Chapter Two #2
With a heavy sigh, I realize I still don’t know what his name is.
I should probably ask him so I can stop referring to him in my head as VP and Asshole.
Probably wouldn’t earn me any points if I called him that to his face.
I shrug my shoulders and hurry after him.
I press my ear against the door he went through and listen, but I don’t hear anything.
Shit. He better not have locked me out. Steeling my spine, I cautiously knock.
When nothing happens, I knock harder and wait. And wait. And wait some more.
Testing the door, I twist the knob and surprisingly find that he’s left it unlocked.
I slowly push it open and freeze when I find him standing at the foot of the bed with his hands on his hips and a frown on his handsome face.
He’s staring at a dozen tiny bottles of booze like they’ve personally wronged him in some way.
I’m a little confused why he cleared out of the mini-fridge in the first place but don’t ask questions.
“Uh, you’re not going to drink all of that, are you?
” I ask, watching him uncap the first little bottle with shaking hands.
I look him over more carefully and note the sweat gathering on his lip and brow.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! Did they send an alcoholic to get me?
The more I watch him struggle, the more pissed off I get.
They did! I’m blown away by the audacity.
Fuck it. They can test me all they want.
I’m not going to fail this time. My son means everything to me, and I will never let him down again.
I’m not going to take anyone’s shit from here on out.
When I turn to give him a piece of my mind, I falter.
Something is going on behind his eyes that I can’t quite decipher.
Whatever it is, it’s clear he’s struggling here.
I’ve seen enough people go through withdrawals, and he’s about to give up the ghost. He could at least have the courtesy not to do this in front of me.
I’m a goddamn recovering addict, for heaven’s sake.
I won’t relapse, I have too much to fight for, but he doesn’t know that.
“Hey! Hello? Can you at least tell me your name before you drink all that shit?” I ask, sweeping my arm out toward the bottles but get no response. “You realize I’m an addict, right?” I growl.
“I’m not getting drunk, woman. I’m trying to get rid of this shit,” he growls back with hate-filled eyes.
Shaking my head, I cautiously move into the room and pick up the bottles on the bed. I watch his reaction as I pour the contents down the drain. He looks relieved but a little disappointed, too.
“Thank you,” he rasps as he sits down on the edge of the bed and stares at his hands.
“You’re welcome, honey. I’ve been in your shoes. I know how hard it is. You’re doing great, considering your goal was to toss those. How many days has it been?”
“It’s been just shy of 72 hours,” he says, ducking his head in shame. I start to feel sorry for him. I remember how embarrassed I felt every time I admitted I was an addict. It takes time but eventually, he’ll realize that admitting there was a problem is the difference between losing and winning.
Sitting down next to him, I remember how hard it was in the beginning. Absentmindedly, I take his hand in mine and trace the bulging veins with my finger as I say, “It’s going to be okay.”
When his hand squeezes mine, I stiffen. Tilting my head, I flinch when I catch his intense stare and start to get nervous again. I quickly look away and freeze when it hits me that there’s only one bed in this room.
“I need my own bed!” I blurt out in a panic, ripping my hand from his.
“Sparrow,” he snaps.
“What?” He looks hurt that I yanked my hand from his.
Damnit, I didn’t mean to hurt his feelings, but I can’t sleep in the same bed as him.
Not only does the idea scare me, but what if I have another nightmare and lash out in my sleep?
No, that won’t work. I need my own bed at least, although I’d prefer my own room.
At this point, beggars can’t be choosers.
“My road name is Sparrow. When it’s just the two of us, you can call me Braxton.
That’s my government name. As for another bed, this room was all they had, so you’re going to have to get the fuck over it,” he growls.
He’s struggling to control his temper, so I hop up and take a healthy step back.
I’m no stranger to violence, which is why I put myself closer to the door and out of striking distance.
He must pick up on my anxiety because he tries to physically make himself appear smaller.
“Fuck! I’m sorry, Birdie. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me, but I’d never hurt a woman. I know I’m being an asshole, but you’re safe with me. That much, I can promise you.”
“You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t take your word for it. It’s nothing personal. I just don’t trust anyone.” I immediately regret my last words, especially when they only seem to reignite his cheery disposition.
“What the fuck ever. You’re the junkie who can’t be fucking trusted.” There’s the judgment that always gets thrown in my face. I’m tired of seeing it in the eyes of people who have no idea what I’ve survived.
Taking a calming breath, I center myself and remember that I don’t owe this man a damn thing. Not an explanation, not an apology, nothing!
“You don’t get to judge me. Maybe you should take a good look in the mirror and work on your own problems before you start pointing out mine.
I’ve been clean for 371 days. How about you?
” While he’s momentarily struck mute by my outburst, I grab my bag and go into the bathroom.
I gently close the door behind me and toss my bag next to the sink.
I sigh as I look at my reflection in the mirror.
That’s something I’m able to do now; look at myself in the mirror.
For years I couldn’t stand the woman staring back at me.
I thought she was a weak coward that should have fought harder.
I was wrong to blame myself for what was done to me.
After the last year of therapy, I now realize that it wasn’t my fault. I was a victim of sexual assault, but more than that, I’m a survivor. Now, when I look in the mirror, I do it with the love and grace I deserved all along.
Breathing in through my nose, I slowly exhale as I gather my composure.
Observing the warrior staring back at me, I run my fingers through my thick black hair.
My eyes are clear and alert, and my skin is healthy and glowing.
I’m proud of the girl I see. “You are strong,” I whisper to myself before starting the shower.