Page 124 of Sweet Caroline
A few moments later, the text comes in. In the photo, like in mine, Miles is holding out his pinkie.
My chest threatens to crack open at the sight of his tear-stained cheeks and his tired, crooked grin. His hair is shaggy and he’s let his beard grow in. I touch the screen, wishing I could touch his face. Wishing I could kiss him and take this pain away.
“Did you get it?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I sniff, trying to find my voice. “Sorry, just… distracted by your beauty.”
“So fucking cheeky.”
I smile to myself. “You look like Jude, though.”
Jude.
My eyes land on my laptop as Miles makes a wounded sound. “Well, if that isn’t motivation to shave, I don’t know what is.”
“But seriously.” I flip open my computer and quickly search for Jude’s contact info online. “Pinkie promise?” I’m not letting him dodge this. “That you’ll do it for you?”
“What, shave my sad-boy beard?”
“Miles!” I laugh, wiping at my tears.
“Okay, I promise, I promise.”
“Say it properly.”
“Oh my God. I already sent you my ugly mug.”
“What, you too good for pinkie promises?” I ask, echoing his own words from the night of the fundraiser. “Just say it!”
A long exhale. There’s rustling, then a clink of glass on his end of the line—and something that sounds like running water. When he speaks, his voice breaks a little. “Pinkie promise.”
26
MILES
Nothing saysI’m in a fucking statelike booking the earliest possible therapy session on the first day your therapist returns from vacation, but I guess I’m that guy. Lydia had given me contact info for a couple backup options while she was away, but I didn’t have it in me to start fresh with anyone. So I waited.
Too long, in hindsight.
I’d come dangerously close to throwing it all away the night I called Caroline. The closest I’ve come in almost a year. But,thank fuck, the only place I’d poured that poison was down the sink.
I’m not a religious man but, as cheesy as it sounds, I can’t help but think of Caroline like some sort of guardian angel. Not that she’d done anything magical last week; there was no miracle. No divine intervention. All she did was see me and love me and remind me there’s good underneath all the hard, ugly stuff. That there’s a life to fight for. And, when my brother inexplicably showed up at my place to check on me that night, I’d known she’d also found a way to make sure I wasn’t alone.
I’ve looked at the picture she sent every night since—thoseteary, gorgeous eyes, and that outstretched pinkie. She was right. Dorky pinkie promise photo aside—I couldn’t keep fighting just because she asked me to. Couldn’t rely on her as my motivation. I need to find the fucks within, so to speak. Need to do this for myself.
Step one ofOperation: Find the Fuckswas to get in with my doctor, who tweaked my prescriptions. It’ll probably take another few weeks to feel the full effects, but there are glimmers that the worst of this shitstorm might be lifting.
Step two? Therapy.
Lydia listens to my tale of woe, scribbling notes.
I wonder what kind of lingo therapists use to describe this kind of situation. How do you sayheartbrokenhot messin therapist-ese? I stuff down the impulse to ask, not wanting to waste my precious—and expensive—time with her.
Unable to help myself, I’m compelled to fill the silence as Lydia writes. “There was this woman at AA a while back.” I shift in my seat, my jeans squeaking slightly against the faux leather couch. “Talked about how she’d been dating this guy but thought maybe she was too attached. Figured she could be replacing one addiction with another. Is that a thing? Like, can you get addicted to a person?”
Lydia sits back in her seat, looking thoughtful. “Is that what you think happened with Caroline?”
“I dunno. Maybe.” Then, I hedge. “No?”
