“How do you figure?”
“We were both dealt a shitty hand in life when it came to the family department. Mine was homophobic and physically abusive, and yours is negligent and absent. It’s easy to blame ourselves. Easy to sink into the depression and let ourselves rot there. Trust me, I fucking get it, man.” Pausing for a moment, I suck in a deep breath. What I’ve told him, no one except Aston and Katie know. “Before everything happened with my dad and prison, I used to, uh, hurt myself. Burn myself with cigarettes.”
The arm draped over his face drops as he glances at me. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I’ve been where you are. Maybe not in the exact same way, but I’ve been there. We aren’t what our parents did to us, Crew. No matter how easy it is to believe that. I’m not sick because I’m gay. I’m not weak because he’s a monster. You aren’t unlovable because they’re absent. And this addiction doesn’t define who you are, man. You gotta fight for yourself.”
“Sure feels like that pretty much all the time,” he whispers.
“I know it does. But you’re so much more than that,” I tell him with as much sincerity as I can shell out.
“I wish I believed that, bro. I really do.” He rakes a shaky, pale hand down his face. “If I’m being brutally honest, letting go, finally being free of this disease eating at me constantly, and not having to fight with it anymore sounds pretty fucking appealing.”
Something inside me cracks hearing him say that. Mostly because I’ve felt this way before. It’s hopeless and cruel, having your mind trick you into feeling worthless.
Speaking as candidly and from the heart as I can, I say, “You don’t want to die, Crew, you just don’t know how to keep living with how you’re feeling. You’re too busy looking at the big picture when you really need to be taking it day by day.” The pressure behind my eyes is insurmountable, and when I see the tears fall freely from his eyes, I force myself to keep going. To keep speaking against the lump lodged in my throat. “You can’t live to die. You gotta live, gotta fight like hell. Wake up every day and decide to live for the good in your life. The future is daunting, especially when you don’t know how you’re going to make it through the night, but taking it a day at a time is manageable. Today might fucking suck. Tomorrow might be a little better.”
“Why?” he croaks. Raw emotion evident in his voice. “Why are you sitting here, saying all this? Why do you give a shit about me?”
“You’re fucking wrong, Crew. You’re loved by so many,” I plead, desperate for him to believe it. “Including me. You’d be missed by so fucking many, dude. You can’t give up. You just can’t. Fuck your piece of shit parents, man. They don’t define you and neither do the drugs.”
“I don’t want to give up, Knox, but I don’t fucking know how to live either.” His voice cracks, and the admission is raw. It fills me with emotion I didn’t expect to feel.
“Like I said, take it day by day. One foot in front of the other. And you lean on those around you that care. Like Anderson. Or me. Or any of the other people downstairs who would fight for you. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last few years, it’s that family isn’t determined by blood. Family is who shows up, who proves to you they care. And us, man, we’re all your family.”
He wipes the moisture from his eyes before turning his attention to me. “I want to be good enough for Anderson. I want to be worthy of his love.”
“You already are. That guy would move mountains and cross oceans for you. And he’d do it gladly. You’re already worthy. It’s time you start believing that, my dude.”
A weak smile tugs at his lips. “Thanks, Knox.”
“You got nothing to thank me for, man. It’s what family’s for.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Crew
It’s been seven days since Kalen died and since I’ve done drugs.
A whole fucking week that I’ve survived something I didn’t think I could. The aches and pains are still there, but not nearly as bad as they were. I can get up and walk around without feeling like my bones are rubbing together and I can eat most foods without throwing up.
My fucking throat thanks me for that.
It was Kalen’s funeral today. We all went—even Anderson—and I’m feeling a whole slew of emotions about it. My sober mind can fully comprehend that what happened to him wasn’t my fault, nor could I have probably prevented it, but it’s hard not to feel the guilt and the shame that comes when I think about it.
Kalen was technically only my drug dealer, we only hung out to do drugs together, but he was still a semi-large part of my life for the last five years and I had grown to care about him, in my own drug-hazed way. Sure, I didn’t care about him to the extent that he seemed to care about me, but that didn’t mean I didn’t consider him a friend.
We talked a lot while we were high together. He knew parts of me that no one else knew. He was the only person, aside from Anderson, who I could consider a friend when I felt worthless. Watching him die was fucking brutal. It’s likely something that’s going to haunt me for a while. The way his body fought to hold on, the way I watched the life being sucked out of him in no time at all.
Anderson and I haven’t talked about anything in regard to us—if he even still wants there to be anus—since before the overdose. Things aren’t awkward between us per se, but it’s clear we both have a lot to say, a lot on our minds, and need to get it all out. We agreed to sit down after the funeral and do exactly that.
He’s downstairs helping his mom with stuff while I shower. I’m still sweating more than usual, and since the service was outdoors today, the August heat made me feel grimy after wearing a suit for a few hours. His parents have been amazing through all of this. They’ve both made an effort to come talk to me and offer support, not to mention welcoming me into their home to get through my withdrawal. Never once have they looked at me with the disgust or disappointment I expected, only love. It’s a vast difference from my parents, who couldn’t even be bothered to come home after learning about Kalen’s death.
My mind keeps drifting back to the fact that fall semester starts in two weeks. Anderson’s going back to Pullman, and I’m supposed to stay here and start my junior year at Western.
The thought of going back to being four hours away from him, and only seeing him on breaks, makes me want to puke. There’s no part of me that doesn’t hate that idea.
Fresh out of the shower, I’m back in his room, sliding a pair of sweats up my legs, when Anderson pops his head in. He looks fucking hot as shit today and it’s taking everything in me not to pop a boner. We haven’t messed around in almost two weeks and I’m going crazy. The wind blowing a certain way is enough to give me wood.