Free Recovery Road by Blake Nelson Page B

mind of everything but the image of Stewart and our future together. Whatever happens, he will always be the first boy I truly gave my heart to. Which makes him a caretaker, a holder of something. He holds me. I am his in a way he probably isn’t even aware of.
    And a good thing too. Boys shouldn’t know what power they have. They would panic probably, or just mess things up. But boys are who you give yourself to. Not your parents, or your teachers, or your “future.” You give yourself to a boy.
    And then you go for long walks at night and think about them and wonder what they will do to you in the end.

12
    F riday is the day.
    I wake up early, take a long shower, dress carefully in an outfit I have been planning for weeks.
    I go to school. I go to my morning classes. At lunch, I sit in the library and eat my carrots.
    I go to my afternoon classes. The teachers teach. The students listen. I hear nothing, see nothing.
    When school gets out, I walk the three blocks to the MAX train station and ride it downtown. I walk to the big Central Library where I’m meeting Stewart at five.
    I’m wearing my favorite skirt, leggings, a cinched vintage raincoat, sunglasses. I remain in a trance until I see the actual library. That’s when my heart starts to race, my palms begin to sweat. But I must remain calm. No schoolgirl-crush behavior. I have to be worthy of Stewart.
    I walk up the stone steps and sit on the bench outside. Though it is still February, there is a hint of spring in the air. Birds chirp in the trees. A row of purple flowers are trying to bloom along the sides of the building.
    Library-type people walk up the stone steps. I watch a college girl getting signatures for Greenpeace. A man with a briefcase strides up the steps with purpose.
    For a moment, I have trouble imagining Stewart in this scene. It’s hard to imagine him in any part of normal life. He’s too cool, too larger than life.
    But then he appears. He comes striding down the street and I am shocked — like I always seem to be — by how young and carefree and innocent he appears.
    Whatever plan I had, whatever dignified welcome-home speech I had prepared, is completely forgotten once he’s in sight. I leap up and run toward him. He sees me and his face lights up. I race down the steps and throw myself into his arms, as onlookers make way, grinning to themselves.
    “Hey, you,” he says, lifting me off my feet.
    I cannot speak.
Stewart, my love, my Lost Prince.
I hug him so long and hard my arms start to hurt. And even then, I stay like that for as long as he’ll let me.

13
    W e head toward the center of town. The sun is coming out a little. I smile at people on the street. I am so happy.
    We stop at a Starbucks and I order us both hot chocolates, even though I think Stewart wants a normal coffee.
    “Tough,” I tell him. “You’re having hot chocolate and I’m buying.”
    Stewart grumbles and finds us a table. He’s being his awkward, adorable self. A foursome of high school girls totally stop talking to gawk at how gorgeous he is.
    I ignore this. I bring the hot chocolate and give him his and sit.
    For a moment we don’t speak. We just grin at each other.
    “So what’s it like, out here in the real world?” he asks me finally.
    “It sucks,” I say. “But it just got a whole lot better.”
    He smiles into his cup.
    We talk about stuff. His living situation. The weirdness of high school. I tell him about Trish and our day at the hospital.
    At one point, he looks at my finger. He sees the ring. I see that he sees it and I smile bashfully.
    I don’t say anything, though.
    After Starbucks, we walk around downtown. We watch some kids skateboarding. We eat some Chinese spring rolls from a trailer. We sit on a park bench and I lean against him, holding his arm, doing nothing, basically, just getting to know each other again.
    When it gets dark, Stewart suggests we go to a movie. I feel like our time is too precious for that, but if that’s