by Lizzy Mason
“Thanks,” I said, drawn in by his bright smile. He shook Ms. Baker’s hand, too, and I tried not to take it personally when he smiled at her just as widely.
Jordan pointed the way to a smaller conference room with four chairs around a table. He closed the door behind us.
“Harley, Ms. Baker,” he said after we sat down, “I’m Mike’s counselor here, so we’ve been working together, talking about what makes him drink and about what happened the night of the accident.”
Ms. Baker’s face colored and she looked at Mike with a frown, her chin trembling.
“I know it’s difficult to talk about how Mike screwed up,” Jordan said. “He’s accepted that. Right, Mike?”
Mike looked up from the table and said, “Right.” He took a deep breath. “I owe you both a huge apology. I’m so sorry for everything that I’ve put you through.”
“Be more specific,” Jordan instructed, and Mike’s shoulders slumped. Ms. Baker’s hands twitched like she wanted to reach out to comfort him, but Jordan gave her a look and she pulled them into her lap.
“I lied to you both. Mom, I lied a lot about where I was and what I was doing. And Harley . . .” He scrubbed at his face with his hands. “I don’t know why I did what I did to you.”
When Jordan cleared his throat, Mike shot him an icy look. “Quit pushing me, man,” he said, but Jordan didn’t back down.
A muscle in Mike’s jaw twitched. He looked back at me. “Harley, I broke your trust more than once when I cheated on you,” he said. “And I know that being drunk isn’t a good excuse, but I never meant to hurt you. I’m sorry.”
I glanced between the two of them, confused and distraught. “What am I supposed to say?” I said. I directed it toward Mike, but then I turned back to Jordan. “I’m ‘actively listening,’ but I’m not sure how to respond. I know he’s sorry, but I’m still mad.”
Jordan nodded. “You’re allowed to be mad, and Mike has to accept that,” he said, pointing at Mike. “Because he can’t change it.”
“What do you want from me?” Mike asked, staring at me. His eyes were pleading, but his tone was resentful.
My hands curled into fists against my thighs. “I don’t want anything,” I said. “I didn’t even want to be here, remember?” I stood and threw the door open, marching out into the hallway. I leaned against the wall, breathing deeply and trying to get myself together. I didn’t know how to get out of the building, and I didn’t want to attempt it when I was blind with anger.
I could hear the muffled sound of Mike and his mom arguing behind the door, but I could also hear raised voices from behind several other doors. I bet I wouldn’t be the only one storming out today.
A few minutes later, Jordan stepped out into the hallway, and I looked at my shoes as he leaned against the wall next to me.
“You okay?” he asked.
I nodded. “I just don’t think he gets that we’re broken up. I can’t be part of his support system. I can’t even be around him.”
“You’re right. I don’t think he does understand that yet. I’ve tried to explain to him that sometimes the things we addicts do when we’re using are too much for the people who love us. It can’t always be fixed. And what he did to you . . .” He whistled. “It was big of you to come today, and I think it was important for him to have the chance to apologize. He’s eaten up with guilt, but it comes out as anger.”
I nodded. I knew that, but it was still hard to feel sympathetic toward him. “You said ‘we,’” I said. “Are you an addict, too? Oh, wait, is that rude to ask?”
He smiled and I felt my stomach unclench a little. “I am, yes. Ten years sober last month. It means I understand where these guys are coming from, and I can relate to them.”
“Well, thanks for helping him. I may not want to do it, but I do want him to get better. I worry about him.”
Jordan took a deep breath and sighed. “I think you should know that addicts are liars and manipulators by necessity, so they can cover up how much they’re using, and Mike is no different. I say repairing trust takes time because it should take time. More than half of these people in here will relapse. So you can’t enable him.”
I quirked an eyebrow at him. “Do I look like I plan to?”
He chuckled. “No, I guess not. But remember what I said about the manipulation.”
I nodded, remembering the multiple times Mike had talked me out of being mad at him. He had even talked me out of breaking up with him.
“You should say that to his mom,” I said.
“I have,” he replied, “but she seems to be having more difficulty accepting that her son has a problem.”
I opened my mouth to say something to the effect that she’d better learn, but Mike and his mom walked out of the room then and I shifted nervously. I just wanted to leave, but I followed them back into the larger room with the circle of chairs. Jordan thanked us for coming again and told us we could take a tour of the facility or take a walk around the facility’s grounds. But I didn’t want to see Mike getting comfy here at rehab. I didn’t want to see the art room or the music room or whatever they did here. I wanted to go home. But before I could say goodbye and make a hasty exit, Mike pulled me aside.
“Thank you for coming today,” he said. “I know you didn’t want to, and I know it wasn’t easy. And I’m sorry for getting defensive. That’s not how I expected today to go.”
I crossed my arms across my chest, trying not to let him see how much I was bothered. I wanted to be cool and distant, impervious even, but it was getting harder to keep up that façade. I just wanted to escape.
“I know you want me to just get over this and forgive you,” I said. “I know that you’re hoping I still love you enough to get past what you did. But that’s not happening, Mike. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
His jaw clenched, a reaction I was accustomed to seeing when he was drunk and I was pissed at him. It meant he was going to be stubborn and defensive. But he didn’t say anything, and I was surprised by his restraint.
