Page 88 of The Fix

The way she says it, the way she says family like it’s an absolute and not a question … it lands like another hit to my tender ribs.

“No … because it’s really my fault.”

“Toby, none of this is your fault.”

“No, I know—that’s not what I meant.” I sigh, dragging another hand down my face, the stubble scratching against my skin. “I did choose this. So it is my fault, but that’s not what I meant when I said the thing about my family seeing me.”

“Okay, so explain.”

The truth is another jab against my rib cage. “I never filled out the release forms for them. I never agreed that they could.”

The doc waits, her pen hand hovering over her notepad, forever at the ready. “And why not?”

“Because I … I don’t trust …” The words get caught in my throat, the weight of them so damn heavy. Weighing me down in the ocean of uncertainty and shame.

“Toby, if anyone in your life is a means for trouble, there are other ways to get help.”

I shake my head. “No, they aren’t the trouble. They just didn’t know. Hell, I didn’t know until I fucked it all up.”

“That you were addicted to alcohol.”

The bluntness of the truth nearly knocks the wind out of me. “Jesus, Doc, way to go for the jugular.”

“It’s the truth, is it not? The sooner the truth is accepted, the sooner you can accept the steps needed to leave it in the past. Let go of the baggage, if you will.”

This session is easily becoming the most draining.

I don’t think my heart can take more pummeling.

“Who don’t you trust, then, Toby?”

“Myself.”

And there goes that pen again, flying over the lines of her page and documenting the moment that I accepted myself as the problem, even though I feel like I’m dying on the inside.

“Care to explain?” The cap of her pen taps the doc’s lower lip and perches there, her gaze searching me.

“I caused a lot of headache in my lifetime, Doc. For a lot of people. My choices. Me.” I don’t realize my arm has raised until my thumb is jamming into my own chest. “I lied and I trashed that store and I made everyone else clean it all up. I may have even fucked that girl, and I don’t remember.”

“Did you?” Doc asks with a raise to her brow as her only reaction to my words.

“No.”

“Toby, the choices we make while under the influence are not always our own. Any choices we make, whether sober or not, don’t have to define us, either. It’s up to you and you alone, on how you want to be perceived.” She glances at her paper, only to toss it to the side as she leans forward, bracing her elbows to her crossed knees. “How would you define yourself now? Without the press in your face, no brothers calling the shots, no expectations for you as a public figure. Tell me … who is Toby Jeffers without the fame?”

I purse my lips, and blink at the doc’s manicured hands. They’re smooth, and yet too tan, with a bold color tinting her nails, several rings lining her fingers.

Somehow … it just looks weird.

“I’m not … really sure.”

“Who do you want to be?” doc presses, leaning closer still, her top showing just enough non-freckled chest that I catch a glimpse of a necklace and avert my eyes.

“I want to be a guitar player. I want to be at peace. I want to live a life my pops would be proud of … and I want …” I trail off, that pain sinking deeper in my chest, its aching almost unbearable as I consider the real answers to the questions I never wanted to ask myself. Yet here I am, being asked them anyways, because I lived that day and my pops didn’t. I kept on breathing every damn day after, even though it felt like my lungs stopped and my heart gave up, just like his.

I went and made a fucking life without even realizing it, only to fuck most of it up along the way.

No, that’s not entirely true.

---