Page 37 of Opening Strain

After Jenna wipes her hands and tosses the napkin onto her plate, I ask the question that’s been running around my mind. “You do know Darren raved about you as his therapist, right? You got him back up and running in no time.”

“Thanks. Except for the fact the pain meds did a lot of the heavy lifting.” Her lips curl downward.

“Hey, your physical therapy got him back in the game. You can’t blame yourself for his addiction.” Hell, I’ve heard this platitude innumerable times.

“Kinda hard to avoid it.”

“I understand. I really do.” Her grey eyes zing into mine. “UC was with him every day and we didn’t know the extent of his addiction.”

She swallows. “I knew he had prescriptions. I always warned him not to mix them with alcohol. I never thought—” She stops talking.

“None of us did.”

Once again, silence descends. This time, without the awkwardness. Only sadness.

Jenna picks up the conversation. “I told him, you know. I told him to take his meds before your concert that night. I also warned him not to drink.”

For like the hundredth time, I think back to that night. I didn’t know he took the oxy before our gig, but I did know he was drinking afterwards. Still, it’s not what killed him. “The alcohol didn’t cause his overdose.”

Her head hangs. “I know. When we were on the phone that night, he was pretty wasted. Loud and funny, but wasted. He kept asking,” she pauses, and her throat constricts as if she were trying to swallow over a boulder. “Darren asked me about three times if he took his meds that evening. I told him he had before the concert, and he’d feel better in the morning. We were on FaceTime, so we could see each other. It was late. He started taking off his clothes to go to sleep. When his hands landed on the waistband of his boxers, I told him not to take them off.”

She swipes her palm across her eyes. “I was thinking he’d be more comfortable wearing them if he had to run to the bathroom to throw up.”

“Mystery solved.” My comment brings her gaze back to me. “You mentioned you told him to keep them on, but never gave an explanation. Makes total sense. Who wants to be butt naked on their knees in front of the porcelain god?”

“Exactly.” A single tear floats down her cheek, which she swipes away. “I should’ve called you or someone else in the band. Pierce. Anyone. I should’ve asked you to check up on him.”

I shake my head. “It wouldn’t have mattered unless we caught him in the act of taking more oxy. You said it. He didn’t remember if he took an earlier dose. He probably thought he was doing something good by taking another one.” I fiddle with the fork on my empty plate. “And another.”

“I bear the brunt of blame here. I knew oxy is highly addictivebut still encouraged him to take them because of the pain.” She turns her head and looks at the wall.

“Hey, Jenna.” My hand lands on top of hers. “You can’t blame yourself. Ultimately, it was Darren who took the pills. Don’t forget, they helped him heal, too. They served their purpose. He abused them.”

I needed to say this as much for her as for me. Only Darren is to blame for his decisions that evening. If only I could live this truth. From the looks of it, Jenna needs to embrace it as well.

She removes her hand and touches her cheek. “When did you get so smart?”

I shrug. “Born that way?”As if.Wanting to put the issue of Darren’s death behind us for now, I press, “You decided to stop seeing patients after he?—”

“Yup.”

“It’s a big loss to the public.”

She tilts her head but conversation stops when the server appears and clears our dirty plates. We decline anything further, but compliment the chef. She tells us she’ll be right back with our bill.

I press, “How do you manage to oversee two different locations?”

“Not alone.” A small smile plays across her face. “Court—Courtney—and I went to physical therapy school together, and I trust her implicitly. I tapped her to run the clinic we meet at, while Felipe is in charge of the other one. At Darren’s funeral, I promised himandmyself I would open ten clinics in five years as my way to honor him.” She bites her lip. “Ten was a special number to him.”

Was it? Without remembering, I nod. “Already well on your way.” What fraction is she at? One-third? One-quarter? Never was any good at math.

“Working on raising the capital for a third.”

I connect the dots. “Which is where I come in and why you’re back to seeing patients? Or at least me.”

“Well, yeah.” Her chin juts up. “My clinics are in the black, andI’m turning a profit. We provide a much-needed service in the Hamptons.” She crosses her arms.

Her determination is commendable. She has confidence in her therapists and clinics. “Is that why the Assh—I mean Austin, was asking for your opinion about his services this afternoon?”

---