“Is that what you think?”
“It’s what I believe.”
I used to kind of ignore old people. It’s terrible, really, but then I learned that they can offer some really priceless life hacks if you’re willing to listen.
“Yeah, but what if those two people weren’t sure what their fate was, or what exactly they were supposed to do?”
“Oh, they knew, trust me.”
“So God has a plan? And we all know what it is?”
“God, Buddha, the universe, whatever you want to call it. I’m a forward thinker, missy. I don’t know if it’s that black-and-white. I kinda think it’s like magnets. Put them close enough and they’ll come together, but turn them around and they’ll repel each other. When you feel the pull, you gotta give in to it. These two . . .” She pointed to the cover of the book.
“Don’t tell me! Please, I have a copy. I haven’t finished it yet.”
“Okay, well, when you’re done with it, look up the author’s photo. He’s a handsome one, my goodness.” She gave me a little wave.
I couldn’t wait to tell Jase the story.
WHEN I GOT to the bottom of the escalator at the San Diego airport, Trevor was there waiting for me. It was hard not to feel nervous around him. I kept thinking he knew everything that had happened while I was away, though of course, he didn’t. I used to be annoyed that he took everything at face value and didn’t ask questions, but this was one instance where it worked in my favor.
“How was your trip?” he asked as we walked to the parking lot.
I told him about meeting my dad and my mom, and he nodded along beside me.
When we got to his truck, my nose had started running, so I opened the center console to look for a tissue.
“No!” He slammed it back down.
“What’s in there?”
“Nothing. My medication.” He was pulling out of the parking lot, trying to focus on the road, his right hand still holding the lid closed.
“Let me see.” I brushed his hand aside as he made a turn and forced the console open to reveal several bottles of prescription pills. “What are all these for, Trevor?”
He looked straight ahead as we merged onto the interstate. “They’re just painkillers and anti-inflammatories. Nothing unusual.”
I reached in and started taking the bottles out, and Trevor shook his head. The first two were Vicodin and ibuprofen. I pulled out another bottle that was a muscle relaxer, and then some kind of steroid, and then OxyContin. “How much of this are you taking at any given time?”
“Just what they prescribe.”
“They don’t prescribe all of these together, Trevor. Be honest with me.”
“Goddammit!” He slammed the steering wheel and pulled onto the shoulder, killed the engine, and turned toward me. “What the hell do you want to know?”
“I want to know if you’re addicted to all of this shit.”
“Well, I want to know if you saw and fucked that writer guy in Ohio.”
I stared at him evenly. “I did see him, but I didn’t have sex with him. I kissed him. I lost my virginity to him when we were fifteen, and we have a really complicated history.” It shocked me that I hadn’t told Trevor that. “He was the only person I had when I was growing up. We took care of each other. I made a mistake kissing him, and I’m sorry. I promise it won’t happen again.”
“Are you in love with him?”
“I love him, but I love you too. I’m trying to figure everything out.”
He closed his eyes and swallowed. The truck was silent except for the sound of Trevor breathing fast and deep through his nose. “I can’t get off the pills.”
I shook my head. I couldn’t understand how Trevor had been able to keep all of this hidden from me. I wondered if maybe I was the one who wasn’t being present in our relationship. I guess it’s hard to be present when you’re busy denying who you are and shutting out the world. All this time, he was falling deeper and deeper into his addiction to pain meds. It explained a lot about his behavior—his mood swings, his air of indifference.
As I sat there in his truck, I realized I had an easy way out. The decision was made for me. I could leave Trevor because he was a drug addict. But when I looked into his pleading eyes, I realized I cared too much for him. I couldn’t leave him like that.
“You need help; you can’t do it by yourself. Your parents will help. I know they will.”
“I can’t tell them,” he said.
“You have to.”
He lowered his head into his hands, so I reached over and rubbed his back. “Trevor, you were an amazing athlete, but that’s not all you are, and you certainly aren’t a drug addict. Don’t let this become your identity, please.”
He started to cry. Trevor never cried. Not once in our entire relationship.
“Let me drive,” I told him. “We’ll call your parents when we get to my apartment.”