Addicted To You .L.S.

TwentyFour.

Now (June)

The second I get home, I tear open the envelope I'd found hidden in Harry's room. It's lumpy in one corner and I shake out a thumb drive just as mum walks down the hall. One hand snaps over the drive and the other shoves the envelope in my back pocket.

Mum frowns. "What are you doing here standing in the hall?" She asks.
   "Just putting my keys back." I dig in my bag, dropping the thumb drive in it before coming up with my key chain. I smile at her while I hang it on the wall. "Something smells good."
  "I made roast chicken. Come sit down and eat."I follow her into the dining room, where dads already waiting. Mum's using the good china.

The envelope in my pocket crinkles as I walk
up to the table. I want to get up to my room,
barricade the door, and plug that drive into the
laptop.

I have to choke back a sigh as my mother sits down. Why did they have to choose tonight for family togetherness?
I take my place on the left, my mother on one end and my father on the other.
"How did your appointment go?" Mum asks.
"Fine," I say.
"Do you like Dr. Hughes?" Dad asks. I wonder if they've made some prearranged arrangement to go back and forth with their questions.
  "He's okay."
  "I realize you've never had a male therapist," Mum says. "If that's a problem..."
  "No," I reply. "Dr. Hughes is fine. I like him. Really." I take a bite of roast chicken, chewing for an unnecessarily long time.

  "We should talk about colleges soon," Dad says. "Make a list of universities your interested in."
I put my fork down, my appetite lost. I'd hoped to have a few more weeks before we got into this. After all, school didn't even start for two more months.
  "You're on track to start senior year in September," Mum assures me, mistaking the look on my face.
I push my peas across my plate, afraid to swallow anything. There's a lump in my throat the size of France. I don't have time to think about this. I have to concentrate on finding Harry's killer.
What's on that thumb drive?

  "And the independent study you completed at rehab was all very good work; your teachers were impressed," Mum continues, a rare smile on her face.
  "I'm not worried about that," I begin.
  "Is it the applications? We can find some way to explain those months you spent away. And if you centre your personal essay around the accident, and overcoming all that you had just to walk again, I'm sure—"
  "You want my to play the gimp card?" I cut in, and she flinches like I've slapped her.
  "Don't call yourself that!" She snaps.

I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. Mum is the one who took the accident the hardest. Dad had driving me to physical therapy and done all the research on my surgeries. He'd carried me up and down the stairs that first month, and when I was still in the hospital, he'd read me stories every night like I was still in the second grade. He got to take care of me all over again when I was supposed to be taking care of myself. And dads good at taking care of people.
Mum is good at fixing things, but she can't fix me, and she can't handle that.

  "It's the truth." The words are harsh, aimed to shatter her ice-queen armour. Making her finally stop longing for the little boy I was to return. "I am a gimp. And a junkie. And you think it's partly my fault Harry got shot, so I guess we should add accidental killer to the list, too! Hey, maybe I can write my personal essay on that!"

She goes red, then white, then almost purple. I'm fascinated, arrested by her anger as the expression in her eyes melt from concern to enraged. Even my father puts down his fork and rests his hand on her arm, like wondering if he's going to need to stop her from lunging at me across the table.
"Louis William, you will show respect in this house," she finally spits out. "To me, to your father, and most importantly, to yourself."
I toss my napkin onto my plate. "I'm done." I push myself up, but my leg shakes and I hold onto the table for longer than I'd like. Limping, I make my way out of the dinning room. I can feel her watching me, the way her gaze absorbs each uneven step, each moment of clumsiness.

When I get upstairs, I almost drop my bag, I'm in such hurry to get at the thumb drive. I grab it, flip open my laptop, and plug the drive into the port, tapping my fingers on my desk.
  The folder appears on my desktop, and I double-click it, heart thumping in my ears.
The alert Enter Password flashes on-screen. I type in his birthday first. Next I try Gems, then mine, then his dads, but no use. I try names of old pets, even the turtle he got in third grade that died the week he brought it home, but nothing works. For over an hour, I type in every word I can think of, but none of them will open the drive.

Frustrated, I get up, passing by my dresser where I've set Harry's ring next to mine. I pick it up, tilting it, the word winking at me in the lamplight.  I whirl back around, suddenly hopeful, type forever into the computer and press Enter.
Password Incorrect.

Bottled-up anger, twined with the lingering hurt of my mothers words, floods through me.
   "Goddammit, Harry." I mutter. I throw the ring, hard. It bounces off the wall and onto the carpet near my bed.
Almost as soon as it falls, I'm on my knees wincing at the pain, but scrambling to scoop it up. My hands shake as I slip it on. They don't stop until I go over to the dresser and the second ring—mine—joins hers on my thumb.