Page 32 of Bone Dust

“What?” Savannah gives me a confused look.

“To my house. You don’t know where I live. I can guide you there—unless you want to use your GPS.” As we approach a stop sign at the intersection, I recite directions. “Make a left here and go straight. It’s about ten miles, then you’ll take a right.” Despite following my directions, Savannah remains suspiciously quiet throughout the drive. It’s uncomfortable, so I break the silence. “Why don’t you say what’s on your mind, Savannah.”

She glances at me, then finally speaks up. “How do you know Sam?”

The question takes me by surprise. “What do you mean?” I know they’re close but have no idea what information he might have shared with her about me.

“You two seem to know each other pretty well. I’ve known Sam all my life, and he’s never mentioned you to me. So, how do you know him? How did you meet? And seeing you two that night at the bar, and how friendly you seemed to be, I’m confused. He’s never mentioned you. He only knew of Boundless Hearts because of my winning the contest, so …” Her words trail off.

“If you’ve known him all your life, then you should also know he wouldn’t betray a confidence. Sam’s my sponsor.” The words may be simple, but they hold a deeper meaning. One of trust that we both should understand.

With a sudden, sharp movement, she turns her head to look at me, her eyes wide with surprise. Then, just as quickly, she returns her gaze to the road ahead. “So that’s what he meant,” she murmurs, her shoulders relaxing, as if releasing a burden.“He mentioned something, but never directly, so I didn’t pry.” A sense of vulnerability radiates from her words, and I feel a pang of sympathy. “You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable with,” she gently assures me. “But, since my daughter’s taken a liking to you, if you’re willing to share, I’m all ears.”

“I have nothing to hide. I met Sam when I was in rehab. The media made sure that everyone knew I was there, but my relationship with Sam is private. It isn’t information I feel I need to offer to strangers but, since you aren’t one, ask away.”

She reaches up to the nape of her neck and gathers the thick cascade of hair with one hand. With a graceful gesture, she drapes it over her shoulder, revealing smooth skin and delicate features. The fading sunlight catches in her hair, giving it an ethereal glow as it tumbles over her front like a golden waterfall. I’m mesmerized. Does she know how beautiful she is? A sense of vulnerability radiates from her as she fiddles with the gold chain around her neck.

My cell buzzes in my pocket, breaking the flow of our conversation. Reluctantly, I pull it out and glance at the screen. The name appearing on the screen is none other than the subject of our conversation. I quickly type out a short message to let him know I left the bike in the parking lot before tucking my phone away again.

Turning back to Savannah, the brief interruption has given me a moment to catch my breath. She looks over at me, curiosity sparkling in her eyes. “It was Sam. I sent him a message telling him about the motorcycle. I’ll call him back later.”

“Oh.” She nods.

“So, tell me,” I prompt, “what else do you want to know?”

“I guess about the relationship between the two of you.”

“If memory serves me correctly, he was in town taking care of something for a friend. He mentioned reading about me and when he discovered I was undergoing treatment just twenty minutes away, he reached out to the facility staff.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Why would you? Sponsors are entrusted with confidential information. It’s not their place to betray someone’s trust. The pastor of your downtown church could be struggling with addiction and be in recovery themselves. People don’t reach out unless they need help. If sponsors or therapists or even just people in a support group can’t be trusted to keep a confidence, it can ruin someone’s life.”

“You only know about me because I was a public figure, and you were a fan of the band. All sorts of rumors circulated since the day they carried me out of that hotel room. Some rag magazines even reported my death, which they then had to retract. Of course, they put it on the back page. They said all sorts of shit about me.”

Savannah flashes me a disapproving look. “Ian! Little ears.”

“Youse said a naughty word!” Gigi chimes in.

“Sorry.” I grimace at Savannah, then glance over my shoulder at Gigi. “Sorry, munchkin.”

“Is okay, E-ban,” Gigi reassures sleepily.

“Go on with your story,” Savannah says.

I take a deep breath, my finger tapping furiously on my thigh. This is the part I don’t like to revisit.“There really isn’t much more to say. I’d hit rock bottom—lower than ever before. I did whatever they told me to do. When they put me in that sterile room in a white gown with bright white lights, I felt like I was going crazy.” A shiver runs down my spine. “I played the perfect patient, nodding and smiling at all the right moments just so I could get out of there and do it again.”

“Do what again? Overdose?” The shock makes her voice go shrill. She quickly catches herself and steals a look in the rearview mirror. I mimic her actions and turn to look over my shoulder. Taking in the peaceful sight of my little friend fast asleep.

When Savannah’s gaze returns to me, it’s only for a fleeting moment as she turns her attention to the road. a brief look. She turns her attention back to the road and shakes her head.

“Why in god’s name would you want to do something that reckless, Ian? Can’t you see how much pain it would cause to the people who care about you?” Her tone is laced with pain and confusion, mirroring the furrowed lines on her forehead.

I pause, allowing the weight of her question to burrow in. My eyes roam over her silhouette, taking in every delicate curve of her face and flutter of her lashes. Even in the dim light, I can see how they feather out, casting a slight shadow above her nose and chin. How can I explain to someone so effortlessly perfect that I have always been anything but? That I’ve struggled with feelings of self-doubt and worthlessness for as long as I can remember? I’m not sure I can find the right words to convey my despair. That I felt I had nothing to offer the world and that, in that mental state, I believed I was better off dead? That I was only worth something when Dash was alive because he made me feel I had some small contribution and my existence in the world was valid. Is it any wonder that at one point, death seemed a better option than living in a world where I never felt I fit in?

As I stare out the window, words catch in my throat. There is no adequate way to articulate how a person feels when they lose the only person who ever made them feel like they mattered, but, for her, I’ll try.

“Growing up, I was nothing to my father. My worth was dependent on what I could do for him. He was cruel, but now I see it was his pain that made him mean. We both lost my mother and, instead of leaning on each other for strength, he used me as his whipping boy, so to speak. There were times when he would say ‘I wish you were—” I pause. “I knew what he meant, Savannah because he made me feel as if I was breathing oxygen that would be better spent on someone else. But everything changed when I met Dash and the band found fame. Green became his favorite color, and suddenly I had value. My dad died of a faulty liver, and I didn’t know how to feel about his passing. Dash was the brother I never had. He made me believe there was hope for me despite the crappy thoughts my father drilled into me. When Dash died …” I take a breath and clear my throat.

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