Page 120 of Imperfect Player

Ethan

I’m alive.

I’m alive and lying in a hospital bed wishing I wasn’t.

Not because I’m sober, or even because of the shit childhood that I blame the drinking on. It’s because I can’t handle what I just put Everly through. Sweet, sinfully sexy Everly who sits beside me, holding my hand, reiterating the ‘plan.’

“This is the rehab facility.”

“You’ll spend thirty days there.”

Lying here in the hospital bed, all I can hear is Everly’s voice making plans, going over what needs to be done.

“Enough.”

Everly’s mouth snaps shut.

She’s been a goddamn saint through this and doesn’t deserve my wrath.

I have to do something though. I have to get her to walk away when I know damn well she doesn’t want to, and honestly, I don’t want her to either.

What I want and what she needs are two very different things.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I just need a little quiet.”

What I actually need is space. From her. From her ‘plans.’

How do I tell her that though when she’s trying so hard? Too hard, for that matter. She wants me fixed more than I do. She wants me to be the man she needs. The only problem is, I don’t think I can be him. Especially not now.

“Yeah, of course.”

She plasters on a fake smile as she tries to hide the tears I see welling in her eyes.

“Why don’t you take a break? Go get something to eat.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

The question may sound playful, but it comes from someplace deeper. I can hear it. Feel it.

“I’m just tired. With the transfer to the rehab facility tomorrow . . . I just want to get some rest.”

“Yeah, sorry. You need rest. I’m going to go.”

She reaches for her bag on the floor, her movements quick and jerky as she tries to rush. She knows. She can feel it.

Fuck.

I reach for her hand and manage to capture it just before she bolts.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

With a brave face on, she nods, acting like everything is okay when we both know that it isn’t.

Everly hadn’t been joking when she said she found some great rehab facilities. Hell, I’m pretty sure she had found every single one. Including the one we’re sitting in.

Every tick of the clock, every moment that passes, I want to run. I want to leave and head for the bottle because I’ll be damned if it isn’t the easier way.

This? Withdrawals? Coming to terms with the shit I’ve done? The shit that’s been done to me?

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