I let her go off. I stand, listening, waiting for my cue.
Blargh.
Blllaaaarrrgghh.
And there it is.
Without thinking, I kick the door in. It flies opens easily enough, and I almost gag at the smell of vomit as it hits me, the acidic stench going straight for my eyes and making them water as it infiltrates my senses. And for a split second, I once again consider bolting. I quickly dismiss the thought when my eyes land on Ali’s shaking form huddled on the floor between the tub and toilet, her head resting on the bowl’s rim. Her dark hair is slick with sweat, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes barely open. She looks nothing like the girl I’ve come to care for, she looks frail, weak—lost.
And yet, I’m still drawn to her, that magnetic pull as active as ever. My chest feels tight, and for the first time in years I want to cry. Seeing Ali like this, knowing how badly she must be hurting and that this is how she’s been doling out punishment to herself makes me feral, and makes me feel a rage unlike any I’ve ever known.
Doesn’t she see how wonderful she is?
How can she hurt herself like this?
How do I fix this kind of broken?
I want to lash out, stomp over, pick her up, shake her silly, and demand she never ever do this shit again.
But I know I can’t.
Instead, I take in a deep breath, trying not to throw up myself as I work to formulate a plan and regain some sort of composure.
“Slater…” She croaks out my name. Our eyes catch, and for a moment, I see a meanness there. Then I see her hand reaching down her throat as if in slow motion, and it registers—she’s fucking testing me. She heaves and vomits into the toilet, never breaking eye contact, daring me to do something.
It pisses me off, but I’m ready to fucking call her bluff, to end this. Alina Cassidy, you best remember that even if I have a weak spot for you, I will not stand by and watch you destroy yourself any longer.
Blllaaaarrrgghh!
“You need to go…” she tries, but it’s weak. Just as I see her hand ready to work again, I move in as if on autopilot, as if we’ve been doing this same dance for years. A dance where she forgets I’m the lead. Sliding onto my knees, I slowly move in beside her, lifting her listless body and push her hand down to her side, holding it there. “I said that’s e-fucking-nough.”
“And I said get out!” She’s mustered up the gumption to yell right in my face, her breath foul. Our chests touch, heaving as we glare at one another. Immediately, wetness seeps into my shirt, and I realize I’m now covered in vomit, just like her.
“No. I’m not letting you do this. You’re done.” I slam the toilet seat down, pull her into my chest, and manage to maneuver us so I’m sitting with my back against the tub, with her cradled tightly against me.
“Let fucking go of me!” She pushes my chest, and I tighten my grip. Her puke-covered hair whips around, hitting my face, as she jerks and thrashes trying to get away.
“I’m not letting you go until you calm the fuck down, Alina,” I grit. She looks at me like I’m the person she hates most in the world, and it takes everything for me not to believe that’s how she’ll see me when we’re done. I need to believe that this isn’t my girl. I just have to stay, and hope I’m right.
“You can’t control me. I’m not one of your whores. Go find Sasha, and leave me to finish.” Her face contorts in anger. She tries to use her legs for momentum to escape, but I’m too fast and manage to secure her even closer to my chest. I nuzzle my face into the nape of her neck, breathing in, thinking I can catch a wisp of her true scent under all the mess, the scent I love so much.
“Baby,” I whisper against her collarbone. I feel her shoulders tense, and then relax just as fast.
Her hands move to my chest, and I think she’s going to push me away. Instead, she grabs onto my shirt so hard I think it might rip, and begins to sob.
“I got you, baby. Shhh, shhh, you’re going to be all right. Let it all out,” I soothe, rubbing my hand along her back, while still holding her as tightly as possible. She’s mumbling and ranting, and I can’t make out a word of it, but it doesn’t matter, because right now, I’ve got her.
We sit in silence for what feels like hours as I try to comfort her, allowing her the time she needs. She sobs and shakes almost uncontrollably in my arms, and all I can think about is: How long has she been at this?
Looking around the washroom, I can’t believe its state. I cannot fathom that all of this mess came from one tiny person. Spoiled towels are tossed haphazardly, regurgitated food drips from the toilet, and that fucking stench I’m not sure I’ll ever forget is still taking up residence. I swear I can fucking taste it.
