Page 89 of Carry On
Yeah, I knew that too.
“Look at me.” Lincoln’s knee bumped into mine, but I still refused to look at him. He repeated the action. And a third time. “I’m not stopping until you look at me. I will irritate the ever-loving fuck out of you until you look at me and answer my question. I am both equal parts charming and fucking annoying. Just depends on the day.”
I scoffed at the idea. I had a hard time believing that Lincoln knew how to be annoying. Too brazen and truthful for his own good, maybe, but never annoying.
“Not enough,” I grumped. I caved and looked at him. His lips pressed together as he nodded slowly.
“I have it on good authority that this now two-thirds empty bottle was unopened this morning.”
“You’re not funny.”
“I’m not trying to be,” he shot back. “Are you drunk right now?”
“Not exactly.” I’d stopped drinking around midday. That turned into just sitting and spiraling. I was excellent at that part.
“Okay.” He fell silent, and I could practically see the wheels turning in his brain. His expression was composed. Contemplative. Calculating.
He’s getting rid of you,the voice told me.
I wouldn’t be surprised. I deserved it.
“I’m not mad at you,” Lincoln said. My gaze snapped to his face, searching for some clue as to what kind of game he was playing. He repeated softly, “I’m not mad at you, Nash.”
“You should be,” I replied. Why wasn’t he?
“I’m not.” He shook his head. “But we need to talk about what happened—”
“I almost fucking killed you,” I snapped over him.
“I know, but—”
“There are no buts.”
“You need help, Nash. I can’t…” he faltered as he struggled to find the right words.
He can’t handle you anymore,the voice said.
“I can’t help you the way you need help. I’m not equipped to…” He blew out a long breath. “I don’t know how to help you, Nash. I’m not equipped to. You need to see a doctor who can help you, so this doesn’t happen again. Thiscan’thappen again.”
Another doctor. Another person to tell me just how fucking broken I was.
How many people need to tell you before you realize you’re just not worth it?the voice asked.
“You need help, Nash,” he whispered.
“You can’t fix me,” I murmured.
“I’m not trying to.”
“No one can.”
“Maybe it’s less about fixing you,” Lincoln said, “and more about learning how to live with this.”
Even he knows you can’t be fixed,the voice cut in.
“Nash?”
I said nothing. How did I make him understand that I didn’t want to live with this? I had been for a long time. Too long. I was fucking tired of living with this thing inside me. There was no fixing it. It was a disease I was stuck with. It rotted me from the inside out, destroying anything good that had once been there until I was nothing but a shell of a man.
