Abuse Read Online Free PDF Page A

must be that as a trained counselor, he knows how to get his clients to talk.
    I’m glad I’m going to be spending more time with him.
    “Do you know you’re the first person I’ve actually discussed Army life with?” I ask.
    André gives me a half bow. “ Merci beaucoup . I am honored. This has been a delightful evening. You are a most interesting companion with stories par excellence . I thank you.”
    “Tell me,” I ask. “What sport do you play?”
    His thick dark eyebrows lift in query.
    “I mean, you’ve got to be doing something. You’re fit. Those aren’t gym muscles.”
    “Ah! But I do use the gym,” he says. “And also I train in Brazilian jiu jitsu. But my favorite sport? It is polo.”
    When I smile, the hardened scars on my face pull tight. I’m grinning so broadly, I feel as if my skin might tear. I must look like a freak, but I don’t give a shit.
    André doesn’t care either. He sees past my scars.
    I shake my head. Polo. The sport of Kings. Of course, I should have guessed. André’s a Prince. The guy gallops back and forth trying to hit a little white ball. It’s pretty funny.
    “You any good at it?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
    It’s his turn to grin. “I am a champion,” he says, without the slightest trace of modesty.
    Why is this so funny? I laugh so hard it hurts. Somehow, that was exactly what I expected him to say. What am I? Psychic? Maybe drinking and talking together like this is a form of male bonding. For some strange reason, I really get this offbeat Frenchman.
    I’ve no idea how long I’ve been here, but we’ve finished the bottle.
    More specifically, I’ve finished the bottle. But I’m not even drunk. I can hold my liquor. Alcohol is like food to my body now—I don’t get drunk anymore.
    When we stand to leave, André picks up the tab.
    “Aren’t I supposed to be paying you?”
    “You are not. Not yet.”
    “Why not?” I ask as we walk out toward the elevator. No one is around.
    “ Mon ami,” he says. “When one goes to the top floor of a building, they must first enter from the ground floor.” He shrugs. “Unless of course, one has wings and is able to fly. They then may enter the building on any floor they choose, comprenez-vous? ”
    Nope. That sailed right over my head.
    At my blank look, he explains.
    “Grant, je regrette, but I fear you are an alcoholic. Rehabilitation from alcohol abuse is a specialized area and not my field of expertise.”
    He hands me a business card. “I recommend you attend this facility. For you, rehab is the ground floor. This must be your first step. Once you are in control of this small problem, then you will come to me to address the larger ones.”
    Fuck.
    My mind goes into instant overdrive.
    I don’t know if I can quit drinking. How will I cope? More importantly, how will I sleep? I remember my father’s ongoing issues with alcohol, not to mention my sister’s.
    Thinking of my father sends my mood even lower. The last thing I want is to have anything in common with him!
    Now, I’m in a total tailspin. What the hell was I thinking? I can’t possibly talk about my problems to anyone.
    My whole family’s fucked up. I’m fucked up too.
    Everything’s fucked.
    I go from a rare, relaxed, euphoric high, right down to Hell in the gutter with one fell swoop.
    André’s expression softens to unbearable kindness at my obvious dismay. I meet those dark knowing eyes of his and quickly look away. His awareness of my unspeakable inner pain, simultaneously soothes something inside of me, yet burns like fire.
    I see one possible future and it frightens me. Why did I start this? Didn’t I realize I’d lose it? This man is way too insightful—he knows too much already. If I somehow manage to stop drinking, will André get me to expose my secrets?
    I gasp in a ragged, tearless sob as my courage breaks. Curbing a near overwhelming desire to scream, I tense into a wall of unmoving energy. I want to run as fast and