Page 26 of Unwanted

She nods. “Don’t work too hard.”

“Yes, Mom.” I offer her a wink and turn away from them both, resisting the urge to stay.

My legs move as fast as they can, recognizing I need the distance and that I need to call Jenika.

I press the call button just as I climb inside my car, and she answers immediately. “Arlo. What’s up, honey?”

“You asked me what’s the worst thing that could happen now that Frankie is in town,” I blurt out.

“And?”

“What if I relapse?”

“Do you think that’s a possibility?” she queries.

“I think talking about our past could resurrect old insecurities and old coping methods.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Arlo,” she compliments.

“What?”

“Half the battle is identifying our triggers, and you continue to do that,” she says. “You are not letting this moment creep up on you. You’re not allowing his presence to blindside you into relapsing.”

“Do you think I could?” I ask. “Relapse?”

There’s silence on the other line, and I imagine her biting on her bottom lip in concentration, trying to determine the right way to answer me.

“Yes,” she states.

My cheeks burn in shame at her answer. It shouldn’t shock me. I’m an addict, after all, and being in recovery doesn’t mean I’m cured, it means I’m learning to live with it.

“Arlo.” Her voice is warm and comforting. “I have been sober for fifteen years, and if I had asked you if I could relapse, I would expect the exact same answer.

“We’re a work in progress, and I would rather be aware of the very real consequences of our actions, than pretend the temptation and the risks don’t exist,” she explains. “They willalwaysexist. Underestimating them, or overestimating yourself, is dangerous.”

The tension in my shoulders and chest loosens with every word she says. Even if it isn’t exactly what I want to hear, there’s solace to be found in not being alone and feeling understood in my journey.

It’s hard to admit, but the quicker you realize perfection isn’t what you’re striving for, the easier recovery is to process.

“Thank you,” I breathe out. “Most days I don’t think I’m doing this right.”

“You’re doing just fine, Arlo,” she reassures me. “As long as you continue to seek support when you need it most, you’re on the right track.”

The line goes silent before she asks, “Are you going to talk to Frankie?”

“I think I’m getting ahead of myself,” I tell her. “I think my senses were on overload from being around him, but if he’s going home soon, is there really any point in opening that can of worms?”

“Even if he leaves, do you not want to be friends?”

My mind mulls over the term. Have we ever really been just “friends”?

For everything we’ve endured and experienced together, “friends” was inadequate. Whether I liked to admit it or not, he’d always been my other half in every way.

And even after all this time, that connection was reignited the second I laid eyes on him. It didn’t matter that we’d done and said unforgivable things. I knew down to the marrow of my bones that he was mine and I was his.

But just because it felt like we were meant to be, it didn’t automatically mean we could work it all out; it didn’t mean there was ever a possibility we would last.

This was our life now. Strangers connected by history and circumstance.

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