“I have to get going,” I said. “I’m really glad you’re here and that you’re committed to it. I hope you keep feeling that way. Good luck.”
And then I turned and walked past the desk and out into the sun. I took a deep breath of humid air and felt my shoulders drop about an inch. I was done.
On Sunday, I met Raf outside while he was finishing a cigarette and the first thing he asked me was how the visit to rehab had gone.
I sighed as I sat down next to him. “It was a weird day,” I said. “They tried to teach us how to talk to each other and make amends and repair trust, and I just kept thinking, ‘It’s too late.’”
He nodded. “Do you think Mike knows that?”
I shrugged moodily. “I don’t know how many more times I can explain it to him.”
“Did he seem like he was taking it seriously?”
“Maybe,” I admitted. “But sometimes he also seemed like he was performing, and I could see this anger simmering that he was just barely keeping a lid on. I guess I could have been seeing what I wanted to see, though.”
Raf tilted his head in recognition. “Maybe not,” he said. “I think I know how he feels.”
“You do?”
“I have such mixed feelings about rehab,” he said. “I recognize that it helped me, but I resent that I needed it.” Raf’s eyes didn’t meet mine. “And I hate feeling like this.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“So ungrateful and angry. I hate it even more because it’s something that I’m responsible for,” he said. “I can’t be mad at anyone. I did this to myself.”
I turned to face him, but I didn’t interrupt.
“I remember that experience of having my parents in that room, feeling like I let them down so many times and not being able to promise I wouldn’t do it again.”
/> Can you blame them? I wanted to say. My jaw tightened. I wasn’t sure if it was better to not believe Mike when he said he was serious about being sober, or to have the truth from Raf and be disappointed by it. Both options sucked.
“Even now, six months sober, I still don’t even know if I am an addict,” Raf continued. “I just know that I don’t want to feel the way I did six months ago. I don’t want to stay in bed all day thinking about when I can get high and be oblivious again. To avoid my parents and the emptiness of the house. Of my life.” He paused, taking a shaky breath. He didn’t look at me. “But I also crave that escape. That numbness. I just want to get to a point where I feel better, but I don’t see it happening anytime soon. And being numb in the meantime just seems like it’d be so much easier than being patient.”
My anger faded. I wasn’t sure what I felt now. Sad? Curious? Both? This was the first time he’d really talked to me about his sobriety beyond a few fragments here and there. I didn’t want to spook him by asking questions. On the other hand, he was the one who was always forcing me to talk. It was time for him to take his own advice.
“Are you starting to feel better than you did before rehab?” I asked hopefully.
He shook his head. “Sometimes. It’s such a cliché to say ‘I have good days and bad days,’ but it’s a cliché for a reason. Some days, I feel so good I sing with the top down. And some days, all I want is to get stoned and sleep.” He dropped his face into his hands, scrubbing at his eyes.
“That does sound kind of nice,” I admitted.
“My therapist says this is all a normal way to feel.” He shrugged, still not looking at me. “And he thinks I’m making progress because even though I want to use, I can see the reasons behind not using and I can recognize that they’re more important.”
“Well, that’s good, right?”
“Yeah, but I’ve been in therapy half of my life and I’m still depressed. Won’t it ever just get better?”
“I don’t think it’s the kind of thing that has a timeline, you know?” I said, but my heart hurt for him.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I guess I know that.” He raised his eyes to meet mine, and there was a hint of a smile behind them. “He also pointed out that if I hadn’t gotten sober, I probably never would have reconnected with you,” he said. “And I wouldn’t give that up.”
I felt myself blushing. “Really?” I asked. “You talk about me in therapy?”
Raf nodded. His cheeks were pink, too.
“What else do you talk to your therapist about?” I asked.
He seemed surprised that I wasn’t asking what else he said about me, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
“We mostly talk about what a piece of shit I feel like most of the time,” he said. “How I question everything I say and do, every interaction I have, every move I make. How sometimes I lie in bed at night dissecting every word I said and everything anyone said to me, looking for proof that I’m stupid or boring or selfish. And usually finding several examples.”
My chest tightened. I slid my hand into his, and he lifted his eyes to meet mine.
“I know how you feel,” I said.
“I know,” he answered. “I’m not a special snowflake.” He pulled his hand from mine and put a few inches of space between us. We’d managed to avoid talking about our kiss a few nights before, but it hung between us like a spider web. I could feel it on my skin.
“Do you want to watch the movie?” I finally said after a few long moments of silence.
He nodded, so I hopped up and led him to the basement. For me, it was a space that was a minefield of memories of Mike, but for Raf, it was just where we’d played as kids. Happy memories. I was hoping it would lighten the mood. And he did break into a grin when he saw the walls lined with bookshelves and the stacks of long boxes on the floor, all stuffed full of comics. I had to pull him away from them or I’d have lost him for the rest of the afternoon.
We sat on the couch, and I was careful to leave some space between us, even though it was tempting to cuddle up and rest my head on his chest like I had with Mike. Instead, I lay with my head at the other end and put my feet near Raf’s legs.