Wanting to clean her up as best I can without forcing her to move just yet, I notice some clean towels, but they’re on the other side of the room, and there’s no way I’m letting her go to grab one, not when I’ve finally calmed her down.
I want to ask her why. I want to know who’s responsible for this. I have so many questions I need answered, but for now I keep them to myself. I simply keep holding her, hoping I’m somehow helping.
Knowing we’re covered in puke is starting to get to me; the smell, the cold wet feeling, and the fact that Ali’s shaking, her teeth starting to chatter. An idea pops into my head. One I’m more than positive Ali’s not going to like.
“Ali?”
“Hmm.” She barely responds.
“Your shirt, it’s pretty much soaked. You’re freezing, baby. Let’s take it off and get you warm.” Touching the hair elastic on her wrist, I suggest, “Maybe tie your hair up, too. Get it off your face and neck.”
Leaning up, she stares at me like I’ve just killed her kitten, horrified.
“No way, Slater,” she rasps, her voice still off. “You can’t see me like that. I never, ever wear my hair up. You’ll see my flaws. No!” Her eyes well up, her voice getting louder as she shakes her head frantically back and forth, and I want to beat the shit out of every single person responsible for making this beautiful girl doubt for even one second that I wouldn’t want to see her. All of her.
“Ali, look at us,” I say, cupping her face, effectively stopping her from shaking her head no. “We’re a hot mess.” Her eyes meet mine and I guide them down to our chests. She leans back to look, and I see the second it all registers, as if the cloud is starting to lift: the wetness, the odour, and the smeared pieces of vomit suddenly hit her, like they’ve been hitting me since I came in here.
“I’ll go first, okay?” I say. “Mine has to come off, too.”
Ali doesn’t say anything, doesn’t nod, utter a protest, or try to shove off me. Taking that as a good sign, I sit up straighter, creating enough of a gap between us so I can slip off my shirt before deciding to push my luck a bit more.
“Come here, sweetheart. Let me clean you up a little,” I say, turning my shirt inside out, looking for a dry patch to clean her up, while giving her more time to adjust to the idea of removing her top. Ali complies, leaning in to my touch, making me almost smile. Almost, but seeing her like this hurts too much to give in. Looking at me, I notice her usually bright blue eyes are dull and grey. And I fucking hate them in this moment, hate whatever lives within her, making her do this to herself. I want to exorcise it and make vanish forever.
“I’m s—sor—” she tries, after I’ve gently wiped her cheek, temple, and chin with my T-shirt, cleaning off as much of the mess as possible.
“Don’t. Not now, sweetheart. Let’s focus on getting us warm and clean. We can talk later,” I say, resting my forehead on hers.
Slowly placing my hands on the hem of her shirt, I start to lift it. Immediately her hands fly over mine, stopping and holding them like small vice grips. Her breathing pattern changes, and I swear I can feel her heartbeat kick up a million notches.
“N—no!” she yells, “I c—can’t.” Ali pushes my hands off the hem, and tries to lift herself away from me.
“Alina, you’re freezing and you need
to warm up. It’s either the shirt, or I’m tossing both of our asses in the shower, fully naked,” I warn, and she sits back down without hesitation.
“I—I hate y—you.”
“Right now you do. We’ll work on fixing that later. Shirt, Ali. Off. We’ll leave the bra on.”
Sitting up, Ali allows me to reach for the hem of her shirt, and I start to slowly lift, giving her time to adjust and to stop me if she needs to. My eyes stay trained on hers so she knows she’s safe and being respected. I wouldn’t dare breach her trust right now.
“You’re doing such a good job,” I tell her, offering a hesitant smile, and she lifts her arms as I pull the neck out and over her head, making sure none of the vomit transfers to her face. Once it’s off, I toss her shirt into the tub behind us where I’d thrown mine after cleaning her up. Ali immediately burrows herself back into me.
“I’m—”
“Stop. Rest.” I pull her into my chest, effectively cutting her off. “The only thing that matters right now is you,” I say, and she wraps her arms around my neck, anchoring herself to me as if she thinks I’ll leave.
