fact I’d want to jump again, too.
“Maybe,” Knox says. “Just maybe, God put that person in your life knowing there’d come a time when you might need to show that grace to someone else.”
I crack my neck to the side as fury races through me. “Did you not hear me when I told you that Mom’s been bringing strange men home in the middle of the night? That some of those men crept into my sister’s bedroom? That her screaming is the only thing that may have protected her? Or did you miss how Mom’s been lying to me about money?”
“You angry?” Knox asks.
“Angry? I’m a nuclear bomb.”
“Good. Then maybe you’ll stop enabling her and she’ll get some help.”
My forehead furrows. “I don’t pour the alcohol down her throat.”
“You step in and clean up after her, then you play her role when she can’t.”
“She’s my mom,” I spit out. “And that’s my sister in there. What am I supposed to do? Abandon them?”
“No,” Knox says slowly. “But you need to start looking at how you handle your relationships. Like I had to evaluate my relationship with my parents. Am I doing the thing that will make them happy or am I doing the thing that will help put them on a path to get better? We want the people we love to be happy, but there’s a difference between instant-gratification happy and long-term happy. Long-term happy—it often means you do things in the present that don’t feel good.”
I stare at the empty pool and try to imagine what it would look like with the water shimmering. “I’ve been taking care of her for so long, I don’t know how to stop.”
“You need to find your voice.”
I shake my head, not understanding.
“What’s the first step in Al-Anon and AA?”
“Admit that we are powerless over alcohol and that our lives have become unmanageable.”
“Key word for you right now is ‘admit.’”
Frustration shimmies down my spine. “I am admitting it.”
“Not to me, but to the world. One of alcoholism’s greatest weapons is silence. How many people have you told about your mom besides me?”
No one.
Telling people.
My mother is an alcoholic.
Will they believe me?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
But I need to start living for me.
VERONICA
Sawyer: I didn’t jump. I thought you’d be worried.
Me: I was. I’m glad you texted and I’m glad you didn’t jump. How are you?
Sawyer: My mom’s an alcoholic.
Me: I’m sorry.
Sawyer: I know.
Me: I love you.
Sawyer: I love you.
Me: I don’t want to push you away.
Sawyer: Then don’t. I’ve got to go. I’ll text when I can.
The text messages were from earlier this morning. Since then, I went to school without him. Sylvia braved leaving her friends at lunch to sit with me. Everyone at school stared. Lots of people talked. I decided we were friends when she acted like she didn’t give a damn what people thought because she sat with me.
“Do you know what’s going on with Sawyer?” she had asked. “He’s not at school and he’s not answering his texts. Besides that, he’s been off. Since before last spring and he’s been getting worse. Sawyer and I don’t always see eye to eye, but he’s my friend and I care.”
“I know some things, but not all.”
“Will you tell me what you do know?”
I wish I could, but I’m loyal to him. “It’s his business to tell.”
She pursed her lips, unhappy, but replied, “I can respect that. Can you at least tell me he’s okay?”
The urge is to say he’s fine because that’s what people do, but I’m tired of lying. “He’s not. He’ll need his friends.”
“Then it’s a good thing he has us.” Holding a tray full of food, Miguel had dropped down next to Sylvia.
“He’s really going to need you two,” I agreed.
Miguel’s face contorted as he shook his chocolate milk. “I said ‘us,’ amiga. Not unless you plan on checking out.”
Sylvia and Miguel watched me for an answer. I thought I was checking out, but I don’t want to anymore. “I’m in.”
In.
Not pushing away.
It’s an odd feeling. A bit frightening. A bit exhilarating. A bit sad that Sawyer wasn’t there to experience it with me.
“How was your day?” Dad drags me back to the here and now as he places the hamburgers and French fries he made for dinner on the table.
“Okay.”
Dad sits and doesn’t bat an eye when I position my cell next to my plate, but does glare at the laptop I only slightly push away. He knows I’m hoping for a call or a text from Sawyer,