Other Broken Things Read Online Free PDF

glasses and plates are filled. Then we have the big neighborhood party on the day before Christmas Eve.
    When I got out of rehab, Mom told me she and Dad canceled all this season’s hosting obligations, including the big neighborhood one. I still don’t know if it was for my benefit or if they were worried I was too much of a loose cannon around their friends. And of course, Mom didn’t explain.
    â€œYou must be starving,” she says now. I try not to notice the Mrs. Claus stitched on her sweatshirt, but it’s impossible. Mrs. Claus has a ruffled skirt sewed on that when you lift it up shows her mistletoe-covered bloomers. Mom is sadly oblivious to how hilarious it is that Mrs. Claus is requesting kisses underneath her skirt.
    â€œYeah. I could eat,” I answer.
    â€œI guess you really were exhausted?” It’s a question. As if she thinks I’m going to come clean about something. Though the truth is I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t want me coming clean about shit if it meant really talking.
    â€œI told you I was.”
    I grab the milk from the fridge and pour a big glass of it. It’s cool and delicious when it hits my throat. That’s a weird thing about being sober: food and drink actually taste really incredible. I’ve put on at least five pounds since I quit drinking, and that’s even with crappy rehab food. I can’t imagine what kind of havoc the gluttony of Mom’s holiday season is going to wreak on my body. Push-ups and sit-ups have little chance against chocolate pumpkin loaf and sugar cookies.
    I swallow the rest of the milk along with my guilt about not spending any time at the gym. Not that that’s even an option for me, but still. If I shut my eyes, I can smell it: the tape on my hands, the sweat, the blood. I shake the thoughts from my head and drop into a seat at the breakfast table.
    She slides a plate in front of me. “You have an appointment with Dr. Warner today.”
    I’d completely forgotten, and relief washes through me. I’m not going to even have to fake sick for Mrs. Hunt. For as much as therapy is a huge pain in my ass, Dr. Warner only sees patients between nine and noon, so I miss school. He’s a prestigious psychiatrist who teaches at the hospital university in the afternoon. I don’t have the first clue why he even wanted to take on my little problem, but my parents have money and I’m guessing that accounts for a lot.
    â€œDad already gone?”
    â€œOf course,” Mom says, plucking dried poinsettia leaves off the centerpiece.
    Dad works at the Board of Trade. He’s gone most days by five. He’s super disciplined about his whole life. Church on Sunday. Gym every day after work. He runs marathons still. And is überefficient. I’m sure a fuckup like me for a kid is a raging disappointment. He hasn’t said as much, but it’s not like he’s driving me to AA meetings or reading the Big Book either.
    â€œThere’s a women’s meeting at St. Paul’s tomorrow night.” I can’t believe I said that. The last thing I want to do is go to another meeting. At the same time, my damn card only has one signature on it so far, and I’m not super psyched about the idea of getting extra community service just because I can’t manage to sit through a few hundred “if you want what we have . . .” lectures.
    â€œWomen only?” Mom’s eyebrows are practically at her hairline. She’s no idiot. She doesn’t know who, but she knows at least part of the source of my problems is because of a dude. Fricking Brent.
    â€œYeah. Maybe I’ll find a sponsor there.”
    She beams like I’ve informed her there really is a Santa Claus. My poor mom somehow has taken this whole thing on her shoulders, and I do feel a bit bad about it. I’ve told her in a million ways that I’m fine, but the accident and the DUI and the