Page 21 of Unloved

Almost immediately, a nearby hospital room door opens and a man about my age steps out. He’s wearing dark denim jeans and a gray t-shirt, with a look of complete heartbreak on his face when he notices me next to Arlo.

“Frankie, this is Rhys,” he informs him as we get closer to the room. “He’s a client at the gym.”

I pretend not to be annoyed that he called me a client and not a friend, and choose for my focus to remain on whatever is going on with these two.

“The gym?” Arlo’s friend, Frankie, repeats, seemingly confused.

“Yeah, I thought Clem would’ve told you. I run programs at the gym for…”

Arlo’s eyes dart between me and Frankie, a little frazzled at having to explain exactly what the purpose of the gym is.

“For recovering addicts,” I finish, without any shame. I extend my arm out, hoping it serves as some sort of olive branch. “We were going out to dinner, but Arlo wanted to make a pitstop here first. I hope you don’t mind me tagging along.”

“Dinner,” he echoes.

Shit. Did I just make this worse?

He slips his hand into mine and shakes it… well, if you can call it that. Eventually, he shifts his gaze to Arlo, missing that initial warmth he seemed to walk out of the room with.

“You didn’t have to stop by if you had a date.”

It’s obvious now these two have history, and I wonder if he’s the main reason Arlo hasn’t slept around in the last four years.

“We’re not on a date,” Arlo says firmly, his feet moving him closer to his friend and farther away from me. He clearly has a point to prove. “I don’t date clients.”

Frankie releases his hold on my hand and slips it into his jeans pocket. He straightens his spine, purposefully moving closer to Arlo.

I definitely feel like I’m intruding on a private moment.

“You don’t date clients?” he asks Arlo.

I watch the two of them like a voyeur, but I’m finding it difficult to turn away. The tension between them is palpable; the kind you have when you love someone but you’ve also hurt them. They really need to fuck or fight it out.

Arlo keeps his voice even, low enough that I know it’s only for his friend to hear, but not too low that I can’t make out what he says.

“I don’t date anyone. Ever,” he says.

The air between them becomes thick and charged, suffocating me. It’s apparent they’ve both completely forgotten I’m here.

“Arlo says it’s not good for his sobriety,” I pipe in, pretending that I’ve been part of their conversation the whole time. “I’m hoping I can be as disciplined as he is.”

My voice has the desired effect, like a pin popping a bubble.

“That’s great,” he says to Arlo as he puts some distance between them. “I’m so happy it’s all working out for you.” He turns to me. “And you too. Good on you for getting sober. I know it’s not easy.”

“It’s not,” I agree. “But Arlo helps.”

I don’t know their history, but it’s evident it’s long and deep. In the short time I’ve known Arlo, it’s easy to see he isn’t the guy who toots his own horn—you’d be hard pressed to hear him say a single nice word about himself.

But if this friend of his needs a reminder of all the ways Arlo has made a life for himself, I’m happy to be the one to list them.

Sobriety should never go unnoticed, not for someone like Arlo.

“Lennox is coming home tomorrow, so we figured we would order pizza to celebrate. I know you have plans, but you’re more than welcome to stay and eat with us.”

“We’d love to,” I say, knowing that Arlo already regrets not being here enough with his family. I don’t want to be the reason he isn’t with them tonight. “Is it already ordered or would you like us to go pick it up?”

“Umm.” He gestures behind me. “We waited to order, but I can ask everyone what they want and go and get it. No need to trouble yourselves.”

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