Scorched

Andrea

“Do you really believe in happy endings?” I asked.

Dave arched a brow as he sat behind the desk. “Of course I do. Without them, what’s the point of all of this?”

It had been two weeks since I’d seen Ta

“It’s a strange question to ask,” he commented. “May I ask why?”

The last thing I wanted to do was talk about Ta

“Oh, the dreamy Ta

“He said that he loved me,” I told him.

Dave picked up the baseball. It was like he had a special relationship with the damn thing. “Is this a bad thing? From what you’ve said, he’s a good guy.” He threw the ball up and caught it. “Or do you not feel the same?”

My heart did a little jump. Answer enough. “I…I love him.”

“Does he suck at kissing?”

I rolled my eyes.

He chuckled and then quickly sobered as he clenched the ball. “Do you think you don’t really deserve it—the happily ever after?”

I pulled my legs up and wrapped my arms around my knees. A moment passed and Dave waited, and from prior experience, I knew he literally would sit there and wait until I opened my mouth. “I don’t know,” I said, shrugging one shoulder. “I mean, I’m a fuck-up and I’m a shitty person. I could’ve killed someone, and he…he deserves someone better than that, you know?”

“Having depression does not make you a fuck-up, Andrea.”

I frowned. “That’s not what I mean.” Or was it? I was still coming to terms with what it meant to have something that was shaping my life.

“We obviously haven’t gotten through your skull yet. Not completely. I see I still have lots of work to do,” he said, placing the ball on the desk. It rolled to a stop against a large binder. “That’s good. I like job security.”

“Ha. Ha.” My lips twitched, though. “Seriously. I just…I just want to be normal.”

“You are normal,” he replied. “Depression does not make you abnormal. Neither does anxiety, but the way you cope with it, the way you treat it, is what can make you abnormal.”

I nibbled on my lower lip, mulling that over.

“Let me ask you a question. When you volunteer at the suicide call center, do you think the people you talk to are fuck-ups?”

“God.” I scrunched up my face. “No.”

“Do you think they’re abnormal?”

“No. I think…I think they just need…” They just need help. God, I closed my eyes, exhaling softly. A few minutes passed before I reopened my eyes. “I think that’s why I volunteered there. Maybe in a way I related to them. Maybe I was coping…”

“And that would be a good coping mechanism as long as you’re not bringing that home with you.”

I hadn’t. At least as far as I knew. We’d talked about my volunteering before. Dave thought it would be a good idea if I backed off from that until I had a better grip on everything.

“I’m going to ask you another question.” Dave inclined his head. “Do you think I’m a terrible person?”

Odd question. I looked around the room. “Um, no?”

He sat back, resting his ankle on his knee as he studied me. “When I was close to your age, maybe two years older, we had a lot of things in common. I didn’t drink a lot.” He smiled. “Or at least I didn’t think I did. I just liked to relax on the weekends or whenever I was out with friends or when the day was stressing me out.”

Yeah, that sounded familiar.

“One night I was at the bar with a couple of friends and it was getting late. I had what I thought was a couple of drinks. I didn’t think I was drunk, and no one stopped me. No one was like, ‘hey, drunk guy shouldn’t be driving.’ I left. I got in my car and I started to drive home. I didn’t make it. I wrecked, but right there is where our similarities ended.”

I couldn’t look away.

“I totaled my car, but I was basically uninjured. Sure, I was bruised a bit, but I walked away from the accident with nary a scratch.” The smile faded from his lips. “But I didn’t hit a barrier wall, Andrea. I hit another car.”

At that moment, I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t.

“His name was Gle

I closed my eyes then. “Oh my God…”

“My actions took his life. One decision. One choice. I got behind the wheel of a car, and although I spent time in jail for it and I’ll spend the rest of my life making damn sure I try to stop another person from making that one choice, I will never fully pay for what I did.”

Horror filled me—horror for the deceased man’s family and even for Dave, because I couldn’t imagine living with something like that. But that horror—God, that horror—was also for how close I’d come to becoming Dave.

“So, let me ask you again, Andrea,” he said, and I opened my eyes. “Am I a terrible person?”

I never answered Dave’s question. I tried to give him an answer, but I never found the right words, and it wasn’t until later that I realized there was no right or wrong answer to that.

At first, I did look at him differently. I hated to admit that about myself, but I couldn’t help it. He’d killed someone. Accidentally, a dozen or so years ago, but he’d made a choice that had ended with someone losing his life.

And his story, what he confided, hit close to home. That could’ve been me, but it wasn’t. Not because I did anything different or better than Dave. I had luck on my side that night. Just damn luck.

Did I think Dave was a terrible person? That was a stone I wasn’t ready to cast, and there was a good chance I would never be able to, but something about his story not only hit home for me, but shook things up hardcore.

I wasn’t Dave. Whether it was due to luck or what, I wasn’t him. I, for the most part, could walk away from all of this and move forward without major baggage. I could get to that happily ever after, but I was going to have to work hard.

So I stayed in treatment longer than was required. Not because I was hiding, but because I knew, deep down, I knew that I still needed help. I needed to learn to recognize when I was feeling depressed and what those quiet moments signified. I needed to develop better coping mechanisms, and that’s what Dave and the staff helped with. When I started to become restless, it was time to pick up a book, go watch a movie or take a walk, call a friend or visit family. I learned that I needed to open myself up. I had an amazing support system right at my fingertips. I just needed to allow myself to use them.

But I was leaving, after all that.

My suitcase was packed up and my parents would be arriving soon to pick me up. I’d briefly considered moving back in with them, but right then, I was sure I could handle being on my own.

I would be attending therapy sessions once a week and Dave was hooking me up with local AA meetings. Even though my addiction to alcohol was not as severe, it was still an addiction. The outpatient therapist would determine if I needed medication to help keep balance or if I could continue without meds.

When I left my little room for the last time, I went and saw Dave. He was in his office, with that damn baseball in his hand. I didn’t say anything as I placed my suitcase down and walked to where he stood by his desk.