Follow the River

I wake up a few hours later, my eyes burning from lack of sleep as I open them to find Rain still passed out beside me in the blanket fort. His hair is disheveled, strewn over his forehead haphazardly as his chest rises and falls with his deep, steady breaths. His fully tattooed arm, the one covered in a Celtic sleeve, is tucked under his head as a makeshift pillow because somehow through the night, they both ended up on my side of our makeshift bed.

I watch him for a while, taking in his sleeping form, admiring this brave human who decided to open up to me in ways I never imagined last night.

He let me into his mind, his heart, his body.

And while the last one might not seem like such a feat, I know the amount of trust he gave me in that moment.

My own heart on the other hand, it’s in some deep shit. As each day passes and we get closer to our departure from this little slice of Eden we’ve found, I know I’m in for a rude awakening.

Because this thing between us, it’s become so much more than just sex, fuck buddies, frienemies with benefits, whatever you want to call it.

It’s none of those things, not anymore. To be completely honest, I don’t think it ever was, apart from that first time.

Maybe even then.

I watch him sleep, how peaceful he looks, and I hate that this is the only time he seems to find some semblance of freedom from the ghosts of his past that haunt him.

I hate that fucking man for what he did to him. To a kid he was supposed to protect.

I know that’s what the nightmares are about, not that he has told me explicitly. But how can they not be? That kind of trauma...there’s no way it doesn’t stay with a person throughout their life.

Kissing him softly on the forehead, I slip out of the fort and make my way to my bedroom down the hall. I rummage through my duffle, in search of the small baggie of weed I brought with me.

I’m not much of a smoker, I hate it, in fact. The smell is God-fucking-awful and inhaling anything other than oxygen into my lungs isn’t exactly something I like doing. But sometimes, when my anxiety is at an all time high and I can’t seem to stop stressing, I take a hit or two from a blunt, if only to help myself relax.

And it works.

So maybe, just maybe, it could help Rain too.

Finding what I’m looking for in one of the pockets, I grab it and turn to head back out to Rain, only to find him standing in the doorway. The sight of him causes me to jump, dropping the baggie I was holding that contains the couple blunts.

“What are you doing?” he asks, rubbing his eyes before blinking at me. “It’s like seven in the morning, why are you awake already?”

I shrug, grabbing the blunts from the ground. “I’m an early riser.”

“Yeah, I know, but we barely slept last night.” His voice is still gravelly and husky, sending shivers down my spine. Sleepy Rain is the sexiest version of him, in my opinion.

I smirk at him. “And whose fault is that?”

He smiles back and takes a step closer to me. “Yours, mostly.” As he reaches out to take my hand, his eyes land on what is in my hand and he blinks rapidly before looking back up at me. “Is that weed?”

“Yeah, I might have a little something for us,” I tell him with a grin.

He steps back, shaking his head with confusion written on his face. “I didn’t think you smoked pot. Golden boy and all.”

I do my best not to roll my eyes at the golden boy comment. “Only when I’m stressed or whatever. Usually never enough to need more than one of these in an entire year.” I close the space between us and peck him on the cheek. “I thought it might get your mind in a better place. And if not that, help you sleep, maybe.”

Rain lets out a sigh and rubs a palm over his face before walking over to the bed to take a seat. His fingers mess with his hair as he bites the inside of his cheek, watching me.

I see the gears turning in his mind, trying to work out what to say without...what, upsetting me?

It’s just weed. Perfectly legal in the state of Colorado.

“I can’t have that,” he tells me after a minute, nodding to the weed.

My brows furrow as I take a seat beside him, bringing one knee up to rest on the bed. “Okay, that’s fine. I wasn’t trying to pressure you—”

“No, Riv,” he sighs, taking the bag from my hand containing the blunts. He turns them over in his palms, staring at them like they’re a live grenade in his hands. His eyes snap up to mine and he gives me a sad smile, holding out the bag for me. “I appreciate you trying to do this for me. But I’ve already gone down this road before in an effort to numb the pain.”

Taking the blunts, I give him a confused look. “I don’t understand. Baby, it’s only weed. It’s not a big deal, it’s legal.”

He bites his lip and shakes his head again. “Look, when…shit got bad, I turned to weed and booze to help me cope.”

“That’s not what—”

“I know it’s not what you’re telling me to do, Abhai

“My senior year of high school, I dove headfirst into weed and alcohol. It helped numb some of my pain, kept the demons away for a little while. At least while I was awake, that is. But of course they never helped at night. Soon enough, they weren’t even enough when I was conscious.” He licks his lips and laughs uncomfortably. “That’s when I turned to coke. E. Whatever I could get my hands on that would make me forget.”

His eyes grab mine, ensnaring me like they always do, and I get lost in the sadness I find in them.

Baby, let me take your pain away.

But I stay quiet, urging him silently to continue. To tell me more.

I need his truths, all of them. Every single thing he is willing to share, I’ll eat it up and still beg for more. No matter how dark and fucked up it might be.

The darkest parts of his soul, his past, are what make him, him.

“It got really bad, to the point where I’d show up wasted to school and take bumps in the middle of practice. Pop a tab of molly before a game. Whatever it might have been. I was an addict, basically. I couldn’t stop myself, even if I wanted to try.”

His cheeks heat, a flush of crimson taking over the skin from his neck up, even the tips of his ears.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” I tell him, tossing the weed to the side to snatch his hand and hold in both of mine. “I don’t judge you for the way you handle your pain. Hell, I had a Xanax prescription and therapy twice a week for years after my dad left us. Yeah, that might not be nearly the same thing, but it helped.” Shaking my head, I let out an exhale. “The point is, no one has the right to tell you how to fix yourself.”

He nods and I squeeze my hands around his, wishing I could do something, anything to help him.

“Can I ask what made you stop?”

I watch as his teeth roll over his bottom lip, gnawing at it. “A friend of mine…he died. Overdose. And it gave me the wakeup call I needed, I guess.”

Shit.

“Fuck, Rain. I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. “Don’t be, it’s not on you. I got clean, started going to therapy and figured out some other forms of coping that weren’t going to kill me. But with that said, I won’t even touch weed. I still drink, rarely, but I don’t think it was ever the problem.”

I smile, rubbing my thumb over the back of his hand. “Well, I’m glad. Was that the last time you used?”