“Now that you say it like that, it sounds really dumb, huh?”
“No—”
“Oh, okay. So, I won’t bother you—”
“You didn’t let me finish. No, that doesn’t sound dumb because I was there when you started your journey, so of course I’d be interested to hear how you’re doing.”
“But, I mean… I guess we’re supposed to talk to people about how our drug use affected their lives and let them vent about how it impacted them, but I don’t have anyone like that I can bring.”
My breath caught. “You don’t think what happened affected me?”
“Oh. Well, yeah. I guess.”
“Thursday night? What time?”
“We meet at seven. Does the library stay open late on Thursday?”
“Yeah, but I’ll switch with someone.”
“You can do that? Really? I mean, it’s okay if you can’t make it. I won’t freak out or anything. We do it every week, so if you can’t make it this week—”
“I’ll talk to my boss, Suzanne. I’m pretty sure she’ll be all right with switching my shift. She owes me for an extra Sunday a couple weeks ago.”
“Okay. Yeah.” He paused. “Okay, except I need to tell you something. Promise you won’t get mad, okay?”
“What?” The hairs on the back of my neck lifted.
“Okay. Well. What I need to say is that if I’m expecting you, and you don’t show up, I’ll feel really awful. So if there’s a chance you won’t make it, will you please not say you will?”
I could only imagine what it must have cost him to tell me that. The formerly manipulative, falsely confident Tug from the Palm Court Motel would not have asked for what he needed quite so plainly. He’d never have let himself appear vulnerable, not authentically anyway. He’d have done anything to protect himself except ask for help.
“Do you have one more minute? I can go and ask Suzanne right now. She’s here.”
“Please.”
I put Tug on hold and asked Keith to switch shifts with me. When he said yes, I went to talk to Suzanne. She looked like she wanted to ask me questions, but I explained I was still on the call and needed an answer. She’d have to wait to satisfy her curiosity. I nodded my thanks and went back to the front desk and Tug.
“Yeah. I switched shifts and Suzanne’s okay with it. I’ll see you at seven on Thursday.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m glad you asked me.”
He chuckled. “I’m not sure I want to hear what you have to say.”
“Guess you’ll have to wait and see, huh?”
“Guess so.” He disconnected the call, which was all the time it took for Suzanne to buttonhole me.
“What was that?” She had an interested glint in her eyes. “Did you just make a date?”
“No, nothing like that.” I gave a nervous laugh.
“Well, what was it? Spill.” My boss liked to think she was friends with all of us. Sometimes she was a little nosy, but I liked to believe her heart was in the right place.
“Look, I’m not sure how I feel about it yet. Can I wait and talk about it when—”
“Heck no, Luke Slywalker. Is it a new guy? Tell me what that was about already.”
“Okay, but don’t hit the ceiling. That was Tug.”
Her eyes widened. “Your overdose Tug?”
I activated my library super-shushing powers and dragged her across the room into the stacks where we could hiss at each other in private.
“Yes. You have a problem with that? He asked me to go to his family group therapy session.”
She blinked. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that supposed to be for, I don’t know, family?”
“He doesn’t have any.”
Her face fell. “Oh, Luke. Don’t.”
“Don’t what? This is a chance for Tug to hear from people whose lives he impacted. It’s important for him.”
“Jesus. It’s always about the addict, isn’t it?” She frowned. “The whole world has to revolve around them.”
“I hear what you’re saying, but I believe I know a little more about this situation than you do.”
She stepped back as though I’d slapped her. “Oh, right. Because you’ve been ‘researching.’” She had the nerve to use air quotes. “My sister got addicted to OxyContin after a cheerleading injury in high school. Don’t get me started on what that did to our family. I’ve been there, done that, and got the t-shirt, thank you very much.”
“Okay, well. I’ve been going to a support group.” I felt like I had to defend my decision, which infuriated me. “In the last eight years I’ve had to use Narcan three times. Did you know that?”
“Three?” She narrowed her eyes. “Three?”
I shrugged. “My luck, I guess. Once when I was an RA, once at Comic Con, then Tug, here. It’s a sign, isn’t it? Don’t you suppose the universe is trying to tell me something?”
“I have no idea.”
“They all survived the overdoses. Except for Tug, I don’t know if my actions changed anything.” I read random book titles as I gathered my thoughts—Raised Bed Gardening, Urban Farming, Grow Your Food. “I want to make a difference. I want things to change. Can you understand that?”
“Oh, honey. Addicts don’t change.” She patted my shoulder. “That’s codependence talking.”
“No, it isn’t,” I argued. “It’s compassion. I’m trying to learn how to support someone without allowing them to crush my boundaries. Frankly, I think that’s a skill we should all have.”
“Addicts are heat-seeking boundary killers. That’s their entire goal. That’s how they survive.”
“I’m beginning to see that.” I warmed to the subject because lately, I’d found it fascinating. “It’s amazing how adept a person has to be to maintain a habit. Don’t you ever wonder about that? Don’t you ever wonder whether all that effort could be channeled into something more productive? What would happen if we could make that the priority rather than—”
“What are you talking about?” She frowned at me. “Who’s we?”
“Um… The medical community? Society? I don’t know. People in a position to do something for someone like Tug.”
“Oh, honey. You are such a noob. Don’t get your hopes up, okay? I’d hate to see you get disappointed after you pour all your effort into saving someone who doesn’t necessarily want to be saved.”
“I just wish I could help is all.”
“And what if you can’t? What if your friend walks away from treatment and picks up again?”
“I’ll deal. I’ll try to help someone else.”
“You’re really all in, aren’t you?” She bit her lip. “God, I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“This family group I’m attending will be under the supervision of specialists. They won’t let me fuck things up.”
“Why are you the one worried you’ll fuck things up? You’re not the guy who used heroin. I wish you’d—”