(Six)

My dad used to joke I was all or nothing. One hundred miles an hour to a dead stop. One hundred times a day. He doesn't joke much anymore. He can't. There's nothing funny about a heart attack.

It started with swimming in sixth grade. I couldn't just compete, win a couple of meets, enjoy it. I had to be the best. I lived at the pool: early mornings, late nights. Every single day, the thrill of racing, the recognition.

Then came high school and football. I never stepped in a pool again. My life was filled with training, games, girls, parties. I was on a high from freshman to senior year.

Then another challenge came along, a degree in Journalism at UW. It uncovered my craving to write. I dropped the ball and didn't pick it up again. I secured my dream job at the Times, then Fox, then CNN. Chasing success, I won awards here and there and landed myself on the other side of the world. My fearlessness and talent in portraying real-life nightmares skyrocketed me straight into hell. And I'm still there.

I was too daring, too reckless, and then too stupid to care.

So the alcohol crept in. The drugs. The women. The alcohol. The alcohol.

And, I gave into it. I gave up my life.

Now there's her.

But I have nothing to give. And she has everything to lose.

The face in the mirror isn't me. At least not who I want to be. I plunge my hands into the sink and splash the icy water against my skin. The sharp shock has no effect. I look sick. I feel it in my bones. My eyes are sunken—a week's worth of stubble can't hide the shadows on my face—and my hair is fucked.

I'd thought I was untouchable, but addiction has its hands all over me.

I lean over and turn on the shower, pulling my T-shirt over my head as someone begins banging on my front door. There's no way in hell I'm up for conversation, so I shed the rest of my clothes and step under the spray. I make it hot enough to scald—it's the only way to get some life back into me.

The banging is still echoing through my apartment once I'm done. Its rhythm switches from irritating to infuriating and back again, letting me know exactly who it is. I grab a towel and rub it over my hair, wrapping it around my waist. Then, when I've made him wait long enough, I let the impatient bastard in. The cold air from outside pelts my skin as I rip open the door.

"It's 7 a.m., Em—," I say, and when he smiles slowly, I add—"on my day off."

He pushes past me, falling onto the couch and thumping his boots up on the coffee table. "Go and get dressed."

"Why?" I have plans today. Plans to think about what the hell I'm going to do about the situation I've gotten myself into.

"Are you busy?" he asks, biting into a leftover slice of pizza from last night, or maybe the night before. My place is a mess.

"Yes."

"Bullshit. Get dressed. We're going to be late."

I don't move an inch.

He turns and raises his index finger, using the others to count out. "One, you need to get out. Two, you need to get out. Three, you owe me."

"How's that?" I ask, pushing my luck.

"Seriously? Do you want me to go through the list? We'll be here all day. And why haven't you been at work?"

I start to create a lie, but he's not fishing for information—he knows. "I needed a break."

"From what?"

"Jesus, can you get off my back."

"No, E. I can't. I'm not sure if you know how this sponsor thing works, but when you're struggling, you're meant to call me. Not disappear until I track you down and drag it out of you." He's not a bad sponsor. He's just never had to deal with someone like me.

"I'm fine." The universal lie I tell to anyone who cares. I tell it to myself regularly.

"Really?" he deadpans, eyeing the bomb site he's sitting in. There are too many clues to ignore. The empty takeout boxes, the open window to the fire escape—he'll know there's a right lung's worth of cigarette butts littering the road below. The drawn blinds, unmade bed. CNN on loop. You get the picture.

"Yes. Don't ask me again, Em. I hate repeating myself." He's too good at getting under my skin, and it makes me uncomfortable.

"Don't be an asshole," he warns.

"Ditto." I'm not ready to share what's happened. To share her. So I give in to him and go get dressed.

It's only when we get off at Greek Street that I realize where we're going. I pull up short. "Not a good idea, Em."

He ignores me and keeps walking, disappearing into Whitlock's Gym.

I hover for a minute, waiting for him to reappear—he doesn't. I curse under my breath and push open the doors.

Em is leaning up against the ropes, talking to Riley. The ring is empty, a pair of gloves discarded on its floor.

"Edward." Riley greets me warily. He's a mirror image of Jasper without the sandpaper personality. "You up for throwing a few punches in the ring today?"

I have a vivid image of him wrenching my arms behind my back, blood dripping from Jasper's nose onto the concrete floor. "Depends who I get to hit," I say, looking at Em.

"No chance." Em shakes his head and nods to Riley. "You got time to burn today?"

