Page 13 of Reclaim Me

Rae plucks up two sugar packets from one of the canisters to her right and places them on the table next to the cup of coffee she ordered. I watch as she opens them one by one and dumps them into the stark, black liquid, wondering what she thinks about the likelihood of there being such a thing as an honest addict.

“Will you tell me?”

Despite the inflection at the end of the sentence and the quirked brow she pairs it with, it doesn’t feel like a question. Her eyes make sure of it. They’re hard and challenging, laughing at me for even considering denying her access to a story she’s now a part of. The Hunter Drake saga. A tale of misfortune and woe that would already be over if it weren’t for her.

“How old are you?”

She stirs the negligible amount of sugar into her coffee and then takes a long sip, closing her eyes to savor the flavor of burnt grounds that have probably been run through the machine more than once tonight. And it’s that act that makes me realize why the question—which had been in my head since I first laid eyes on her—has finally made its way out of my mouth.

Rae is a conundrum.

Her face—all flawless, smooth brown skin with not a wrinkle or blemish in sight—expound her youth, but her mannerisms—the set of her shoulders, the steel of her gaze, the decision to drink hot, black coffee instead of those frilly iced drinks Legacy and all of her friends preferred—are that of someone much older than she must be.

“Nineteen.” I choke on the water I’ve just welcomed into my mouth and it trickles back into the glass while Rae rolls her eyes. “Don’t do that,” she says. “If I’m old enough to watch my mom die, I’m old enough to hear about whatever made you use again.”

“I watched my friend die.”

The annoyance that had just made itself at home in her eyes fades away as her gaze softens with sympathy. “I’m sorry, Hunter.”

Even though it is a big deal, I shrug like it’s not. “I’m sorry about your mom.”

Will had shared the news of her death in a meeting the day it happened. Confessing the burning desire to use again, to numb the pain of losing his mother before he got the chance to make up for all the fucked up shit he did before he was able to get clean. He never mentioned Rae directly, but he did allude to having other reasons to stay clean, other people depending on him to remain the version of himself they’d come to trust and rely on. Not knowing much about him besides his devotion to recovery, I’d thought he was talking about his sponsees, but now I know he was talking about Rae.

She takes another sip of coffee, this time to hide the quiver in her bottom lip inspired by my offered condolences. “Thanks.”

We sit in a moment of silence before Rae speaks again.

“Breast cancer.” I meet her eyes, imploring her to elaborate with a lift of my brows. “That’s how my mom—our mom” —she corrects herself, leaving me to wonder how often she refers to their mother as just hers. There has to be at least a decade between her and Will, so it makes sense that she would think of their shared guardian that way. As someone belonging solely to her because she was raised alone for the most part—“she had breast cancer, and they caught it too late.”

It’s funny how unique, how utterly singular, an experience can feel until you come face to face with someone who has gone through the exact same thing. My mother’s diagnosis came too late as well. Too late to save her. Too late to give me time to prepare to say goodbye. Too late to do anything but watch her die when all I wanted was her to live.

Using had made me numb for a moment, not long enough to make the years of sobriety I washed down the drain worth it, but for a while. That moment has passed now, though, the rush of euphoria is gone, and I’m open again. A sieve that won’t stop catching pain even though all it can do is pass it on to something else and hope that it can hold it. Rae’s pain passes through mine, collapsing into the endless gulf of heartache underneath me. There’s barely enough room for it, but still, I take it because it’s the least I can do.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, more sincere this time. “My mom had breast cancer, too. By the time I convinced her to go to the doctor, it was already in her bones.”

Rae’s lips fold in on themselves, and her eyes turn glossy. Grief should be a private thing between strangers, but I can’t bring myself to look away as a fresh wave of it washes over her. I want to witness it. To see something close to the pain I’ve known and carried for so long reflected back at me in something other than a mirror. It’s a short-lived display, lasting only a few seconds before she reigns it back in and focuses on me more intently than before.

“You’re not eating.”

“I’m not hungry.”

And I’m not. My stomach is all knots and nausea, and if I put anything other than water on it, I’m not going to make it through this makeshift meeting that’s supposed to be saving my life.

“At least have some toast,” Rae says. “It’ll help with the nausea.” She tucks a curly strand of hair behind her ear. “That’s what my mom used to tell Will, anyway. I don’t know how much good it actually does.”

Not wanting to offend her or her mom, I pick up the slice of toasted white bread that came with my meal and take a bite, chewing slowly and praying it won’t make a second appearance once I’ve choked it down. It doesn’t make my stomach feel any better, but it does make Rae smile, so I guess it’s a win.

“Did your mom help out a lot with Will’s recovery?”

It feels like a violation of his privacy to ask this question, but I can’t help myself. For some reason, I want to know, not about what getting cleaned looked like for Will, but what it looked and felt like for Rae. For someone who loves him. For someone who is just as invested in his sobriety as he is. I don’t know what that’s like. I started using after my mom died, and my dad was too busy berating me for finding yet another way to disgrace the Drake name to offer a kind or reassuring word. And then there’s my older brother, Cal, who has hated me since birth because our dad left his mom for mine and would probably rejoice in the event of my death.

“Oh, no.” Rae shakes her head. “She never let him come around me when he was using because she wanted to protect me, but I remember how he would call her crying, begging to come home, saying he was getting clean. She would always answer, always tell him she loved him, always tell him to eat and stay hydrated when he was going through withdrawal.”

Not for the first time, I’m glad my mother wasn’t alive to see me descend into addiction. It would have broken her heart.

“That must have been hard on your mom.”

Rae nods. “She blamed herself for it even though he told her it wasn’t her fault.”

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