Page 7 of Reclaim Me

My hand immediately goes to his forehead, and he leans into my touch, indulging my need to verify his temperature. “You’re not feverish now. Did you run one last night?”

“It was low grade and broke in the middle of the night. I’m fine,” he assures me, moving my hand away.

“And they still let you have visitors? What if it’s the start of an infection?”

“I wasn’t going to miss a meeting. Addicts need consistency, Rae, you know that.”

I do know. For the last five years, I’ve listened to him preach the gospel of routine and recovery to the people he sponsors while actively implementing it in his own life. He’s more disciplined than some dancers I know, and that’s saying a lot because there are a lot of ballerinas who can put Marines to shame.

“Someone else could have run the meeting.”

My words come out muffled, rolled into the blurred edges of a yawn. Dee and I got on the road early, like while the moon was still in the sky early, and now that all the adrenaline and fear from worrying about Will has faded, I’m ready to crash.

“Tired?” he asks.

“A little.”

“You should head home and get some sleep.”

I sit up, pinning him with a hard stare. “We both know I’m not going home.”

The look he gives me is just a reflection of mine, and in a mere second, we’re locked in a staring contest reminiscent of the ones we used to engage in when I was younger. Will is ten years older than me, but he never made me feel like the annoying little sister, not even when I wanted to settle every argument and debate by seeing who could go the longest without blinking.

My eyes are burning from being open for far too long, but I refuse to lose. He’s already spent two nights in this hospital by himself, and I’m not going to let it turn into three. Victory comes in the form of a twitch in Will’s right eye that pulls his eyelids shut for a split second. We’ve been playing this game long enough for me to know that this counts as a blink, and I pump a celebratory fist in the air as I hop off the bed. Will rolls his eyes as I plop down in the recliner.

“Like I said, I’m not going home.”

“Your back is going to hurt like hell after you spend a night in that chair.”

“My back will be fine,” I insist, letting the footrest out and crossing my arms over my chest.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he says, leaning back against the pillows as a familiar quiet settles between us. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, Will.”

“Tell me about your trip. I want to know everything.”

Despite the exhaustion settling deep in my bones, I give Will a detailed recount of the days Dee and I spent in New York. He listens intently, the way he always does when I talk, and asks questions that keep the one-sided conversation flowing until my heavy eyelids refuse to stay open any longer.

The room is dark when I come to, groggy and confused about where I am and what exactly has woken me up. At first, I think it’s Will or a nurse coming in to check his vitals again, but he’s asleep and we’re alone. After a moment, I realize the sound that’s woken me is Will’s phone. It’s on the counter next to the bag of clothes someone must have brought him from the house, vibrating loudly, threatening to wake every patient on the floor.

Will stirs, his face scrunched together in a pained expression that reminds me he hasn’t taken anything except Tylenol since the surgery. I overheard the nurse say he’s been restless all weekend, hardly sleeping. Now that he’s resting, I don’t want to let anything interrupt it, so I move fast, crossing the room and taking the phone into my hand to silence it. Once the ringer is off, I stare at the screen. It’s a little after three in the morning, and the phone is still ringing, which means the person on the other end of the line is likely in the middle of a crisis.

And in Will’s world, a crisis means relapse.

I cradle the phone in my hands, a nervous rush of energy sweeping down my spine as I envision one of my brother’s sponsees in a dark room somewhere, a phone in one hand and the tools of their own destruction in the other. He always tells them that they can call him at any time. More than once, I’ve watched him leave the house in the middle of the night, his jaw clenched, shoulders set in determination, hands ready to pull someone from the depths of addiction. I glance at Will, knowing that if I wake him, he’s likely to pull the IV out of his arm and leave this hospital with me and the entire nursing staff protesting.

The phone keeps ringing. Every vibration forcing my eyes to linger on the screen, to memorize the letters that make up the name of the person on the other end of the line.

Hunter Drake.

Someone’s son. Someone’s brother. Someone’s friend. Someone who needs Will’s help but will just get me instead.

Without thinking, I answer the phone, and my hands shake with the fear of inadequacy. I’m not equipped for this. I could make whatever this Hunter guy is going through worse. The thought echoes in my mind, amplified by the silence filling my ears.

“Will? You there?”

Hunter Drake is remarkably calm for a man in crisis. His voice is deep. A dark, riotous melody that wreaks havoc on my already pounding heart.

---