Page 57 of Strange Lad

The times when he felt like my other half. When I could count on him for anything.

With Jorge in my arms, though, I feel guilty. I’m fucking up again even though I’m sober. I’m teetering on the edge of a monumental fall. Deep down, I guess I know that Phoenix is trying. I’m not ready to forgive him or anything, but I’m not blind. The texts, the calls, showing up at my house—it’s all proof that he’s doing more than he ever has.

That being said, I don’t trust him or his boyfriend.

But if I want to spare Jorge from the inevitable fallout if our secret comes out, I need to buck up here. My thumb taps out a text at a snail’s pace, my stomach twisting the whole time.

Will Phoenix be there?

No. Just us.

When?

When is good for you?

Knowing we both go to the same group meeting, I think about it.

How about after group?

Sounds good.

Well, I guess I’ll talk to you then. We are going over to Jorge’s right now because he’s sick. Hope you have a good day, Oli.

“Oh my fucking god,” I blurt, and Jorge snorts awake.

“What happened?” he croaks, blinking and wiping his drool. “It’s so wet,” he whines and then slaps at the puddle on my chest.

I ease him off me and jump to my feet. “Phoenix is coming over.”

“Huh?” He scrubs his eyes and coughs.

“Fuck. Fuck.” My hands fly to the back of my head while I pace in his living room. “My car is right outside. Jorge.Jorge.I have to leave.”

Phoenix’s apartment is about twenty minutes away, but he drives fast. He could alreadybeon his way. Shit! I dash into the kitchen, grab my keys, and zip back to the front door. Jorge gets up on wobbly legs and coughs again. He sounds and looks terrible.

“You’re leaving?”

“Phoenix is coming over. Eli just texted me,” I explain in a rush. “I can’t be here.”

“Just hide in my room,” he says like it’s obvious.

“They could be here for hours,” I point out.

Even sick as a dog, he manages to flutter his eyelashes and say, “Then I’ll come to check on you.”

I roll my eyes and throw my thumb over my shoulder. “I’m going to go.”

“But I don’t want you to. I’ll tell him—”

“They’re already on the way.”

“It’s my fucking house. If I don’t want company, I don’t have to have it.” And then he goes into a marathon coughing fit. His lungs rattle and sound wet. The over-the-counter medicine doesn’t seem to be helping that much.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, my keys dangling between my fingers. “Let me move my car. And when they get here, tell them to go.”

“Okay.”

“Sit back down,” I tell him gently.

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