Winter Solstice in St. Nacho's (St. Nacho's #5) - Z.A. Maxfield Page 0,32
directly.
“Tug. We haven’t heard very much from you. I think I’d like to hear what you have to say today. Why don’t you start by introducing your friend and talking a little about your journey to thirty days? Then we can hear from your guest.”
All eyes landed on Tug, including mine. He flushed deeply, took a deep breath, and let it out. Although I’d forgiven him, what he’d done at the motel had hurt me. It had changed things between us. I’d had to confront my naïveté and develop a thicker skin. It changed the way I engaged with people, not only because of his actions that day but because of our history and the matter-of-fact way he’d lied.
He’d called into question my faith in my judgment. I never saw that coming, and I should have. I really, really should have.
My time with Tug had broken something inside me, and it couldn’t be fixed. That was Tug’s legacy in my life, and I had to tell him about it, honestly and without emotion. But first, I had to let him speak about what he was going through. Privately, I willed him to free himself from his anxiety and start down this new path.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Tug, and this is Luke. I kind of landed on him like space junk, and he had to save my bacon. But we knew each other before, so it was a shock to both of us.”
Chapter Twelve
Hope House, Day 32
Writing things down ahead of time doesn’t make it any easier. I can’t fool myself into thinking I’m not going to have to say some of these things out loud at some point.
I don’t like talking about my feelings, and I hate public speaking. I know I’ll get nervous and forget something that needs to be said, so I’m making notes as if this was a school project, even though school was a thousand years ago.
I should probably start by thanking Luke for helping me out. Not a lot of people would do that—rent a room in a hotel and take time off work to watch someone get sick for seventy-two hours. Luke was so nice and so gentle, and he didn’t give me shit about… well, shit or vomit or anything. He took care of me like I was a friend or something.
But then I felt just a tiny bit better, and that chick was there, and I don’t know… My lizard brain recognized its kind or something. Like, lust kicked in—not for her at all—but for what she represented.
First, I thought I’d just bum a cigarette, but she wanted to flirt. So I talked to her for a few minutes and then I asked if she was holding. She said she had some Vicodin, and even though I’d gotten through a couple days without anything, what was that? A couple days of nausea and the shits and depression.
I was sure if I could just feel better, be less spacey, less achy, more focused, I’d be able to go through with this whole rehab thing. Which just goes to show you how insane my brain was at the time. The only hang-up was getting the cash for the few Vicodin she was willing to part with.
So I made up the story about buying cigarettes.
Of course, I didn’t think ahead to what would happen if Luke noticed I didn’t have any actual cigarettes. I was in the zone and thought he’d never figure it out because people don’t. They see what I want them to see.
I used the puppy eyes and put a hard sell on him, and the next thing I knew, I had what I wanted. I was still so sure Luke wasn’t smart enough to put two and two together, I kept up the charade, the charm, the swagger.
I was sure, like I was always sure, that I was slick enough to play Luke’s questions off with a wink and a smile and some sort of promise. I’d have even blown him, if I had to, to keep him sweet while I did what I wanted because he was just another decent guy trying to fix me.
Maybe I wanted what he had to offer, but I wasn’t sure. I played for time and to see what I could get out of him because that was how I thought when I was using.