9. The Right Kind of Addiction

9

The Right Kind of Addiction

Deacon

As I step into Dr. Stewart's building, I feel like a kid who misbehaved and needs to make amends. In a way I do, and it's worse. Thirty-five-year-old men don't storm out of their therapist's office.

"Deacon, good to see you," Dr. Stewart greets me from the doorframe of the waiting room, looking as serene as ever. Maybe therapists don't get mad. Or maybe he's just seen worse.

"Hi, Dr. Stewart."

"Take a seat," he says, sinking into his usual brown armchair.

"Actually, can I stand for this one?" I ask, glancing at the books on his shelves.

"Sure. If that's more comfortable for you," he says, pulling out his notebook. "So, how are you today?"

I turn to face him. "Aren't we going to talk about our last session, when I stormed off?"

"If you want to talk about it, we can."

"I—I'm sorry I did that," I say, checking the sturdiness of the bookshelf. He's got a lot of books jammed in there. Surely there's a maximum weight limit.

"I understand, Deacon. And I forgive you," he says. "Talking about emotions is difficult, and sometimes, the only way to deal with them is to walk away."

I stay silent, because he really hit the nail on the head.

"However, I do think you'd feel a lot better if you let your emotions out instead. Suffering a loss, especially that of someone close to you, is extremely difficult."

"But that's the thing," I snap. "Amelia and I weren't that close. Why do you think I barely know my niece? They lived in the city—everything I hated—and I lived in the countryside with a lake in my backyard. I was the grumpy uncle Lola only saw a couple times a year."

"Why didn't you see your sister more often? Were you two always so distant?"

"I just told you," I say, turning back to check the sturdiness of his desk. "I didn't like the city, and she didn't have the time or the desire to come to our hometown. Not that I blame her. They weren't always the best memories. And yes, we were always distant."

"See, now that I find hard to believe, Dea—"

"You didn't know her."

"That's true, but I know Lola. And from what she tells me, her mother held a high opinion of you."

I stop in my tracks. "What do you mean?"

"Even if you didn't see each other often, your sister liked you a lot. According to Lola, you were someone she could always count on, and you did a lot for her growing up. You are the eldest child, right?"

I blink back at him, frowning. What I'm hearing doesn't make any sense. Amelia was very capable of taking care of herself, unlike me, who has no clue how to care for others.

"Deacon?" he presses, his eyebrows knitting together.

"Yes. I'm two years older."

"And you don't agree with what Lola said? That you had a positive impact on your sister's life? "

I stop in front of the fire extinguisher and check the expiration date. "I don't. I have a negative impact on everyone around me."

"Why would you say that?"

I scoff. "Just look at my family. They're all dead."

"You still have Lola."

"Until something happens to her because of me!" I practically shout, my body heat increasing threefold. Tears fight to escape, and I tap my fist against the wall. "I can't protect her all the time. I know that. No matter how hard I try."

"Is that why you've been inspecting every inch of my office since you got here?"

I frown, looking at him.

"You've checked my bookshelves, desk, the vents, the window, and the fire extinguisher."

"So?"

"You're very attentive to safety. I appreciate you caring about mine."

"I can't help it," I say, balling my fists. "I was too lax in the past, and everyone around me paid the price."

"What do you mean?"

"My mom passed away when I was nine because of my dad. He was drunk, and they were in an accident. I knew he was drunk. I should have forbidden my mom from getting in the car or stolen the keys."

"Deacon, you are not responsible for your mother's death. At nine years old, there was nothing you could have done to prevent such a tragedy."

"But I could have tried," I hiss through gritted teeth. "My grandmother died because the steps on her front porch collapsed as she was going out to get the mail. I was supposed to do the maintenance on them. I knew there was a weak step. I knew it!" I yell. "But I did nothing. She had a bad fall, and two months later, she was dead."

"So, the fall itself didn't kill her?" he asks, writing something down.

"No, but it might as well have. She never left the hospital. It was one problem after another. The doctor said it's often like that with older people. They come in for a minor injury, but it kickstarts an entire chain of issues."

