Page 60 of The Secrets We Built Together

I laughed despite myself. "Funny how that's not covered in the literature."

"Look," Jeremy's expression turned serious, "being in recovery doesn't mean you don't get to have a life. It means you learn to have one responsibly. One year is a huge milestone, Xander. Don't let fear rob you of acknowledging that." He checked his watch. "But be honest with yourself about what you're feeling, and be honest with her. That's the only way to keep things from getting more complicated than they need to be."

I nodded, grateful for the guidance. The acceptance these people offered still felt undeserved, but I was learning to sit with that discomfort.

The meeting had run late, and the parking lot was dark when I emerged from the building. I was halfway to my truck when I spotted her—Blake, sitting on the hood of Reece's car, sketching in the dim light from a streetlamp.

My heart hammered against my ribs. How long had she been there? What had she heard?

She looked up as I approached, tucking her pencil behind her ear in a gesture I'd come to recognize as her artist's habit.

"Hey," she said simply.

"Hey," I replied, unable to form more words. "How did you—"

"Booker told me." She slid off the hood, standing to face me. "Not where, exactly. Just that you might need someone afterward. And that today was important."

The thought of my brother involving her in this intimate part of my life sent a wave of conflicting emotions through me—annoyance, embarrassment, and beneath it all, a strange relief.

"How long have you been waiting?"

She shrugged. "A while. Amelia's with Reece." Blake's gaze was direct, unflinching. "You don't have to tell me anything. I just... I didn't want you to be alone afterward if you didn't want to be."

The spring night air was cool, carrying the scent of new growth and possibility. In the distance, the streetlights of Willowbrook blinked like earthbound stars.

"Let's walk," I suggested, not ready to get in a car, not ready to go back to the cottage where our carefully constructed arrangement waited.

Blake fell into step beside me, her hands tucked into the pockets of her light jacket. We wandered down a quiet street, the silence between us not uncomfortable, but weighted with unspoken things.

We reached a small park, empty at this hour except for the occasional moth fluttering around the path lights. Blake sat on a bench, and I joined her, careful to leave space between us—though part of me wanted to close that distance.

"I don't know the first thing about addiction," she admitted. "But I know what it's like to be afraid of becoming your parents."

The air between us seemed to vibrate with shared understanding.

"My medical training makes it worse, in some ways," I found myself saying. "I understand exactly what's happening in my brain when I crave a drink. The dopamine pathways, the neural networks that have been rewired. I can analyze it clinically, but that doesn't always help with the feeling."

Blake nodded, her eyes reflecting the dim glow of the path lights. "Like how I can deconstruct a painting into its technical elements—composition, color theory, brush technique—but that doesn't always help me create something meaningful."

"Exactly." I was struck by how precisely she'd understood. "There's science, and then there's... life."

We sat in silence for a moment, the distant sounds of the town a gentle backdrop to our conversation.

"I'm afraid of failing Amelia," Blake whispered. "Of not being enough for her."

"I'm afraid of wanting this too much," I confessed, the words rushing out before I could stop them. "This life we're pretending to have. I'm afraid that if I let myself believe it's real, I'll lose sight of what's important."

Our fears, laid bare between us, seemed to create a bridge rather than a barrier.

"Is that why you've been pulling back?" she asked, her voice gentle. "I can feel it, you know. The distance."

I nodded, unable to deny it. "The recovery literature recommends avoiding new relationships in the first year of sobriety. As of today, I'm officially past that mark, but I keep wondering if what we have counts as new. If it's even real enough to count as anything."

"What do you mean?"

I turned to look at her, studying her face in the dim light. "Sometimes when I'm with you and Amelia, it feels so natural that I forget we're pretending. And then I remember this is allfor show, for DCFS, and I don't know which version is the truth anymore."

Blake was quiet for a moment, then reached for her bag beside her on the bench. "I was going to wait until we got home, but..." She pulled out a small white bakery box and opened it carefully, revealing a cupcake with a single candle stuck in the frosting. "Booker told me about your one-year anniversary. I thought you might want to celebrate, even if it's small."

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