Page 90 of Unwanted

Clearing my throat, I hold Frankie’s gaze. “My name is Arlo Bishop and I’ve been sober for fifteen hundred and thirty-eight days.”

“I grew up in the system,” I start. “It’s not a new story or even a unique one. Unfortunately I’m just one of many who were born to parents who couldn’t or wouldn’t take care of them. What you don’t know is, when a kid is moved from house to house they start to develop a complex.

“I couldn’t work out why nobody wanted me, and eventually I stopped trying to please them. By the time I was placed in a group home, I had already dabbled in drugs.

“If you asked me why I took them, my answers would’ve ranged from ‘they’re cool’ to ‘it’s only temporary,’ and eventually I might’ve told you I needed them. And I wholeheartedly believed that.”

Needed them to wake up.

Needed them to sleep.

Needed them to get through the day.

“Therapy tells me I used drugs to avoid feeling. To avoid the abandonment. The neglect, the disappointment, the constant feeling of never being enough. So, I used the drugs to feel better about myself, which in turn led me to constantly letting someone else down.

“And the next thing you know, you’re so exhausted by the cycle you’ve created for yourself, that for a single moment, a world where you don’t exist kind of has a nice ring to it.”

I watch as Frankie’s bottom lip quivers and his hand rushes to the bridge of his nose to try and stop the inevitable tears.

Just as I’m about to tell the group the most important part of my story, the back door of the room opens and Clem, Remy, Lennox and Samuel walk in.

Acknowledging they’re late, they stay with their backs to the wall. Because I don’t have time to work out why they’re here, I continue on with my story, hoping to God they will forgive me.

“Recently, a friend of mine overdosed. Thankfully, he survived.”

My eyes dart to Lennox, whose own gaze flits between me and Samuel, who is now fluent enough to sign and translate to him what I was saying.

“When I saw him in the hospital, I was reminded of my own accidental overdose.”

When Frankie realizes I’m not looking at him, he turns to where my eyes are focused and we both watch the horror dance across each of their faces.

“It was the worst time in my life, because in order for me to start my road to recovery, the love of my life had to let me go. And I hated him for it.”

I continued to purge the events of the past, the secrets now pouring out of my mouth and slowly healing all of us.

By the time I make my way back to Frankie, all of us had shed an ocean of tears.

“How was that?” I ask Frankie.

He smiles and lets out a wet laugh. “Ever thought of writing an inspirational book?”

I throw my arm around his shoulders and we follow the others who have quietly exited the room.

“Think they’ll forgive me?” I murmur.

“I think they’re just realizing how grateful they are that you’re alive.”

Exhaling, I kiss his temple. “Have I told you lately that I love you, Frankie York?”

“Every single day, baby. Every single day.”

Stepping outside into the sunshine, I feel lighter than I have in years. This had all been a long time coming, but I was finally exactly where I needed to be.

I was happy.

I was whole.

And I was loved.

“Shit,” I mutter. “Give me a second,” I tell Frankie. “I forgot my cell inside.”

Jogging back in, I open the door and fall short when I see a familiar face standing at the front. “Hi,” he chokes out. “My name is Rhys Denser and I’ve been sober for fifty-six days.”