It was a long movie. It was also not a particularly uplifting movie. But I could tell that Raf liked it, despite the changes. He wouldn’t let me pause when I had to pee. Twice. And he refused lunch, which was pretty stunning since I’d seen him put down three bowls of jambalaya and two pieces of pie in one night.
But the promise of a cigarette was enough to push him out the door. I grabbed a book off the shelf on our way out. “Take The Sandman with you. You’ll like it just as much.”
We padded through the dry summer grass, and it stabbed the sensitive arches of my bare feet. When I declined the cigarette Raf held out to me, he raised his eyebrows.
“Trying to quit?” he asked.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I said. “It’s just . . . it’s kind of a gross habit, you know?”
“Oh, I know,” he said. He coughed, as if to demonstrate. “And I was actually pretty surprised the first time I saw you out here. You don’t seem like a smoker.”
I tried not to be offended, but I felt like he was saying he didn’t think I was cool. Maybe it was the discrepancy in how we dressed. I was barefoot, wearing cutoffs and a T-shirt that read Clone Club. Raf was wearing straight jeans, a fitted T-shirt, and canvas sneakers. He looked like he’d actually put a little effort into his outfit. I was feeling proud of myself for at least putting on makeup.
“Are you ever going to quit?” I asked.
“I want to, but Cajun keeps saying you shouldn’t try to quit everything at once. It leads to backslides.”
I snorted. “That sounds like an excuse no one would argue with. I mean, sure I’d rather an alcoholic quit drinking instead of smoking, if they could only manage one, but Cajun is a smoker, too. I don’t think you can trust him to give you advice.”
Raf smirked. “Yeah, I’ve considered that. But I’ll probably smoke less if you’re going to quit, at least.”
“Why? I barely smoke with you.”
He looked at me sheepishly. “Yeah, but I spend a lot of time out here, hoping you’ll come outside.”
“Wait, seriously? Well, now I feel bad…”
He nudged my shoulder with his, smiling that lopsided, mischievous grin. “You should.”
I suddenly wanted to kiss him again, not caring whether he tasted of cigarettes or not, and even though I leaned into him, I knew I wouldn’t. Raf seemed to know what I was thinking, and he stood, putting even more distance between us.
“So what did you really think of Watchmen?” I said. “The casting was pretty spot-on, right?”
He nodded. “Perfect. I was bummed they left out the comic-within-a-comic, but I get why. And I really loved the original ending—it’s just so campy. But a solid adaptation. I give it a B.”
I grinned, happy with his assessment, since it lined up nicely with my own.
“The book is always better,” I said, and he nodded. “So, what are you doing now?” I didn’t want him to leave. Because I didn’t want to go visit Audrey, and Cassidy was working. I hadn’t seen any of my other friends all summer, and I was perfectly happy to make that last for the next few weeks until school started up again. But I also didn’t want to be alone.
“I should go get ready for work,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”
“Yes, you will,” I said.
A Year and a Half Ago
The basement of Mike’s house was neutral territory for me and Ryan. We both owned it equally. Even though he had spent more time down there, I had sex with Mike there. So, like I said, equal footing. But when they played video games, I was the very obvious third wheel. That was about 70 percent of the time they were together.
I usually didn’t let it bother me. I could easily entertain
myself because Mike’s comic collection was also housed in the basement. I didn’t complain often.
But one time when I did, a year into Mike’s and my relationship, Ryan tossed the controller to me as if he’d been waiting for it. I wasn’t sure if it was frustration, fear, or generosity that made him do it, but I tried to give it back either way. Ryan wouldn’t take it.
“Give it a shot,” he said, even though Mike groaned. Ryan hit him in the chest. “Dude, give your girlfriend a chance. Knowing her, she’ll probably kick both of our asses.”
I didn’t ask Ryan what he meant by that; I was too busy figuring out which character I was going to be. I decided I liked the female warrior with red skin and snakes for hair, à la Medusa.
“You play with her then,” Mike said, handing Ryan his controller. “I’ve already had my ass kicked by her plenty.”
“His fragile ego can’t take the defeat,” I said as I chose my weapon. “We decided a while back that it was best not to play each other.”
“If you want to get your ass handed to you, go for it,” Mike grumbled. “Let her make you look like an idiot for once.”
“I don’t make you look like an idiot,” I said. “You do that all on your own.”
He climbed over the back of the couch and headed up the stairs with a scowl on his face.
“I love you!” I called after him, feeling guilty. “And also, bring me a Diet Coke!”
Ryan shook his head at me. “You guys are weird.”
I smiled. “Don’t worry, Ry. Someday you’ll find a girl to be weird with, too.”
“I hope we’re nicer to each other than you guys are.” He sighed softly, and I realized he was probably lonelier than I knew.
“Listen, I’m gonna kick your ass here,” I said, “and then I’m going to go home and leave you and Mike to do whatever you guys had planned before I barged in.”
Ryan tried to protest, but I waved him off. “No, it’s for the best,” I said. “Because clearly I’m just embarrassing you.” I swiftly pulled his character’s digital spleen from his gut. “It’s definitely for the best.”