Life on the Level Read Online Free

whole lot of courage.”
    I don’t say anything. I guess the right thing to say is “thank you.” But I don’t think that I’m brave at all. Bravery would have been doing this sooner, or sticking around to right my wrongs. Brave is not something I am.
    “Now,” she says, leading me down another corridor decked in more Montana taxidermy and freshly waxed pine floors. “We’ll go get the rest of your things and finish check-in, and then I’ll show you to your room.”
    • • •
    “Is this necessary?” I mutter, crossing my arms over my chest.
    The ranch’s hand, Taylor Patrick, inspects my car. He chews gum as he looks me up and down. His eyes linger on my legs a little bit too long.
    “It’s standard,” Helen tells me from the other side of the car. “Everyone submits themselves to inspection. You’re coming into a facility where people are trying to recover. We have to make sure nothing gets in. Now, is there any alcohol or contraband in your possession or vehicle?”
    I gnaw on the inside of my lip. I’m liking Helen a little bit less at the moment. I duck to tie my shoe, just as two cars pull into the driveway. They go around back to park, which means they’re employees. I sigh, deflating like a balloon. Fresh start, River , I tell myself.
    “We’re not going to arrest you,” Helen reassures me. “We want you to have a clean slate.”
    “There’s a flask under the passenger seat and a makeup bag with my prescription drugs. All legit.”
    I wasn’t going to bring it in with me. It’s just a backup, you know. It’s not like I was going to share.
    Helen takes the bottle of Xanax and Vicodin, along with my flask, the one with an R engraved at the center. It’s full of Tullamore Dew, my daddy’s favorite whiskey. She puts it all in a large white ziplock bag.
    “That’s it,” I say.
    But that’s not it. I have a baggie of percs in the lining of the bra I’m wearing. I can feel sweat beads protrude on my forehead, but I blame the noonday sun.
    I follow Helen and Taylor past the front desk and into the main office. Taylor sets down my bags and Helen puts on latex gloves. They unzip it and go through the contents. I swallow. My mouth is dry.
    Taylor laughs. “Guess it’s true. People do wear a lot of black in New York City.”
    I give him a pained smile.
    They search my wallet. I’ve got a hundred in change, a photo of my dad from when he was in the Navy, and another of my girls and me from the beach this past summer. I’m annoyed that I have to tug it out of Taylor’s hand, like he’s trying to be cute.
    They take my nail clippers, eyelash curler, and my self-defense keychain that looks like a golden cat, leaving my clothes, books, and overpriced hair products. They ask for my cell phone, but let me send all the texts I need to first.
    Sky: I know you’re busy getting tan with your sexy roofer. I can’t decide if this place is a cult or not. I’ve been stripped down and had everything confiscated like a criminal. I’ll have access to e-mail (I hope). Love, Me. E-mail: [email protected]
    Leti: I had the best sex of my life last night. And I didn’t even know his name. BOOM. Commencing ninety-day lock down: [email protected]
    Lucky: Thanks again for hooking me up with that bar in Missoula.
    Pepe: I’m sorry again. I’m at the rehab center. It’s weird. Love you.
    Dad: I miss you.
    I get a sender error back from that last one and I swallow the lump in my throat. I want to laugh. Hi, I’m River Thomas, and sometimes I text my dead father, who was also a gambling addict, among other things. That should be my opening statement at group tomorrow.
    As Helen moves to pry my phone out of my hands, a new text comes in.
    “Just one more, please.”
    “What is it with this generation and texting?” she mutters.
    The text sends a shiver down my spine. It’s a New York number. 917. Heard u skipped town. U don’t think I’ll find u?
    I press the power button, then