Wild Side (Rose Hill, #3)(70)

The gas heater Rhys bought pumps out warm air as I watch the sunset wrapped in a blanket, having an early evening cup of coffee. I know it will keep me up later than necessary, but it doesn’t matter. Plus, I figure it’s better than wine, considering how blue I’ve felt for the past twenty-four hours.

I thought Milo being away was bringing me down. But I’m starting to think I might miss my big, broody wrestler too.

Either way, jittery is better than depressed.

And when I finish my coffee, the jitters kick in big time. I pad back into the house, wash my mug, and put it back in the cupboard, not wanting to make a mess after the cleaning I did earlier.

“I know, I know,” I mutter to Erika the plant. “I’m being weird and neurotic. Trust me, I know.”

I swear she continues to glare at me judgmentally. She’d have dropped her mug on the counter and sauntered into the living room, flopped down on the couch, and put her feet up on the edge. A smile tugs at my lips as memories flood me of her lying on the couch and putting her feet on me. They were usually stinky after volleyball, and I’d squeal and plug my nose as she locked me between her legs and tried to rub a foot in my face.

I’d hated it then.

And I’d give anything for her to do it to me now.

With that thought in mind, I decide not to sit in the living room. Feels too raw in there.

Instead, I find myself in front of the storage closet with the door swung open, staring at the box of her recovery journals. My fingers ache to reach for them.

And I do.

I take the box down and make my way back out to the patio—the spot where Rhys and I had been meeting every morning. A spot that makes me feel less alone, even though he’s not here.

Wrapped back up, I reach into the box and pull out the black leather-bound books. All the same style—not fancy, but not your basic scribbler either.

Flicking through a couple, I force myself not to read ahead as I search for the one dated furthest back. And when I find it, I settle in and read.


Dear Universe,





Apparently, it will be good for me to get this journey down on paper. I’m not sure I buy it. But my parents have disowned me, and my fucking angel of a sister just emptied her bank account to put me through the best rehab program money can buy. So it seems like the least I can do is follow the professionals’ suggestions.





This is rock bottom. Well, I’m thirty days clean, so maybe that’s one step above rock bottom? But I’m also pregnant, so that might knock me back down…or move me up another notch? I’m not sure how I feel about it yet. Especially since I can’t for the life of me remember who the dad might be.





I haven’t exactly been on my best behavior.





What I do know is that I’m not going to fuck up a human who didn’t ask for any of this. I can stay sober for nine months. For them.





I’ll reassess after that. But for now, I feel responsible for something a lot bigger than me.





I suppose this is as good a place as any to start.





How the hell do people sign off from a journal entry? This feels very juvenile.





Whatever,

Erika


I snort at the Whatever sign-off. It’s pure Erika, holding two middle fingers up to the universe. There’s a sadness in the entry, but also…hope. She’s hooked me, and maybe I shouldn’t be reading these, but I can’t stop myself. It’s not like she can come back from the dead and kick my ass for going through her diaries like she would have when we were kids.

So I carry on.

The first journal details her pregnancy, her internal battles throughout, the demons in her head that just never quite let up. It makes me realize that using was never buried at the back of her mind. It was an urge that sat right on her shoulder, and she battled it so fucking hard.

My eye sockets feel full reading about it, and my nose tingles when she recalls wanting painkillers during her labor but refused to ask. Even in childbirth, she fought.

The second journal chronicles her life with a newborn, the way Milo gave her a new lease on life. She still addresses the universe and signs off with Whatever, but there’s a brightness in these entries—which she writes with perfect dedication and regularity. I can see right before my eyes that motherhood has made her a more reflective person.


There’s something about becoming a parent that has given me a new and profound understanding of my own parents. Suddenly, I appreciate the things they’ve done for me. The sacrifices they’ve made for me seem a lot bigger than they did before Milo.





I hate to admit it, but I can understand why they cut contact with me. I think I’ve broken their hearts irreparably (over and over again), and now I carry a guilt that I never did before.





One day, I hope I can repair what I broke, but as it stands, I’m too embarrassed to face them. Instead, Tabby does it for me. I can tell she’s fucking pissed at our parents, but she still faces them on my behalf, acting as the go-between so that Milo can have grandparents in his life.





As a mom, I feel bad for her too. It makes me realize she’s played this role in our lives for years now. The carrier pigeon. The eternal sunshine—even though I know she’s a scrappy little bitch at heart.