Page 86 of The Fix

“I’m not,” she shoots back quietly, but I hear the sniffle on her end of the line. “Not pretending. His healing is his and I want him to get better. Whatever that means.”

“Even if it means he never comes back home?” The question coming from my own lips engages an ache so deep, I feel it in my soul.

I hope that’s not the case.

“That’s … up to him to decide. Not any of us. And definitely not me.”

“He’s going to get better, Anna.”

Her scoff feels like a gut punch.

“Things have to change, Leo.” She all but sobs into the phone. “You have to change. Or he’ll never make it out alive.”

“I know. Fuck, I know.” I scrub my hand over my face. “I already talked to the guys. As soon as he’s willing, we’re all going to see him. And they’ve all promised to be there for him after.”

“No, not just them. You. He looks to you most of all.” The weight I was already feeling doubles. “You need to do better.”

“I … I know.”

I sheltered him too long. Out of guilt and shame. Partly because of fear and wholly because I care.

But I ignored the things right in front of my face because it was easier than accepting that any one of the men I protect on a daily basis was still hurting.

Still breaking.

Chasing the fix over and over again.

I see it now.

And I have a lifetime of regret to go right along with it.

Chapter Forty-Five

Toby

“How have you been today, Toby?”

“Tired,” I grunt and fall back into the couch that’s supposed to be comfy and inviting, but it’s almost as stiff as the doc watching me over her glasses. She’s so prim and proper that it reminds me of Anna, and now, I’m just angry. “Pissed.”

She nods, her pen perched between her fingers, hovering just above her notepad like she might need to record something at any moment. That’s what I’ve learned since coming to rehab: they like to listen to you talk, only to write down every damn word.

And everyone has a solution to every problem you bring up.

Even if they aren’t certified in whatever brain degree is required to therapize someone.

“How have the cravings been?”

I snort. “I don’t feel shit, Doc. Other than tired and pissed. Like I said.”

“That’s fair,” she scribbles on her page, her eyes finding me once again. “And more than likely the medication you were put on when you arrived.”

“You mean the drugs they gave me to stop wanting drugs? Sure.”

Still doesn’t make much sense to me, but I guess the dosage can be reduced in two weeks. Then again two weeks from that until I’m completely sober for the remaining time I’m here. It was a temporary fix to the extreme condition I showed up in, or something like that.

And I thought alcohol made me numb until I started smashing shit.

I’ll be glad to have my head back. This shit just feels weird.

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