Jules is quiet for a moment, but she does reach out and pulls one of my hands into hers. Our fingers are wrinkled with too much time in the water.
“Shay managed, didn’t he?” she asks softly.
“Spectacularly well,” I agree. “So, me not being there was probably the best thing.”
“That’s not being fair to yourself.”
I stare at the candle on the corner of the tub. Melted wax is pooling and threatening to spill over the top. I’m transfixed by the slight flicker of the flame. Finally, I shrug.
“Turned out I was very good at heroin,” I say with a smile. “I could handle it pretty damn well. And I even sorted out my own detox method.”
“You miss it.” It’s a statement. Not a question.
“Oh, fuck yeah.” I laugh without humor.
“Well, you do make it sound good.”
I stare into her eyes and find she’s giving me a concerted neutral look. But I can’t help but read into what she said. I feel certain she would get straight out of this tub and go out onto the streets with me to find and try smack as long as we did it together.
Maybe I had it all wrong about her being dangerous because of some thing she still had for McManus. And maybe I had it all right about her wanting me in order to ease her into heroin. What I know for certain is that she’s even more lost than I am.
This is the kind of temptation—enabling, really—I should run from. Instead, I pull her to me and she wraps her legs around my hips and I hold her tight.
And I know this is why I haven’t told Shay about her. Because being with her is a half-step toward slipping back into my old ways. I tell myself that I won’t let myself fall, that I’m purposely playing close to the line simply for the thrill of it.
But I have no reason to believe myself.
25
I’m home on a late Saturday afternoon, lounging in the Man Cave with Roscoe when Shay calls. I mute the football game I’d been watching and answer.
“Hey, kid. What’s the craic?”
“I was calling to ask you the same,” he replies. “It’s been a while.”
It has. I’ve purposely “missed” Shay’s calls in the last month, avoiding him rather than lie to him about Jules. I still don’t know what it is I have going on with her, what I need from her. And so, I’ve decided not to share with my brother that I’ve been spending time with her. What good would it do? It’d only make the kid worry all the more about me. He’s got enough on his plate, what with Marty running around at gay bars in San Francisco and stirring up the gossip headlines once more. Jesus, that guy has really broken free of the old marriage bonds in the most spectacular fashion.
“Figured you’ve been busy. Your man Marty has really upped his game,” I say.
Shay laughs and it’s exactly what I love to hear from him. If I gave it much thought, I’d probably realize part of my instinct to say random things for effect started long ago when I would try so hard to make my kid brother laugh to brighten the darkness of our childhood.
“What’s been going on in your world?” he asks.
“Ah, not much to report. Roscoe and I just do our thing, you know?”
“Good. That means you’ll be free to join us in Los Angeles.”
“Los Angeles?” I immediately think of whether Shay will spring for a private plane to get me out there so that Roscoe can travel easier than if we go commercial.
“Yeah, Gavin’s got a grand plan to get the band together there. He and Sophie have rented a house and we’ll all stay for a week. Sort of a thing to get us all on the same page since Marty’s got some issues he’s working out.”
“Ah, isn’t that sweet of him,” I say. “He’s such a touchy-feely fucker.” I never hesitate to take the piss out of any of those guys and they give it right back.
“It’s probably Sophie’s doing more than anything, but it’s not a bad idea.”
“When is this thing?”
“Em, August something.” He goes quiet for a second, probably looking at the calendar app on his phone. Returning, he says, “About ten days from now, in fact.”
Shite. That coincides with the trip Jules and I have committed to. That day we spent looking at destinations all over the world led us to reject Europe as we’ve both traveled it extensively. America didn’t thrill us. We move southward in our research and settled on Tulum, a beach town on the Caribbean coastline of Mexico’s Yucatán Peninsula. We’ve booked a flight and a hotel right on the white sand. In the spur of the moment, it seemed like a fantastic idea. As the days have passed, though, I’ve thought less fondly of it. Jules and I are a combustible mix. Also, I’m not happy about the fact that we’ll have to board our dogs. It’ll be the first time I’m away from Roscoe since he found me.
And now I have to come up with some sort of excuse to tell my brother. I don’t like doing this. It’s a step backward and another red flag that what I’m doing by being with Jules isn’t right. I should just come clean and tell him about her. But I still can’t bring myself to do that.
Instead, I go off on how Ms. Patterson has me working a special program at that very time, one where I’m doing daily in-person checkins with her and other lies to back it up. It’s remarkable even to me how easily it all flows. In the past, I wouldn’t have thought twice about concocting a story like that to suit my needs. Now, it gives me a sick feeling in my stomach. Still, I stick with it.
