Page 24 of Craving Oblivion

Jordan chuckled. “Nope. Best to rip the Band-Aid off.”

“What if I’m still bleeding underneath?”

Jordan’s eyes filled with compassion. “That’s exactly why you need to do this now.”

He walked over to the door to our private gym, his white sneakers squeaking across the wood floor. He opened it, and a blast of trepidation hit me right in the solar plexus. My hands shook as I stared across the room at Steve.

He’d aged—or maybe I was simply noticing him, seeing him for the first time in a long while. I studied the gray threaded through his sandy hair, the crow’s feet around his eyes from squinting. His eyes were a darker brown than mine and looked back at me with as much concern as I felt welling up in my gut.

“Hi,” he said. He took a hesitant step into the room. “You look…”

“Not plastered?” I offered.

He nodded. “You look good.”

I scoffed. “I’m scrawny and gaunt. I’d scare a kid if I walked past one.”

His smile slipped from his lips as quickly as it came. “Maybe.”

Jordan stepped out of the room.

Steve took another few steps forward, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Look, Nash, I’m sorry.”

“For?” I asked, eyebrows raised.

“A lot of things. But I’m not sorry I let Lindsay into your room. She was the wake-up call you needed.”

“Cam said that was my manager.”

Steve swallowed. “No. That’s on me. I don’t like your manager because he supplies your drugs.”

I shook my head. “So you had me fire him.”

“Yeah. I knew thinking he’d let Lindsay in would be reason enough.”

“It was.”

I turned to stare into the wall of mirrors, my thin face staring back. I’d lost the sallow skin and dark-ringed eyes that proclaimed poor health. My cheeks glowed pink from my recent workout, and the muscles in my shoulders and arms were sleek, tight. Yesterday, Jordan and I had looked at the headshot taken when I entered the facility. I liked this version of me much better.

“I’m not sorry for that either,” I said. “I was on a bad trajectory. He needed to go.”

“You were. Had been, and I didn’t know how to stop it.” He took another couple of steps. We were maybe ten feet from each other now.

I inhaled. “I’m still very angry with you.”

He dipped his head. “You should be. I fucked up.”

“When did you start to wonder?” I asked.

Steve cleared his throat. “You’re nothing like Brad.”

“For which I’m very thankful. So why didn’t you find out?”

I cocked my head to the side and waited. He rubbed one of his palms across the back of his neck. “I had a shitty childhood.”

“Welcome to the club,” I muttered.

“No, I mean shitty.”

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