“I won’t give up on us, Aubrey. I can’t,” he said with a promise.

That’s what I’m worried about, I thought, but didn’t say out loud.

“I’ve got to go,” I said again, needing to leave. Needing to flee.

Maxx didn’t say another word, but I knew without having to look that he watched me as I hurried down the path toward my class and away from him.

chapter

fourteen

maxx

i wasn’t lying when I told Aubrey that I was screwed. Because I was royally and truly fucked. Before I had gone into rehab I had been on the cusp of flunking out of LU. My adviser, the pretentious prick extraordinaire Dr. Ramsay, had been all too eager to let me know how much I had messed up.

It seemed that most of my financial aid was contingent on my GPA, and with my previous grades and my ultimate withdrawal from my classes for the semester, the university had pulled the scholarships and grants I depended on to pay for school. Without them, I couldn’t afford to stay on at Longwood University.

“You can make an appointment with the financial aid office and find out if you are eligible for any other types of assistance. But, Maxx, given your academic record, you will be hard-pressed to find much out there to help you. I warned you months ago that you were perilously close to losing your financial aid. It’s a shame you didn’t take my warnings seriously,” Dr. Ramsay said, and I wanted to punch that self-satisfied smirk right off his face.

The old Maxx would have knocked some shit off his desk and threatened to shove his stapler up his ass, then gone straight back to his apartment to get as fucked up as humanly possible. I started to pick at my jeans, trying to distract myself from the almost overwhelming desire to get loaded. Did I still have any pills left in the apartment? I was pretty sure I had an in case of emergencies stash somewhere. Where the hell would I have put them?

I found myself sitting there, thinking about all the places I could have left some drugs. In the back of my closet? Nah, I’d cleared that out months ago. In the bottom of my top drawer? Maybe. I tended to lose a lot of stuff among my socks. Under my bed? In the couch cushions? In the medicine cabinet?

I barely heard Dr. Ramsay when he said my name. “Mr. Demelo, did you hear me?”

“Yeah, I get the picture. My days at Longwood University are officially over. You’ve made that crystal fucking clear,” I said, getting to my feet.

Dr. Ramsay looked taken aback by my venom. “That’s not at all what I said, Maxx. You could still have options.”

“Look, Dr. Ramsay, I know I messed up. I own that. I accept that I wasted this opportunity. Now I just have to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with my life.”

“Mr. Demelo, I understand you’re upset. But let me call over to the financial aid office, see if I can get you an appointment this afternoon,” he said, picking up his phone. I was surprised he was making the effort, but he needn’t bother. One thing was obvious. I had never been cut out for college, no matter how much I had hoped that being at Longwood would lead me to something better.

I had been playing the role of student to fulfill some crackpot promise I felt that I owed my dead parents. I had thought by getting a degree I could prove that I could do something right and that Landon wasn’t completely misguided in his hero worship. But was I ready to give up on a dream that had never been mine to begin with? Could I let go of that last shred of the Maxx I had been trying so hard to be?

Even though I was angry and wanted nothing more than to tell Dr. Ramsay and Longwood University where to shove it, I swallowed my pride and nodded. “Sure, that would be great,” I said.

Dr. Ramsay lifted the phone to his ear and spoke to someone on the other end. After a few moments he hung up and wrote something down on a sticky note and passed it to me: Leah Fletcher @ 2:30.

“They may be able to help, but the rest will be on you. You’ve got to come back next semester ready to work. Otherwise all of this will have been a waste of both of our time,” Dr. Ramsay said, pursing his lips.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to be a waste of anyone’s time,” I muttered, stuffing the slip of paper into my pocket.

I had a few hours until my meeting at the financial aid office and I didn’t want to go back to the apartment. I knew that being alone right now was the worst thing I could do. In rehab I was always surrounded by people, whether I wanted to be or not. Now I realized that had kept me from thinking too much about the very thing that had put me there in the first place.

The lull was the most dangerous time for me. Because when I was alone, I would think. Then I’d want to stop thinking. Stop hurting. And the only way I knew to do that was to use. To take so many pills that my mind would go blank and my heart would go numb.

God, I missed it. I missed the perfect moment when the drugs hit my system and I stopped feeling altogether. Because feeling meant bleeding. And I was almost bled dry. So I headed to the library and figured I’d use the time to get on the computer and start looking for a job.

I had a mountain of bills stacked on the counter, unopened. I still had some money, but it wouldn’t last long. It seemed my drug-dealing lifestyle wasn’t profitable enough to pay my bills and support my habit while saving for that rainy day. I was damn close to being completely broke.

The library was busy and the low buzz of conversation was exactly what I needed. I found an available computer and sat down. After fumbling around for my wallet, I found my student ID card and typed in the seven-digit number by my name.

I browsed local newspapers for job listings online. After a few minutes it became obvious that my options were severely limited. I didn’t possess much in the way of a skill set, though I wondered if my drug-dealing past could be construed as “marketing and sales.” I snickered to myself as I thought about how I’d explain that during an interview.

The more I clicked through Web sites, the more frustrated I became. Unless I wanted to spend my days slinging fast food, I was out of luck. I ran my hands through my hair in frustration. My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I pulled it out, seeing another text message from Marco. I was surprised he hadn’t come pounding on my door. But I had a feeling he had already done that. And not finding me, he had resorted to phone stalking.

I didn’t know how long I could get away with avoiding him. Marco was my oldest friend and my link to that world I was trying to leave behind. And I knew that if I called him back, the temptation to return to my old job would be too hard to resist. So I erased the text without reading it.

“Maxx! Hey!” I glanced up at a pretty girl with long black hair who looked vaguely familiar. She was smiling at me like we definitely knew each other. And she knew my name, so our having some sort of connection was obvious.

I wondered absently if we had fucked. I sure as hell hoped not. The last thing I needed was a stage-ten clinger.

“Hey,” I said noncommittally.

The girl pulled up a chair and sat down beside me, ignoring the annoyed look from the guy who sat at the computer beside me as she squished herself into the small space. “Where the hell have you been? Group has been such a snooze without you there!” she exclaimed, and it dawned on me that she must be in the addictions support group on campus.

I looked at the girl again and tried to remember her name, but it just wasn’t coming to me. She must have sensed my lack of recognition, because her face fell a bit. “It’s Lisa. Remember? I sat beside you every week.”