"How old was your grandmother?"

I close my eyes. "Eighty."

"She had a long and full life, I'm sure."

"But it shouldn't have ended that way. It's my fault," I say, running a hand through my hair, wanting to pull it all out. "My grandmother was all I had, and I didn't take care of her. She always wanted to be independent and refused to move in with me. I should have forced her. If I'd have been firmer, maybe she'd still be here today."

"I understand that you feel responsible, Deacon. But you're not. Some circumstances are out of our control."

"All the people I care about are dead, Dr. Stewart." I fall onto the couch, my head in my hands. "That's no coincidence. All these people have one person in common, and that's me. I couldn't even save Amelia. And now, I probably won't be able to save Lola."

"Amelia died of an illness. No one could have predicted that, and it was not hereditary. Lola told me as much."

"But I should have at least been there for her," I mumble, not lifting my head. I feel tears streaming down my face and trickling between my fingers. "Maybe if I'd made the effort of visiting her more often, I would have noticed something wrong with her, and she could have gotten help in time." My tears have transformed into sobs, and I'm not even sure he understands a word I'm saying. "Lola might not be sick now, but I know I'll do something to mess this up. Because that's what I do."

"Good," he says. I feel the couch shift as he sits next to me. "Let it out."

He places a hand on my back. And taking comfort in the gesture, I do just that. I let out years and years of resentment toward myself, all the guilt and the fears that eat me alive day after day.

I never thought I would say it, but this therapy thing might not be so bad. I don't magically feel good about myself, and my worries and guilt haven't vanished, but it's a step in the right direction. Maybe I can make this parenting thing work too, and not always think of the worst-case scenario. It's the least I can do to honor my sister's memory. And since it's Lola's birthday tomorrow, I know I need to do something for her.

As always, when I enter the No Shelf Control bookstore, I feel like a bull in a china shop. And as always, when I lay eyes on Alice Beaumont, I forget everything else.

She's standing behind the counter, her forehead wrinkled as she peers at her computer screen. I'll be damned, but even with that frown of concentration, she still looks absolutely breathtaking. Her brown locks frame her perfect face—I swear this girl has no imperfections. It's like her skin is made of velvet. Her yellow plaid skirt and green top would make anyone else look like a pumpkin, but she looks exquisite .

The little bell on the door announces my presence, and Alice's gaze meets mine. Her expression instantly changes, shifting from relaxed to tense, and a little bit of something else. For a second, I wish I was another person. Someone to whom she would flash her perfect and sincere smile. Someone she'd truly be happy to see.

"Um, hi," I say, clearing my throat. "I'd like to buy some books."

Her mouth opens slightly, and her arms fall to her sides. She stares at me for what feels like an eternity, and just when I'm about to break the silence, she musters a smile and says, "Hi. Sure, what kind of books?"

"Well, you tell me, Frenchie," I say, trying to seem perfectly at ease. "You know Lola's tastes better than I do."

"Oh, it's for Lola!" Her smile widens. "Absolutely. Follow me."

We stop in front of one of the displays, the one that says, " Bookstagram made me buy it ," and she picks out a book with a pink cover. "This one is super cute, and I know she—"

"Wait, can you tell me about this Bookstagram situation first?"

Her gaze follows mine, and she puffs out a laugh. "Relax. It's just a part of Instagram. You know, the social media app? "

I grimace. "Do I look like a guy who uses social media?"

This time, she laughs for real, and the corners of my lips twitch in response.

"Well," she says, straightening the pile of books into a perfect block. "To put it simply, Bookstagram is a place where people share photos and graphics about the books they read. They also share their reviews, wish lists. Things like that."

"Do you use real names? Can people find out where you live?"

She shakes her head, and her flowery perfume envelops my senses. "No, you just create a handle. It can be anything you want. And your location isn't shared."

"Fine," I say. I don't really understand the point of it, but it does sound fairly harmless. For adults. There's still no way I'm letting Lola create an account. "So, this one is good?" I glance at the book she's holding.

