Page 37 of A Man To Remember
Oh right. Last night. When I found out I'm actually a monster.
"I hurt you," I continue, because apparently we're doing this now. Having the breakdown right here on the kitchen floor where I spilled coffee this morning and didn't clean it up properly. "I destroyed you and I don't know how to make it right."
Austin lets go of my face and steps back, giving me space to breathe. Or maybe giving himself space to escape if I completely lose my shit. Which feels increasingly likely.
"You don't have to fix it," he says quietly.
"Yes, I do!" The words explode out of me with enough force that Austin actually flinches. "That's what you're supposed to do in recovery. Make amends. It's literally in the fucking manual."
I'm on my feet now, though I don't remember getting up, pacing around my kitchen like a caged animal because sitting still means thinking, and thinking means drowning in the enormity of it all.
"But how do you make amends for something like that? How do you apologize for ruining someone's entire life?" My hands are shaking again, so I shove them in my pockets. "I can't take it back. I can't undo it. I can't give you back your life."
Austin leans against my counter, watching me pace. His jeans are still unbuttoned from my pathetic attempt at problem-solving, but he doesn't seem to notice or care.
"Jesse—"
"I've been awake all night trying to figure it out." I gesture wildly at the chaos of my living room. "All those papers? Lists. Pros and cons. Different approaches. I even looked up'how to apologize for outing someone'online, and you know what I found? Nothing. Because normal people don't do shit like that."
I don't fully register us moving to my living room until we're there.
The coffee table is covered with evidence of my spiral. Legal pads filled with illegible handwriting, my laptop still opento various forum discussions about making amends, empty mugs forming rings on surfaces that will probably stain.
I've been living in this mess for fifteen hours, and it looks exactly like the inside of my head.
"There's no guidebook for this," I continue, kicking at a crumpled piece of paper. "No twelve-step program for un-ruining someone's life. No magic words that make it okay."
"No," Austin agrees. "There aren't."
The honesty hurts in a brand new way. Because he's right.
"I keep trying to picture it," I say, collapsing onto my couch, my legs suddenly refusing to support me anymore. "What it must have been like for you. Walking into school that Monday and having everyone know. Having them whisper and point and..."
I can't finish the sentence. The images my brain conjures are bad enough without giving them voice.
"I imagine you trying to act normal while your world fell apart around you. And the worst part?" I look up at him, and his face is carefully neutral. Like he's a therapist listening to a patient instead of the victim talking to his tormentor. "The worst part is knowing I did that to you and then just... forgot. Moved on with my life while you were dealing with the aftermath."
He comes to sit on the opposite end of my couch. Far enough that we're not touching, close enough that I can see the way his jaw tightens when I describe his pain.
"You were sick," he says after a moment.
"That's not an excuse."
"It's not an excuse," he agrees, and I appreciate that he doesn't try to absolve me. "But it's an explanation."
We sit in silence for a while. I count the coffee rings on my table—seven—and wonder if I own enough coasters to prevent future damage. Stupid, mundane thoughts that keep me from spiraling further into self-loathing.
"You know what's really fucked up?" I say eventually.
"What?"
"I've spent seven years in recovery. Seven years working the steps, going to meetings, talking about making amends. And I never once thought about you. Never once wondered if there were people I'd hurt that I couldn't remember hurting."
The admission tastes like poison in my mouth.
"I made my lists of people I needed to apologize to, and your name wasn't on them. Because in my mind, I was this harmless addict who only hurt himself. Poor little Jesse, victim of his own disease."
Austin doesn't respond, but I can feel him listening. Really listening, not just waiting for his turn to talk.
