Addicted To You .L.S.

Eighteen.

Now (June)

I call Gem three times over the next week, but she won't answer. After the third unanswered call I switch gear and go to Harry's office, only to be told Tom Wells, head of the department, is out of town. I can't be in their without his approval.

With my parents still watching me so closely, I spend most days in my garden, among the redwood beds Gem built for me.
After the crash, Harry insisted I needed a hobby and presented me with a pre-approved list. I'd chosen gardening to get him off my back, but then, as usual, he'd taken it to extremes. He'd showed up the next day, Gem in tow with lumber, hammer and nails, bag of soil, and a box of seedlings.

I like the feel of dirt between my fingers, nursing delicate plants into strength and bloom. I liked watching things flourish, like the swath of colours I can grow, bright and alive. It hurts to get up and down, but it's worth the effort. At least I have something pretty to show for it.

After a full day of weeding, removing rocks and clay soil from the neglected beds, I spend another filling them with fresh, rich compost. Midweek, I've got the first two beds in good enough shape to think about planting. I run my fingers compulsively over the worn wood, making lists in my head of flowers that'll thrive this year.

"Louis."
I look up from my spot on the ground. Dads on the porch, dressed in his usual grey button down and tie. His ties crooked, and I want to reach out and fix it, but I can't.
"You have your first therapy appointment with Dr. Hughes in and hour," he says. "I've moved some  appointments around so I can drive you. You should clean up."
I nod, get up off the ground and follow him into the house.

Dr.Hughes's practice is in one of the older neighbourhoods, on a block where most houses have been turned into offices. Dad parks the car infringe of an old blue-and-white sign with Dr.Hughes's name on it. The little one-story is painted the same colour as the sign, cheerful against the lighter blue sky.

I'm surprised when my dad gets out of the car after me.
"You're coming in?" I ask.
"I'll sit in the waiting room."
"I'm not going to ditch therapy."
His mouth tightens, his hand drops from the car door. "I'll pick you up in an hour then."

I'm almost at the door when he stops me in my tracks. "We just want you to be better. That's why we sent you away. You know that, don't you?"
I don't look at him. I can't give him the confrontation he wants, without lying.
I was already better.

The office is full of comfortable-looking furniture and colourful paintings on the walls. A receptionist looks up with a smile from the papers she's filling. "Good morning."
"Hi. I'm Louis Tomlinson. I have a twelve thirty appointment."
"Come with me, please."
She brings me into a large room with a desk, an overstuffed couch, and a few leather chairs. I take a seat on the couch as she closes the door behind her. My shoulders sink into the couch, half my body getting lost in black leather.

Dr.Hughes walks in without knocking. He's an older man, with tanned skin, a neat silver goatee, and square black glasses. He's short—I'd be taller than him if I were standing up—and his sweater-vest is stretching snugly over his round stomach. "Hi, Louis." He sits down at his desk and spins his chair to face me with a smile. His eyes are kind underneath his glasses. He radiates thoughtfulness. Just like a good therapist should.
It makes me want to run.

"Hi." I burrow deeper into the couch, wishing it'd just swallow me up.
"I'm Dr.Hughes, but feel free to call me David. How are you today?"
"Fine."
"I've talked to Dr.Charles on the phone about you, and I have her notes and your medical history. I, also, had many conversations with your parents."
"Okay."
"How are you adjusting?"
"It's fine. I'm fine. Everything is—it's all just fine."
He taps his pen against the notebook, watching me. "Dr.Charles said you'd be a hard nut to crack."
I sit up straighten, on guard. "I do t mean to be."
David leans back in his chair, eyes crinkling as his lip twitches. "I think you do," he says, "I think you're an intelligent young man who is very good at keeping secrets." I role my eyes.
"Got that from a few notes and, what, an hour of talking to Dr.Charles?"
He grins. "Now that's more like it. Dr.Charles is excellent at what she does. But as soon as you stopped resisting therapy sessions, all you did was tell her exactly what she wanted to hear—what she expected to hear from an addict on the verge of relapse."

I want to leave. Not that what he's saying matters to me and is affecting me in any way, it's just boring.

"I am an addict."
"It's good that you acknowledge that," David says. "That's important. But at the moment, I'm more concerned with the trauma you suffered. What jumped out at me from the notes, is how you side step the subject of Harry every time he's brought up."
"No, I don't."
"You didn't break a coffee table when Dr.Charles asked you about the night Harry was murdered?"
"My leg makes me clumsy; it was an accident."

David raises an eyebrow. I've done something that's made him take notice, and I'm not sure what it is. It makes heat prickle down my back. I'm not going to be able to play him like Dr.Charles.

"Tell me about Harry?" He asks.
"What do you want to know?"
"How'd you two meet?"
"Harry moved here after his dad died. The teacher sat us next to each other in second grade."
"Did you spend lots of time together?"
I don't answer immediately.
"Louis?" He prompts gently.
"We were always together," I say. I can't keep it out of my voice. The chocked-up emotion bleeds through, makes it waver. I look away from him, nails digging into my jeans. "I don't want to talk about Harry."
"Where going to have to talk about Harry," David says quietly. "Louis, you were put into an environment designed to get you clean right after you suffered a major trauma and loss. While I understand what motivated your parents to do that, it might not have been the best thing for you in terms of processing your grief.
Most of your therapy at rehab was focused on your problem with addiction. I don't think you've been given the space or tools you need to deal with what happened to you and Harry that night. But I can help you, if you let me."

Anger surges inside me, stampede through my veins at his words. I want to hit him. To throw stupid tasseled pillows on the couch at him.

"You think I haven't dealt with it?" I ask. My voice is horrible low. I'm about to cry. I'm about the cry. It builds in the back of my eyes, threatening to break through. "He died scared and in pain, and I felt it—when he went, when he left, I felt it. Don't you dare tell me I haven't dealt with it. Everyday, I deal with it." I'm yelling at that point.
"Okay," David says. "Tell me how you do that."
"I just do," I say. I'm still breathing hard, but I will myself not to cry in front of him. "I have to."
"Why do you have to? What's keeping you motivated?"
I'm quieter now. "I have to stay clean."

The answer would've worked with Dr.Charles, but not this guy. My quick search before dad had driven me over had pulled up four articles Dr.Hughes wrote about PTSD and its effects on teenagers. Mum and dad have done their homework. With my addiction tackled, now there setting out to fix me completely. A new and improved Louis. Whole and mended, with no jagged edges or sharp points. Someone who doesn't look like he knows how death feels.

"I don't think you're telling me the whole truth," David says.
"You a human lie detector?"
"Louis, you can trust me." David leans forward intently. "Anything you say here, any secrets you choose to share, nobody else will ever know, and there'll be no judgement from me. I am here for you. To help you."
I glare at him. "You already got me to talk about it when I didn't want to," I say. "That doesn't really breed trust."
"Getting you to open up isn't tricking you. It's about your having a safe outlet to talk. You have to share with someone or you'll burst."
"Is that your professional medical opinion?"

He smiles, dispassionate, with no edge to it, no pity, no judgment. It's a nice change from everyone else. "Absolutely," he says wryly. He pushes the box of tissues across the coffee table at me. I take a few, but instead of patting my eyes, or blowing my nose, I twist them in my hands.
"This won't happen again," I tell him. "Don't start expecting it."
"Whatever you say." He nods and smiles. I look away.