“Slater,” she whispers, and her grip tightens as she eliminates any distance that may have existed between us. The warmth from our skin-to-skin contact starting to work its magic, our touching chests soothing both of us while keeping her warm. I still can’t believe I’m here. Can’t fathom that self-destruction like this exists in our world, that people do shit like this to themselves on purpose. I’ll never, ever forget this scene for as long as I live, and I vow here and now to help her by any means necessary.
“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.” I work to angle myself so I can cocoon her while rubbing her back. Wanting to keep the heat going for as long as possible, shifting us down a bit I’m able to coax a clean towel I spotted free from the bottom shelf of the vanity, and am able to drag it towards us with my foot. With one hand, I drape it around over her shoulders, ensuring I cover any exposed skin before tucking her back into our bubble, where I vow to hold her until she can hold her own again.
We’ll sit wrapped in each other for as long as it takes, because I don’t think either of us is ready to let go yet.
“Th—thank you,” she says, and I feel a few tears hit my chest.
I simply kiss the top of her head, and whisper, “Always.”
Always…because it’s true. I’ll fight this same battle with her again and again as many times as she needs me to, until we beat her enemy into the ground.
50
Alina
“I think we should pull out of tomorrow’s show. Let one of the other bands fill in,” I hear someone saying somewhere in the distance.
“She needs to go home,” follows behind that.
“She can meet us in Montreal, if she’s up to it.”
“She’s not going to like that, but she’s what’s important here.”
“I think we need to let Ali decide.”
I hear the voices fading in and out, but I’m too exhausted to respond, or to care whether or not I’m dreaming, or if this is indeed my reality…
51
Alina
Shame.
Guilt.
Devastation.
Embarrassment.
Failure.
Pain.
Dehydration.
Headache.
Overwhelmed.
All of these are the things I’m feeling as I open my eyes, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. The bed, comfortable; that modern hotel décor of light walls with crisp white sheets and a bulky white duvet; large windows overlooking the city centre; sleek, dark furniture. Sitting up in the king-sized bed, I realize immediately that I’m not in my own room, and I can’t quite remember which city I’m in. Rubbing Cygnus on my inner wrist as a touchstone, awareness and memories from last night suddenly come barrelling back. I feel a sick twinge in the pit of my stomach, remembering how I let myself get so lost in Her. Scanning the room, I spot a large black duffel bag and big suitcase, the lingering scent in the room distinctly masculine, and it’s then I know I’m in Slater’s bed. I would recognize that mix of Irish Spring and leather anywhere. My heart sinks with the realization that it’s not because we’ve taken our relationship to the next level intimately—just personally.
Slater.
Images of me in the hotel bathroom flood my mind, and my stomach goes into knots, remembering how Slater saw everything. He not only witnessed me at my weakest, but he held me, forced me to stop, cleaned me up, and he didn’t bolt when he could have. Instead, he cared for me when I was at my ugliest, and made me feel something I’ve really only ever felt with Lucky…safe.
“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart,” his words from last night pop into my mind. The way he cared for me, not once judging or belittling me, even though I said some truly horrible things…
“How long should we let her sleep, man?” I hear Slater’s gruff voice ask from the other side of the French doors, pulling me from my sleepy thoughts.
“Until she wakes up. Her body will be sore, she’ll be dehydrated. When are the girls due back?”
Lucky?
“They’ve gone to talk to Tommy. We’re replacing their slot with another band tonight. I don’t want Ali feeling like she needs to play.”
“Good call. She’s gonna be pissed, but—
“You’re right. I am,” I let slip from where I’ve managed to creep quietly into the room, unnoticed. Seeing Lucky sitting comfortably, his feet up on the small ottoman, while talking to Slater about me and my illness isn’t exactly how I’d envisioned these two men meeting. But it’s done, and I’ll have to learn to deal with it.
“Squirt!” Lucky says, standing and taking me in, a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes crossing his face as he walks toward me, arms open, ready to hug me.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper into his tight embrace.
“Came here ’cause you needed me. Paisley called. And Slater here finally answered your phone, so here I am. Been here for a few hours. I like this guy, Ali, he’s one of the good ones, I can tell,” he whispers, squeezing me tighter, and my eyes latch onto Slater’s over his shoulder.
