Page 38 of A Man To Remember
"How fucking narcissistic is that? Even in recovery, I made it all about me."
"You didn't know."
"I should have known. I should have tried harder to remember. Should have asked more questions, done more digging." I scrub my face with my hands, feeling the stubble I haven't bothered to shave. "Instead, I just... moved on. Built this new identity as someone who'd learned from his mistakes."
"You did learn from your mistakes."
"Did I? Because it feels like I just forgot them instead."
Another silence stretches between us. This one feels different, though. Less loaded with my panic andmore...thoughtful. Like we're both processing instead of just reacting.
Austin shifts on the couch, and I notice he's finally buttoned his jeans. Good.
"Tell me about high school," he says suddenly. "What do you remember?"
The change of subject throws me. "Why?"
"Because I remember you from before you got sick. And it’s nothing like you’re describing."
I try to think back, but it's like looking through fog. "I remember some things. Bits and pieces. Football. Parties. Being popular, I guess." I pause, searching for more substantial memories. "I remember feeling like I had to be perfect all the time. Like everyone was watching, waiting for me to mess up."
"You were the golden boy," Austin says. "Star athlete, good grades, parents who showed up to everything. Everyone wanted to be you or be with you."
There's no bitterness in his voice, just observation. But it makes me feel worse somehow.
"That doesn't sound like me."
"It was you. Back then." He leans back against the cushions. "But you were also... intense. Like you were running on some kind of internal pressure that never let up. Always had to be the best, the most popular, the center of attention."
I can almost see it—the person he's describing. Someone desperate for approval, for control, for everyone to see him as perfect.
Someone who might spread gossip without thinking about consequences.
"I was an asshole."
"You were a kid. And then you were self-medicating." His voice is matter-of-fact now. "You weren't thinking clearly about anything, let alone the impact of your actions."
"You're being awfully understanding about this."
"I've had ten years to process it."
"And I've had ten years to not even remember it happened."
We fall quiet again. Austin pulls out his phone, checks the time, and I realize it's getting late. He probably has places to be, people to photograph, a life to get back to that doesn't involve managing my emotional breakdown.
"You don't have to stay," I say.
"Do you want me to leave?"
The question is simple, but the answer isn't. Part of me wants him gone so I can wallow in private. But there's also this other part, terrified he'll walk out and never come back.
"I don't know what I want."
"That's okay. You don't have to know right now."
His patience is maddening. How is he this calm? This understanding? If someone had destroyed my life and then forgotten about it, I'd want to punch them in the face, not sit on their couch offering comfort.
Maybe that's the difference between us. He's evolved past his pain, while I'm just discovering new depths mine.