"For E? Always." He grins and pulls himself up and over the ropes. "You ready?" He throws the gloves at me and I reluctantly unlace them, preferring bare knuckles. Not allowed. Here, at least.

I can already feel the pent up energy heavy in my muscles, triggered by the familiar smells of old sweat and leather. The slap of gloves against pads, feet moving against the flooring.

I kick off my sneakers, pull off my T-shirt, and leap up and over, landing on the springy floor. I pull on the gloves, flexing my neck, my wrists, my back, calves, and the soles of my feet. My body feels stiff, heavy until I start to move.

"You gonna give me your worst?" Riley's blue eyes dart in all directions, trying to read my tactics.

"You couldn't handle it, Ry." I fake left, and he twists out of my way—I land a jab on his chest.

"We'll see, shall we?" He ducks and goes for my stomach. I dodge, and the blow glances off my ribs. The ache of old injuries is easy to ignore as I catch him across the cheek with my right.

His grin disappears, replaced by determination. I might be out of practice, but I haven't forgotten a thing. I match his expression and go in for the kill.

We fight until my body's drenched, my muscles burning. I don't care that I'll be fucked up come tomorrow. I ride the rush for hours afterward. It makes me feel invincible. And that's the danger of addiction, why Em drags me to get pizza, stays with me until the adrenaline burns up. Because anything is possible till then. Anything at all.

I have time for one last cigarette before the meeting, so I sit on the steps at the side entrance, obscuring my view of the restaurant in an attempt to focus on something else. Thunder is rolling off the Sound. It slices open a memory of Mom telling Alice she shouldn't be afraid, that God was moving his furniture. And maybe he is. Maybe he's making room for me. I smile bitterly at the thought.

I spot Maggie making her way into the building, but I don't see her until it's too late.

"Hey," she says, pausing in front of me.

I look up, stuck on her bare legs. She's wearing a short oriental dress and an oversized coat. A man's coat. I blink a couple of times in case the hallucinations have come back, but she's still here.

Hailing her a cab instead of taking her home that night was my one good deed. I planned to fade back into the shadows, but now she's here. In my blank space.

"You remember me, right?" She rocks back on her heels, tightens the coat around her.

"Yeah, I remember you," I say slowly, and let smoke twist up and obscure her face.

She licks her lips, finds her words. "I saw you from across the street and I just … I wanted to say … I thought it would be good if we could talk." Her speech rushes out all in the same breath. I'm making her nervous. "I wanted to say thank you."

Her hair is twisted up today, the wildness gone from her eyes. She could be a different person. Only my body reacts the same as always.

"Don't thank me," I say, and it sounds harsher than I mean it to. After all, I'm a walking, talking revolver—I never run out of bullets.

She instinctively takes a step back, then two forward. I have to look away, her proximity too much.

"Why not?" She smashes her lips into a thin line, reacting to the wall I'm building.

I shrug, running out of bricks. "Because."

"You can't answer with because."

"Why?"

"Because we're not in fifth grade."

I toss the remainder of my cigarette off to the side, watching the cherry explode on the sidewalk. Kind of like this conversation.

People are beginning to arrive for the meeting. They pass us without a word—no acknowledgement. That's the way this thing works around outsiders.

"You're acting different."

"So are you." Or maybe she isn't. Standing this close to me could count as suicide.

I see Em behind her. His eyes shoot over us, assessing the situation. He frowns—good reaction.

I nod over at him, drawing her attention away from me. "I've gotta go."

She scans the scene, piecing it together. It's not a secret why people meet here. We just like to pretend it is.

"Oh. Right."

I stand up and tower over her. "I'll see you."

"Wait." She grabs on to my arm, that wild look back again. Only this time, doubt has created a small crease at the top of her nose. "If you change your mind, I work across the street, at The Red Lantern. Just ask for—"

She opens her mouth, the first letter of her name balancing on the edge of her tongue. I break one of my rules, pressing my hand to her lips—trapping her name. "There's a reason it's anonymous," I say.

I feel her lips part, ready to question me, but I don't hang around for her answer. I turn and head into the building.

What would I say?

I don't want to know.

I don't want you.

I don't want.

A name isn't something you carry with you, like a dollar, a photo in your wallet, your sobriety. It's not an object you can lose or get rid of. It's a living, breathing memory—a permanent scar. And I've already got enough to last me a lifetime.

AN: Thanks a million to all of you reading and reviewing. Kim, Choc and Cat make this pretty for me and leave me the best comments.

See you soon. Sparrow x