Free Bombora by Mal Peters Page B

like the Troubles in Ireland; I mean that Phel isn’t the only person here who’s been to rehab.
    Not, of course, that I’ve told Phel any of this. I wouldn’t know where to begin. He seems ignorant of the whole deal, anyway, and it really isn’t his business. There are a lot of reasons I feel bad about that, knowing it’s not how friends treat each other, but then again, it’s not like I know all his secrets either.
    Caroline did an excellent job of keeping most of the grisly details out of the papers, but for my first little while in Cardiff, I was enrolled in Palermo Springs’ twenty-eight-day program. Not quite the same as what Phel is doing, since I wasn’t allowed medication or intoxicants of any kind—hell, inpatients weren’t even supposed to masturbate, since we were told it was common for addicts to transfer their dependencies to other things like coffee or cigarettes or sex. Since Nell passed, I’d developed a problem, you could say, with putting shit up my nose. In some ways I guess it could have been worse, could have been heroin or meth or something, but not much worse. I met this girl, Kristen, who in combination with the coke seemed to make the pain go away for a little while each time. She was into harder stuff too, got into trouble with the law often enough that I had to bail her out once or twice. To an outside observer, it was only a matter of time before I stumbled down the same path.
    For me it’s hard to tell how bad the problem actually got in the end, because Nate noticed and stepped in long before anything really bad happened. There were no money problems or arrests, and the public scenes were minimal. Couple of bar fights, some lost time. Nate’s an amazing brother that way, always in tune with what’s going on with me, and before I could say “ballin’,” he was on a plane to Los Angeles, ready to intervene and send me packing to the first rehab program we found.
    I didn’t put up much of a fight. Kristen did, but I knew that if Nate was worried, I owed it to him to do what was needed. Stop freaking people out. I chose Palermo because of how much I’d enjoyed Cardiff before, and in less than a month, I was clean and ready, almost, to become a productive member of society again. Weird thing is, while high on blow I wrote this entire novel about the Manderfeld twins investigating a case entrenched in the methamphetamine industry—my most intense one yet. It was an instant best seller, even got some critical acclaim that surprised me as much as it did the reviewers. Nate would kill me for saying this, but maybe Hunter S. Thompson and all the rest were onto something with their writing methods, just as much as on something. Anyway.
    My point is, some entertainment reporters caught wind of my little stint and harassed Nate and Emilia—even Liam at school—for the dish, until a crying Emilia called me up one day asking if they were going to have to move someplace more private. Nate was furious. After that, I promised I’d never disclose anything about them again. To anyone. People have big mouths, and Nate is protective of his family that way. It’s not like I couldn’t see his point. The fame is my bag, not his, but even so, I know he’s equally tight-lipped about telling people we’re related. Luckily, Emilia and Liam’s names were never released to the press, upon pain of litigation, but as a result I started withholding as many details about him as possible, even to Phel. I trust Phelan with my life, but Nate… I don’t trust his life with anyone. I don’t even like giving his name anymore.
    Turns out that wasn’t such a bad thing, since the kind of looks Phel is giving Nate would turn a lesser man to stone. I know he has anxiety, but jeez—he seems ready to Hulk out at the wrong comment, or if Nate so much as looks at him funny. My brother, meanwhile, just takes it all in with uncharacteristic quiet, which might freak me out the most of anything. Considering he’s