I was filled with a blind rage after learning that you’d lied to me about being sick and seeing as I’m not a woman beater, I took that anger out on loser boy. Say? You want to let me in on why you fucked him in the first place?”

“No, Duncan, not really. I am what I am.”

“Me too, babe.”

Aunt Nina rolls her eyes. “You’re both idiots.”

But really she turns NPR on, saving me from having any more internal dialogue.

Duncan makes good on his word, helping me into the house while Aunt Nina runs out to fill my antibiotics prescription.

“You don’t actually have to tuck the covers in around my arms,” I joke, slowly rolling from side to side to get loose, trying not to agitate my insides. “I’m in a straitjacket.”

Duncan cringes and untucks my comforter from around me. “Sorry. I guess I don’t ... this is a weird situation.” He takes a step back and crosses his arms over his chest. Well, he tries to – his huge biceps don’t give him range. “I’m confused about my feelings for you, Iz. I think we need to put the brakes on our relationship.”

I stop moving and lie flat on my back. The ceiling above my bed has never been more interesting. “But you said – only a few hours ago – that you loved me and you meant it. How can that not be true now?”

Duncan takes a deep breath. He’s prepared a speech. All that ibuprofen I took is doing nothing to hold off my heartache. “Nina and I were talking in the waiting room, and I don’t ... it’s not healthy for you and I to be together. We’re not making good choices. I’m going to find a different job. Hector can get you set up at another box if you want.”

A hot tear trickles out of my eye and down my right cheek. “I’m glad you and Aunt Nina talked about it.”

“C’mon, Izzy,” Duncan says. “I mean, look where you were when Nina and I—”

“I was making what I thought was a good choice!” I push myself up onto my elbows. Nothing like literally taking it lying down. “You’re the one that drank and got out of control, Duncan. I was cleaning up my mess so that I could move forward with you. So that I could have a clean slate!”

He clenches his fists. “But I ... I don’t know as that’s something I can get over. I don’t think you did the right thing. I think you were so afraid you were going to be a shitty mom like your mom is, you didn’t even give your baby a chance. You abandoned it before ... you didn’t give yourself a chance either. You could’ve been an amazing mother. I would’ve helped you.” Duncan starts crying, his voice cracking. “Or you could’ve given the baby up for adoption. I would’ve seen you through. But what you did, I can’t ... you didn’t even give me the option to prove that I could see you through that. I’m disappointed in you.”

I take a long, shuddering breath and get out of bed. It doesn’t hurt that bad. I’ve had worse cramps and I’m not even bleeding. I shuck off my socks and locate my flip flops underneath the bed.

“Izzy. Talk to me,” Duncan pleads as I walk past him. “I still want to know you. I still want to be in your life somehow.”

I’m out the front door and he’s following, but not running after me. Why isn’t he running after me? This is not how love works. Duncan lets me get in the pickup. He just stands there in the street staring blankly, lost.

I know the feeling, buddy.

Then the truck is in drive and I’m turning the wheel and I’m leaving him behind.

We were supposed to fix each other and all we did was make each other worse.

~

I
head out Farmington, driving faster than I should be, music blasting. A good choice right now would be going to a meeting. A good choice right now would be turning around, going back home, and taking a nap. A good choice right now would be sitting my ass down on the concrete floor of the kennel and drawing some dogs.

I take a side street, not even bothering to look at what it’s called. I am speeding. I am scream-singing. I am taking a searching and fearless moral inventory and I know right from wrong.

Up off to the left is a windowless concrete block bar called Someplace Else. Which is just the place I wanna be. I pull into the gravel parking lot and check myself out in the rearview mirror. Yanking the ponytail holder from my hair, I shake it out. I’m banking on the Someplace Else being the type of establishment that’s dark enough (and the clientele drunk enough) no one is going to think twice about my age or the fact I’m wearing a t-shirt and sweats.

When I open the heavy, gray, metal door, several of the people sitting at the bar turn to look at me, their eyes squinting against the light coming in from outside. I quickly close the door behind me and stand still for a moment allowing my eyes to adjust. There isn’t much to see. To my right there are four booths lined up along the front wall, opposite them next to the bar is a single door marked Restroom. A half rectangle Formica-topped bar that seats twelve is directly in front of me – eight seats are taken. To my left are two more booths along the front wall, then a jukebox no one has bothered to put any quarters in, and a pool table in remarkably good shape – it’s either new or doesn’t get much use. No one is playing at it now. My choices for seats are next to a semi-attractive mid-thirties guy who is messing around on his phone on one end of the bar, or next to an old lady who is nodding off at the other end.

I slide into the barstool next to the guy and give him a little smile. He nods and then goes back to playing Candy Crush on his phone.

The bartender is an ancient, weathered man with a splotchy, faded neck tattoo and a scraggly beard. He’s got the shirt sleeves of his thin flannel rolled up to reveal more tattoos. He tosses a napkin onto the bar. “What’ll it be?”

There aren’t any taps on the bar or on the counter behind it, just a bank of coolers and a small sink. No draft beer. “Coors Light?” I ask.

He nods and slides the top of the closest cooler open, pulls out a tall can of Coors Light, pops it, and sets it in front of me. “Three bucks.”

