Page 26 of Unloved

“And what’s your relationship like with your family now?” Samuel asks.

The text shows up in our chat with Lennox only a second later.

Me: They pay for my housing and for every time I’ve needed rehab and my health insurance.

“Really?” Lennox asks incredulously.

Unable to help myself, I raise my head and look at Samuel and Lennox, who are both staring at me intently. I choose to speak into my phone this time, because I want to see their faces as I finish the story.

“My dad pays for everything so when I die from an overdose, nobody can look at him and say he didn’t do everything he could to help me.”

I quickly press send and then look at Samuel, whose face has completely fallen at my revelation. When I turn to Lennox, I catch him working his throat and wiping the corner of his eye. “And your sister?”

Somehow he knows the answer, but I speak into my phone and send it to him anyway.

“I’m not allowed to have a relationship with her.”

* * *

After I drop the bomb on them about Kayla, the conversation turns light and the three of us resume talking about things that don’t matter. Food, football, and how I would never love working out as much as they do.

I don’t bring up teaching them sign language and figure now that I’ve told them everything I want them to know, they have my number and can reach out. For what it’s worth, opening up to them was unlike any time I’ve ever rehashed that story.

Telling your story to others in recovery is easy, because they’d all hit rock bottom. But when you tell people who don’t necessarily understand addiction, or maybe weren’t exposed to it, the process is different.

I always feel the guilt and the shame, and for a split second, this was no different, and then I’m usually always rewarded with judgment and disgust. Truthfully, I understand those feelings. I judge and am disgusted with myself daily, but choosing to share my story with Lennox and Samuel is new and makes me feel both vulnerable and scared.

I care what they think of me.

I bask on this imaginary pedestal they put me on, and I’m not ready to be knocked off it. But as to be expected, their empathy continues to surprise me. They don’t flinch and they don’t judge, but they do make me hope, and that feels so dangerous.

On one hand, hope keeps you going, but on the other, nothing hurts more than the loss of it.

When Frankie returns to the hospital, Samuel and I take it as our cue to leave, and we reluctantly do so. It’s clear that Samuel hates being without Lennox, and after the connection I saw between them, I understand why.

A car beeps and its headlights flash in the distance as we walk side by side through the hospital’s dark parking lot. As we get closer to the car, I notice it’s a fairly new Honda Civic.

“How did you score this sweet ride?” I ask.

He looks at me over the roof of the car. “My mom likes to overcompensate.”

“For what? Did she run over your family pet?”

He laughs as we both climb into the car. “Something like that.” Placing his cell phone in the cup holder, he points at it. “Can you please type your address in?”

I type in the details and he concentrates on backing out of the parking spot. I don’t miss how he’s bypassed answering my question, but I choose to let it go, out of respect for his privacy. Not everyone wants to be an open book.

Instead, my eyes take the time to gaze at his appearance. I know he and Lennox play football together, and there’s no hiding the way they both fill out their clothes, but where Lennox is lean, Samuel’s muscles are more defined and bulkier.

He sure is pretty to look at.

“Thank you for taking me home,” I say

He chuckles. “You haven’t made it there yet.”

His joke catches me off guard in the best kind of way. “You’re funny when you’re not busy being Lennox’s bodyguard.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Thankfully, his tone isn’t defensive or irritated as he drives us out of the hospital parking lot and waits for my answer.

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