Page 104 of Until the Ribbon Breaks

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says dejectedly.

“I don’t want you to get in trouble. If you got caught driving on a suspended license ...”

“I can’t stay in that house with them.” His words come out dripping with pain, reminding me of the old Sebastian, the one who was always sloppy. Dropping his head, he confesses, “I don’t know what to do,” as he kicks the heels of his shoes against the densely-packed sand.

“It’s that bad?”

He nods. “It’s only gotten worse.”

“Have you been going to your meetings?” I ask, aware that, as part of his outpatient treatment, he has to attend weekly AA meetings.

“Yeah. I have my hearing in front of the judge next week.”

“Are you nervous?”

He stares out over the water. “It is what it is.”

I wish I could do something to help him, but I don’t know what that would be. I used to see him around and think that he was nothing but a spoiled, egotistical jerk, breaking the rules because he thought it made him cool. Now, I see the truth—that his life is a collision course of devastation.

As stupid as it is, I go ahead and pull the turtle I made out from my back pocket and hand it to him.

“What the hell is this?”

“It’s my turtle.”

When he cracks a smile and laughs under his breath, I lean in and nudge him with my shoulder.

“This isnota turtle.”

“What do you mean?” I point out all the parts to prove him wrong, saying, “See, there’s the tail. Flip it over. Look, there are the legs.”

“It’s completely deformed.”

I snatch it back. “You are so mean.”

“Low, look at it.”

I examine it for a second before pulling out the other turtle—the one he made—from my pocket. “Well, it isn’t as good as yours, but I’m getting better.”

He then swipes it out of my hand.

“What are you doing?” I ask when he tucks it into the pocket of his jacket.

“Keeping it.”

“Why? You made fun of it.”

“Because I want to keep it,” he says with a smirk on his lips, and it’s nice to know I helped put it there.

We wind up spending every minute of my remaining time hanging out together, and when time is up, my mother is already calling.

“At least she cares enough to check in on you,” he says after I hang up with her and groan in annoyance.

“She makes me feel trapped.”

We stand and walk to our cars, but I’m not ready to go just yet.

“What are you doing for the rest of the day?” I ask.

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