Back to Me (Book Three ✓)

one

BEAU
present

"Rise and shine," Callie, the younger nurse with red hair and freckles all over her cheeks, just like Emma has, knocks rapidly on my door, making sure to detect movement under the covers before continuing. "You've got a roommate, by the way. This is Parker."

Barely stretching my neck to look over my covers, my head still pounding with what seems to be a never ending hangover, I catch sight of a dark haired boy, reluctantly following Callie into the room.

Boy is the best word to describe him. With a baby face like that, he must not be more than eighteen years old.

I grunt a response before turning over in bed, staring at the wall until Callie comes back to make sure I'm up, just like I do every morning.

I guess it's really only been a couple of days, but it feels like much longer. Rocco and Dex thought this center would be the best place for me, but I fucking hate it. Unlike last time, my body didn't have to detox years of alcohol from my system, only a couple of shitty nights worth. Even still, my head is pounding and my throat is still scorching. Add in the scheduled meals, therapy sessions, and now a fucking roommate, and it's like I'm living in my own personal hell.

"Not today, Beau." Callie says sternly, making my eyes roll to the ceiling as I turn to face her again. "Be polite." She raises her brows at me before finally turning from the room.

I release the sarcastic exhale I've been holding in once she's out of ear shot and stare straight up at the ceiling.

I need to get out of here. Immediately, my snarky subconscious argues mercilessly: And go where? You have no one left, you're not wanted.

Flames lick the back of my throat as my heart hammers in my chest, each beat reminding me how badly I fucked things up this time.

How could I have let this happen?

"'Sup?" Parker slumps into the mattress across from mine, the only other in the room, momentarily distracting me from my shame and self pity.

'Sup? My eyes narrow at him, his shoulders hunched forward, hair covering what I might have been able to see of his face.

"How fucking old are you?" I can't help myself, even though I really don't mean to be a dick.

"Nineteen." The boy answers honestly, looking to his feet as he does.

"Huh," I sit up, pulling a white t-shirt over my head. "Nineteen and already in rehab. Nice."

Who am I to judge? I wonder even as the words leave my mouth. Is he really any different than me at nineteen? Apparently he is, because he's here. He, or someone who cares about him, clearly has the funds to support treatment. Lucky him. Maybe if I'd gotten it then, I wouldn't be here now.

Or maybe I would be. What the fuck do I know, anymore?

To my surprise, the kid laughs, bringing me back to the present.

"And how many programs is it that you've gone through? I know who you are, man. Excuse me if I don't really give a shit what you think,"

When I look up at his words, harsh but true, his eyes are intent on my face, awaiting my reaction. Maybe I should be pissed, but I'm not. I'm tired.