Page 42 of Hooking Up

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This one is done. My next five and a half years are devoted to my goal—becoming a research psychologist.

Seven. Keep a journal.

Eight. Read.

Nine. Find new hobbies and passions.

Ten. Accept yourself.

I toss the book on the couch and focus on scooping my TV dinner. The green beans are still mushy. The steak is overcooked. The potatoes are far from crispy.

It's food.

It satisfies my hunger.

But it's not enough. Not really. I want something good. Something better.

Maybe I can learn to cook.

That's a hobby. A passion even.

That—number nine—is where I need the most help.

I have no idea what I love. Or what I want out of life besides finishing school.

I'm going to figure it out. By the end of the quarter. That's my deadline for picking a summer internship. If I don't know what I want to do here, in Los Angeles, I'm taking an internship in New York.

I can't be here unless I knowwhyI want to stay sober. Not over the summer. There are too many bad memories. Too many opportunities to fall back into old habits.

With school, it's easy. I'm distracted. Focused. Enthralled. The long periods of nothing and grunt work that come with internships…

I can't handle that.

I finish the TV dinner, clean the tray, toss it in the recycling. It's late. Almost midnight.

But I'm wide awake.

I grab my current book from the shelf, set up on the couch, and try to lose myself in the words. It's not exactly literature, but it's an interesting story. It feels like something I should love.

But I don't.

I like it.

It passes the time.

But it doesn't grab my heart and refuse to let go.

That's a lot to ask from one book. Not every book can be amazing. But what if none of them are? What if all those years of drug use killed my ability to feel passionately about anything besides school?

I get through three chapters.

Then my phone buzzes.

My lips curl into a smile as I read the text.

Walker: Hey babe, it's your booty call. What are you up to? Ready for some epic bragging?

Iris: Reading.

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