Page 39 of Shattered

Chapter twenty-two

Bohdi

Iglance down at my phone, frowning as I wait for Brayden to arrive, browsing his Instagram. It annoyed me he chose not to share a picture of himself on his story last night. I hate that because I couldn’t see him; I drowned myself in whiskey instead.

I hate how weak I feel if I can’t be around him.

The time on the wall ticks by. He’s ten minutes late. I stand up pacing while I keep refreshing his page. Do I message him on here? I’ve never messaged him. I know he knows I found his page, but is it acceptable for me to reach out to him?

I struggle internally for a few minutes, but Brayden’s arrival resolves it. His shoulders slumped, dark shadows surround his eyes.

He looks drained. With effort, he moves toward a desk, throwing his bag down. Before slumping down in a chair, he quietly says. “Sorry I’m late, sir.”

I don’t say a word. I keep watching him as he places his forearms on the desk in front of him and stares down at it.

He remains motionless, continuing to gaze without responding. I move closer to him and delicately place my hand on his arm. Abruptly, he emerges from his thoughts and directs his attention toward me. His tiredness becomes apparent when you see him up close. His eyes are swollen and bloodshot, as if he has been crying. With a frown of concern, I hurriedly rush out, “What’s happened?”

He shakes his head, “It doesn’t matter.” With a sigh, he rubs his tired eyes, as if they long to shut and remain closed for the rest of the afternoon.

“In case you’ve had a tough day, would you prefer to reschedule?” I ask, not want to push him. If he’s trying to catch up and engaging in training at the same time. I don’t want him to burn out.

He sits up taller, his voice raised slightly as he firmly says, “No. Right now, this class is probably the most important one for me. I need this.” His eyes, filled with pleading, dart back and forth between mine. It’s as if I’m witnessing him struggle to stay afloat, desperately clinging to a ledge, not wanting to drown.

“We can do this class today. But first, fill me in on what’s happening.” I know this isn’t fatigue from overdoing it. He hasn’t slept. I know what that look is. I carried it with me for months, and I still do occasionally. He concentrates on me, as if he is deciding whether he can confide in me.

“You know you can trust me?” I reassure him.

With a sigh, he admits, “I went to see Bex last night.” His already deflated shoulders sink even lower. “I need to help him. I can’t let this carry on, sir.” Despite his focus on his hand on the desk, I notice his trembling lip. I lower myself into a crouching position to meet him face-to-face, extending my hand over his arm.

“Hey, I need you to talk to me.” Unease settles within me. What has happened between them? Seeing him sad makes me feel physically ill.

“He’s not good, sir.” He takes a deep breath, and I can see him digging his nails into his hand. I frown and grab his hands, refusing to let go.

“Don’t do that.” With a grimace, I tightly clutch his hands. In an effort to contain his emotions, he inhales long and intense breaths.

“I need to help him. I can’t wait for a scout. I can’t sit back and wait any longer. I need to do something.”

“What do you mean by saying you can’t wait for a scout?”

“I love hockey.” He halts, studying my hands tightly clasping his. Instead of letting go, I tighten my grip, encouraging him to continue. “My goal has always been to get scouted so I can support Bexley the way he supported me. I want to admit him to a rehab center.”

“You know you could probably get him into a state one?” I follow up.

“I know, but they’re not worth it. A few people in the park went into them and they came out and started using again. They release you too soon. It’s overrunning, so they want people in and out.” I nod in understanding. Technically, they’re free, so it makes sense.

“What are you going to do?”

“I have no idea.” A sigh escapes from him. “By doing this charity project, I hope to discover opportunities to assist Bexley, even though I’m unsure what they may be.”

“Well, we better get cracking.” I let go of Brayden’s hands, which didn’t feel good. I have an immediate desire to reach out and hold on to him once more. With a forced smile, Brayden opens his laptop and prepares for an hour of research.

Sleeping isn’t coming easy as I toss and turn, remembering Brayden’s face, witnessing how distraught he looked. It doesn’t sit well with me. I need him to be happy; I need that smile on his face more than I need my next breath. I must be able to do something. The research today revealed companies we could present to, but they won’t aid a drug addict in getting into a private facility. I wish I had the financial means to back it, because there’s absolutely no doubt that I would go for it.

I turn on my laptop and launch the web browser, unsure of where to begin, but I start typing.

‘What are some ways a family member can support a drug addict?’

Many things are displayed, but none of them appear useful, so I persist in searching and stumble upon a highly rated group. I visit their website and scroll through their page. It’s a support group for family members with addicts’ as loved ones. They meet up regularly to offer each other guidance, but it appears they have an abundance of suggestions for places to explore that could be useful. Something about this place reminds me of Brayden’s plans, and I think it could be a promising start. They request a donation that supports the center’s operations and provides refreshments for attendees, and I’m happy to contribute. I can simply inform Brayden it’s free.

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