Addicted To You .L.S.

Seventeen.

Nine Months Ago
(Sixteen years old)

For three weeks, Marry plays hard ball: no phone, no computer, nothing until I start talking to the shrink she sent me to, until I follow the schedule Marry's given me, until I finally admit there's something wrong.

The only order I obeyed is doing is yoga with Peter. Peter nice, I like him. He's quiet; he doesn't pester me with questions, just helps me through the poses he's shown me, the ones that adjust to my problem areas. The first week, I heard him on the phone, deep in conversation with my old physical therapist. The next morning, he dropped at mat on my bed and told me to meet him in the brick two-room studio in the background. The bamboo floors were cold under my bare feet and Peter had some sort of cinnamon oil diffuser so it smelled like Christmas.

I won't admit it to Marry, but I like that hour every morning. After years of dulling all my scenes with anything I could grab my hands on, it's weird to focus positively on my body. To pay attention to my breathing and the way my muscles stretch, to let my thoughts go, to push them away so I can feel—feel the air and movement and they was I can make my bad leg bend and make it do what I want for once.
Sometimes I falter. Sometimes my leg or back wins.
But sometimes I can go through a whole sun salutation without one mistake or wobble, and it feels so amazing to be in control, so simply powerful, that tears crack down my face and something close to relief surges through me.

Peter never mentions the tears. When I'm done, we role up the mats and head into the house, where Marry's making breakfast. My checks are dry and I pretend it never happened.

One night, when Marry's off chasing down another idiot trying to jump bail, Peter knocks on my door. I'm allowed to keep it closed, but there's no lock, something I've hated since I got here.
Marry never knocks, she says I haven't earned it.

"Come in."
Peter holds up an envelope. "Something came for you."
"I thought the warden said no contact with the outside world."
He laughs. "Just don't rat me out."
"Seriously?" I can't believe he's gonna give it to me. But he places the letter at the foot of my bed and ambles out, whistling.

"Peter," I call. He turns and grins. He's front teeth are a little crooked, and there acne scars pitting his checks, but his eyes are big, green, and sweet. I suddenly understand why Marry looks at him like he's the best thing she's ever seen. "Thank you."
"Don't know what you're talking about," he says, his smile wide and innocent.

I look down at the letter. My name, above Marry's address, is written in familiar blue letters.
Harry's handwriting.
I tear the envelope open, almost ripping the letter in my hurry. I unfold the notebook paper, my heart pounding like I've been holding a pose too long. The words are written in pencil, which is weird, because he'd stockpiled blue pen for as long as I remember.

Louis—
I know you're still mad. I'm not sure you'll even read this. But if you do...
Please get better. If you can't do it for yourself, do it for me.
All the love,
H. xx

I press my fingers under the smudge, the word me is written over. Trying to make out the word, I trace two letters, the shadowy, barely there curls of a U and an S. He didn't quite erase: do it for us.

When Aunt Marry gets home, peaking into my room without knocking, I'm still sitting there with the letter in my lap.

"Louis?"
When I don't answer, she walks in and sits next to me. I keep my eye on the letter. I'm not strong enough to look at her. "You're right. I'm a drug addict. I have a problem."
Marry let's out a long breath, an almost soundless exhalation of relief. "Okay," she says. "Now look me in the eye and say it." When I don't, she reaches over and grabs my hand, squeezing hard.
"You'll get there."

I believed her. I put in the work. I followed the rules from then on, talking to the therapist, starting up my mental calendar, making days turn into weeks and then months. I struggled and fought and won.
I wanted to make myself better. For Harry. For me. For what I thought might be waiting when I got home.

But the thing is about struggling out of a hole you've put yourself in: the higher you climb, the farther you have to fall.