Free Losing Track by Trisha Wolfe

on him. If this is part of his game or if it’s genuine.
    “Keep it simple, right?” I bob my head and widen my eyes, trying to help him along. “Affable, remember.”
    “Right. I can handle that.” His hazel gaze focuses on me. “So we’re clear, I’m not looking for anything else. You don’t have to fear that from me. Simply hanging with an actual, living person rather than my TV is all I’m after.”
    I screw up my face, confused.
    “There’s lots of alone time when you don’t like hanging out with recovering addicts at the local coffee dispensing group meetings.” He finally stands, stares down at me. “I know all about alone, Melody. Trust me, you don’t do alone better than I do.” He walks a couple of steps, halts, then turns to add, “Bye. For now.”
    As I watch him walk off, my side aches. I push my fist into the twinge beneath my ribs, then roll my eyes. I don’t want to get into this, to get involved with someone else’s sob story. To take in yet another broken guy and bang his brains out until I realize he’s damaged goods. Beyond repair. I like my guys like I like my jobs—easy to walk away from when they’re no longer fun.
    And annoyingly, that last, despairing look he gave me starts eating away at my resolve.
    It’s my fucking Kryptonite.
    I always have to stick my nose in it. Yoda Mel, with her worldly wisdom to the rescue.
    What is my problem, Dar? I touch her charm—the little silver bare-branched tree—wishing with that ever-present hard lump in my throat that she could answer. She should’ve given me more shit; I fall for just as many lamers.
    But Boone did agree to no prying, which means if I don’t ask, he won’t ask. I could stand a little male attention, maybe even a new pal, while I’m stuffed away in this place. And he’s a pal who’s not so bad to look at. I really dig his tats and stretched ears.
    With a grunt, I stand and pick up my tray. After I dump my half-eaten dry beef and cold green beans and mushed potatoes into the trash, I think about following the others to the assembly room where the guest speakers are giving their speeches. One of which is Boone.
    Why the hell does he tell the same damn story every week? Why the hell do the same damn people go to listen?
    I decide to take off on my own. Wander the outside court area. I’d rather melt in the sweltering heat than listen to his hitting bottom story again. Callous? Maybe. Jaded? Absolutely.
    Sure, I get it’s an “almost” tragic story, but he’s alive, right? All’s well that ends well. I don’t understand why he’s so bent on recovery when his story doesn’t really show hitting bottom. Not rock bottom. Like the other speakers I heard last week.
    He lost his mother. Okay, that’s terrible. Tragic, even. I know how badly losing a parent hurts—how it can fuck with a person’s head. Especially since his mom OD’d. But when I lost my dad—much in the same way; a lifetime of partying caught up to him—I didn’t go off the deep end and start shouting the straightedge creed from the rooftops.
    And I lost Darla—
    Anger pools fire-hot in the pit of my stomach. I force my thoughts away from her, that night, Jessie… Because regret is useless. Nothing in life is forever. Most certainly not the things or people you love. What does matter: moving forward. Hitting the road and living, being free. For them and yourself.
    That’s exactly what I would’ve done had my wings not been clipped.
    Whatever. I’ve already been thinking about Boone and his presumed issues too long. Simply because I don’t have anything else to puzzle out. I probably wouldn’t have considered him for more than a minute had I been able to pin him down and get inside his head.
    Or maybe there’s nothing to unravel at all.
    I’m most likely fixating on something insignificant in order to ignore the blaring noise of my life fracturing—totally subconsciously.
    Or I could be flat out crazy.
    Don’t crazy people obsess over