“That he is,” I tell Lucky quietly, never taking my eyes off of Slater’s. “I just hope I haven’t ruined it,” I say, fighting the croak in my still-sore throat.
“From the sounds of it, I’d say it’s the opposite. Dude cares. A lot,” Lucky says, pulling away and giving me a swift kiss to my temple. My eyes still glued on Slater, I smile nervously, unsure what to say or do. Never has Slater looked more beautifully conflicted, as unsure as I feel in this moment. Do I walk over and thank him? Run into his arms like I so want to do? Will he hold me, and tell me we’re okay, like Lucky seems to think, or will he push me away and send me packing now that I’m awake and Lucky is here to deal with me?
“Morning,” Slater says, when Lucky lets me go. Tentatively, I step in his direction, and just as quickly my questions are answered. Slater pulls me into his arms, his face taking comfort in that sweet spot between my neck and collarbone, the spot I’ve come to think of as his. “I’m glad you’re awake. So fucking happy you’re here, baby, I’ve been going out of my mind waiting for you to wake up,” he says, and I hate the worry I hear in his voice, the uncertainty I see on his face. Thankfully, what I don’t see reflected on this beautiful man’s face is the look of pity I expected to find there after last night. Rather, in its place I see understanding and patience, and I can tell Slater is allowing me to lead how this morning will play out. Instead of pushing and bombarding me with all the questions he must have, or yelling at me for doing what I did, he’s hesitant, kind.
“Me too,” is all I can manage as my heart riots in my chest. I’m so nervous and ashamed, yet I move in to hug him tighter, craving the comfort he’s willing to offer after everything. “Thank you for last night. I’m so sorry,” I say, averting my eyes, feeling totally embarrassed.
“No,” he says, using his th
umb and index finger to tilt my head up to meet his gaze, “don’t apologize. I’m just glad I found you, and that you’re okay. I want your explanation, I do, but you’re more important than anything right now, so I’ll wait and be here until you’re ready to give it to me. Because I want it all, I want everything, and from the beginning. The good, the bad, and the in-between. Got me?” He rubs the side of my cheek, and it takes all of my strength not to sink to my knees and just blurt out everything right now. How can this man still want me after seeing me at my lowest point? After discovering my history? And knowing all the negative press my family’s past could bring to him, the tour, and his band? He’s right, however. I need more time: time to process, to do a bit of self-care, and some time to find the right starting point so I can give him what he deserves—my story.
Leave it to my brother to know what I need.
“Tea?” Lucky asks, motioning to the room service cart holding an array of drinks, along with cereal and fruit. How sad is that? Poor Lucky has seen this side of me often enough to know exactly what I need right now.
“Please. And a banana,” I say, but he already has one in hand. Both of us know all too well that the potassium will help restore my strength. Taking the offered tea and banana, I sit at the small table. My hands a little shaky, I start to take small sips of the hot tea. After a few moments of silence, Slater breaks it.
“So, where do we go from here? What do you need from us, Ali?” he asks, taking the spot across from me, pouring two cups of coffee as Lucky joins us.
“I need to get back on track,” I shrug, taking a bite of banana.
What that means at this point, I’m not sure. Yesterday was the worst episode I think I’ve ever had. They say recovery is a journey and not a destination, so I’m trying to forgive myself, to not be too hard on myself for giving in. There’s been a lot of pressure and stress, and if I’m being honest, I’d been doing really well.
But I can admit, yesterday broke me. That reporter blindsided me, and it’s not just that she discovered and shared my past, it’s the let down I feel within myself for not getting to be the one to tell my bandmates or Slater about my parents. After everything they’ve done for me, I should have given them that story, proved to them and to myself that I trust them. Completely. That I’m ready to let them all the way in, and not just keep them on the sidelines. Now though? I worry they’ll hate me for being so sketchy all the time, for not sharing something so huge with them. And I have my bully to blame for that. She convinced me that I once again destroyed my chance at any happiness, reminding me through that reporter that happiness is the one thing I don’t deserve even a slice of. As a result, I lashed out at myself the best way I knew how last night. Well, until Slater interrupted me, that is.
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