"Oh, yes. I'm sure she'll enjoy it. The guy is prime book-boyfriend quality, and the ending is incredibly swoony."

My jaw clenches, just like it does every time I picture Alice with another man. Or Lola, for that matter. "Book boyfriend?"

"It's what we call the fictional men in romance books. "

Good grief. Just when I thought she wasn't that weird. But then again, her brooch today does say, "I prefer my men made of ink and paper." I don't know what bothers me more that I kind of like her little quirks, or that she prefers fictional men. "Is that why you're wearing that brooch?"

She glances down at it. "Well, book boyfriends aren't as deceptive as real men."

I shake my head in disbelief. "Of course they aren't. They're fake."

She shrugs. "Sometimes, a girl just wants to lose herself in a perfect world."

Her comment makes me wonder how many jackasses Alice has dated. Probably a lot, given the number of times I've seen her dressed up for a date since I moved in. My chest tightens, and I suddenly want to track down each guy she's dated and break their noses for hurting her—and for going out with her in the first place. Instead of asking for their names, I clear my throat and say, "I don't want to put that nonsense into Lola's head. These books are already setting her up with unrealistic expectations as it is. Yesterday, I asked if she had a boyfriend—I ask every couple of weeks, just in case—and she told me no real guy would ever come close to the guy in her novel." Come to think of it, that might not be a bad thing .

Alice laughs again. "Don't worry. She's a good kid, and reading is a healthy escape for her. Better that than smoking pot or whatever teenagers do these days to relax."

My blood freezes. She's got a point. I would rather have her hooked on books. "Why do you love reading so much?"

She studies me for a second, probably wondering why I'm suddenly asking about her. I'm not sure myself. All I know is that when it comes to Alice, I want to know everything. And as much as that scares me, I can't help it. On paper, she's everything I loathe, with her happy attitude, brooches, and bows, but whenever I look at her, I feel something. Something I can't describe, beyond the self-loathing and depression that fill me. Something warm and reassuring.

"Like I said, a lot of fictional worlds are better than reality. I read to escape, to have a good time. Books let you travel, learn new things, and experience new lives. There is no better form of entertainment, if you ask me."

Alice's eyes sparkle with excitement, and that elated expression on her face is everything to me. She's always been gorgeous, but she's never been more beautiful than right now, when she's talking about books.

"So, what kind of novels do you read?" I ask, not wanting the moment to end .

"I love historical romance and romcoms. Historical, because I yearn for the time when courtship happened in grand ballrooms, and men were elegant. And romcoms because, who doesn't love quirky situations and a good laugh?"

The men she reads about are everything I'm not. No matter how Alice makes me feel with a single glance, I'll never be the guy she wants, nor the one she deserves. What am I even saying? I don't want to be that guy. I can't be. My life is in enough turmoil as it is.

"Right. Well, I'll go with that one, then," I say, glancing at the book. "Do you have a few other suggestions? It's her birthday tomorrow."

"Oh! What do you have planned for the day?"

I stare at the book she's holding. "Um . . ."

"It's her birthday. You should do something fun, especially since Spring Break is starting," she says with a smile.

"I don't do parties." The image of a dozen teenagers hanging out in my apartment comes to mind, giving me chills. Might as well set the entire place on fire.

She quirks an eyebrow. "It doesn't have to be a party, just something to make her day special."

I'm definitely not cut out to be a guardian. I have no idea what Lola's idea of fun is. I did decide to get her a phone, so that might earn me some points. Yes, I know. Buying a child's affection is bad, but I'm out of options here.

"Maybe you can take her to Madame Tussauds, or a play, or Dave & Buster's? I don't know. Something fun?"

I grunt in response. "Great."

She picks out a few more books, and I follow her to the counter. She wraps them in pink wrapping paper before placing the perfect package in a fabric tote bag with the store logo printed on it. "The bag's on us," she says with a bright smile.

"Well, thanks for helping me out."

She leans over the counter, her eyes glinting with mischief. "So, are we even now?"

A smile tugs at my lips. "Not even close, Frenchie. I killed for you. You were only doing your job."