I unzip my purse and dig out a ten, holding it out to the bartender. “Can I get a shot of Fireball too?”

“I got ’er,” says the guy next to me. He sets his phone down.

“Two?” The bartender asks, holding up the bottle of Fireball.

The guy nods.

“Thanks,” I say, stuffing my cash back into my purse. “I’m Izzy.”

“Adam.”

I pick up the can of beer and hold it to my lips. I want it and I don’t want it. I’m on the edge here, willingly destroying my sobriety. But, I just ... I deserve some escape. I’ve been holding it together pretty well considering what a shitshow my life has been the past couple of days.

My hand tips the can and I drink. The beer is ice cold and fizzes all the way down my throat.

The bartender sets the shots on the bar and Adams pushes one toward me with his index finger, a sly grin spreading across his mouth.

~

“H
ey man, I knew I couldn’t call this Duncan guy, she wouldn’t shut the fuck up about him and what an asshole he was, so I called the only other person in her phone that didn’t sound like a narc. I swear I was just looking out for her.” He laughs. “Well ... to the best of my abilities.”

“Izzy, dude, wake up.” Someone shakes my shoulder and I shrug them off.

“Wannaslee.”

“Uh, Hector, she’s bleeding ... between her legs.”

“Good Samaritan my ass,” Hector starts.

“Man, I had not a fucking thing to do with that. I did not touch her in that way. She got 86’d and I followed her out here ’cause she was so gone she couldn’t even walk. I put her in her pickup and took the keys and called your girl. Straight up. I’m outta here. Good luck.”

“Fucking shit, Izzy!” Cera says, shaking me more forcefully.

I start to come around. It’s dark out and I’m lying across the front seat of the truck. I lean over the edge of the seat and throw up onto the floor. That’ll wake a girl up.

“I got a bunch of towels in my car, let me go arrange them,” Hector says. He sighs. “Goddamn it.”

“This is what I do,” I say to Cera, wiping my mouth with the hem of my t-shirt Fieri-style. “This is who I really am.”

Cera shakes her head. “You’ll be okay.”

“Two nights in a row I gotta deal with this self-destructive shit,” Hector says. He grabs me by the wrists and pulls me up to sitting and then gets an arm under my legs and one around my back, hoisting me up with little effort.

I rest my head on his chest. It’s so warm and firm, like Duncan’s. “I’m probably getting blood on your arm.”

Hector gives me a quick peck on the forehead. “That’s okay, sugar. Just don’t puke in my car. It’s a lease.”

––––––––

F
rom underneath my comforter cave in my bedroom, I can hear my dad and Uncle Stan talking all the way in the kitchen. They’re louder when they’re together. Dad was here last night when Hector and Cera brought me home – he’d dropped everything the instant Aunt Nina called to tell him I’d taken off, and caught the first flight from Boise – but he’d said he’d talk to me in the morning.

And here it is, morning, and I’m still in bed. I reach my hand out from under the covers and paw around on the bedside table for my phone. I locate it and drag it back down into my cave, waking the screen to see what time it is. 11:22. The light from my phone gives me a tiny headache, but nothing as monumental as I deserve. I guess throwing up and the water and ibuprofen Cera made me take when I got home saved me from the hangover of the century.

Flashes of the night before pop into my head – eight shots lined up and Adam and I racing to see who could do them faster, the old lady at the other end of the bar looking at me with pity and shaking her head when I declare I can drink everyone under the table, stumbling into the bathroom and discovering that I’ve bled through my pants, wading up scratchy paper towels and shoving them in my underwear because there isn’t any toilet paper, the bartender cutting me off and telling me to leave, my asking him what prison he got his tats done in – definitely my finest hour.

The tears come, and for once they’re not a surprise. I have a lot of reasons to cry and things to be sad about. If I can stand it for ten minutes, then I’ll allow myself to shut it down.

I smile, even though the realization that I’m dealing with my emotions by basically turning them into a ten minute AMRAP makes me hurt harder. But I think the sentiment is true. I can stand anything for ten minutes. I’ve proven it to myself time and time again over the last month and a half. I won’t die. I will be okay.

I cry for my family, for all of the pain I’ve put them through. For all of the false hope I’ve given them and all of the fresh starts I’ve squandered. I cry because my mother abandoned them too. My dad was left by the love of his life and Aunt Nina was dumped by her best friend.

I cry for Duncan and everything he’s endured and let break him. I cry for the wonderful beginning we had and the inevitable ending. I cry for the both of us and our damaged hearts and all of the wrong ways we keep trying to fix them.

I save myself for last, not because I’m the least important, but because I’m the most important. The sheet underneath my face is soaked through with tears and probably some snot because I’m just letting all of my disgusting out. All of the self-loathing and denial and victimization. Every time I knew the healthy thing to do and chose escape instead.

“You’ve fucked up a lot, Izzy,” I whisper to myself. “And you’ll fuck up again. But you won’t die. You’ll be okay.”

My ten minutes are up. I throw the comforter off of my head and sit up. I’ve felt so much worse than I do right now. I put my feet on the ground, stand, and walk over to my bedroom door.

My dad is going to tell me this is my absolute last chance to go to rehab and I’m going to take him up on it.