“It’s probably for the best anyway,” I say. “You guys need time together—for your intervention with Marty, right? To let him know it’s okay to come out as a gay man?”
“He’ll not be doing that,” Shay says wearily.
The stress in Shay’s voice isn’t over worrying that Martin is gay. It’s that his friend is clearly struggling and if one of those Rogue fellas is struggling, they all struggle. Shay doesn’t like when there is tension or drama within the band. Rogue has been the main focus of his life. It gave him a purpose when he could have just as easily followed my lead. In fact, I tried many times to get him lost in heroin with me, starting when the kid really was still a kid (remember—I ain’t no saint). And it was McManus who made sure it didn’t happen. Shay’s had fierce loyalty to that guy ever since. The band gave him stability. It gave him a life. It’s no wonder he lives and dies by what’s happening within it.
“All this tabloid shite will fade away, kid,” I tell him. “It always does. And then you lads will get on with it, won’t you?”
Shay is quiet for a moment. Then I hear him take in a deep breath and exhale. Not too long ago, he could have been enjoying a ciggie, but he quit recently, and it seems to be for good this time.
“Yeah, sure. It’ll be grand,” he says. “Anyway, I’ll miss having you there in Los Angeles. But I’m glad you’re really committing to this therapy stuff. It gives me peace, you know?”
I close my eyes tightly, feeling a burn in my chest. “Yeah, I know it does, Shay.”
26
The words aren’t coming, and I’m once more fixated on the awful paint color covering Ms. Patterson’s office walls. Who would pick such a shade of green when you’re supposed to be relieving people of their burdens anyway?
This is my last session with Ms. Patterson before Jules and I go to Mexico. I’ve resolved to tell my therapist about the mixed feelings I’ve been having about Jules. And to also come clean about the fact that I haven’t told Shay about Jules.
Instead, I say, “Tell me it wasn’t you who picked the paint job here.”
Ms. Patterson looks around the space as if seeing it for the first time. “You don’t care for it?”
“Jesus, no. It’s awful. It’s a bloody reason to need therapy in itself.”
She laughs, and we share a moment of sustained eye contact, each of us amused.
“It was this way when I took over the space,” she says. “I was much more interested in changing out the furniture, honestly. I wanted pieces that would be comfortable. Lighting that wasn’t harsh.”
&nb
sp; “Well, that part is all right. But maybe you can change up the paint one of these days? Hell, I’d come in after hours and help you with it.”
“That’s very kind of you, Daniel.” Her appreciation is genuine, but we both know she’d never take me up on such an offer. Our contact is to be limited to our sessions during normal office hours.
“Well, anyway, I’m going to miss both of our sessions next week.”
“Why’s that?” She feigns disinterest but raises her pen to take notes.
“Jules and I are taking a little holiday. All the way to Mexico.”
There’s no hiding her reaction this time. She’s surprised.
“I didn’t realize you were that serious,” she says carefully.
“I haven’t told you a whole lot, have I?”
“You have been a bit evasive on the details.”
I nod. And then I spend most of the hour session telling her everything. Every little and big thing. I tell her how Jules showed up at my house and suggested we were fucked up and should be together for that reason. I tell her how I went to see Gavin and he warned me away from her. I tell her how I disregarded that advice in favor of believing she and I had to try to rise above the low expectations everyone, including us, has of ourselves. I tell her how that hope crashed and burned when our date turned into Jules seeing me only through the lens of heroin. I tell her how Jules has pulled me in subtle and overt ways toward my old life, that we drink too much, and rely on sex as our connection. In conclusion, I tell her that I believe Jules would sink with me into a heroin oblivion if I so much as nod in that direction, and that being with her is like a test I desperately need to pass but haven’t done the proper studying for.
The silence that fills the room after this is excruciating. I open my mouth to demand some kind of response, but she holds up a finger and stops me. I watch as she gets up from her chair and goes to the door of the waiting room. She closes it behind herself and is gone for three or four minutes before returning.
“Okay, the best I could do was get us another ten minutes,” she says.
Glancing at the time on my phone, I realize I spoke non-stop until just past what was supposed to be our end point. Ms. Patterson must have another client lined up. But she’s convinced that person to come in late. For me. That effort makes me happier than I know it should. She’s only doing her job. But it somehow feels like more.
“First, I have to say I’m pleased with the thought you’ve applied to all this.”
Once more, I open my mouth to speak and she shuts me down with a finger in the air.
“That doesn’t mean I’m going to praise you for your decision-making. You may have been able to recognize a lot of self-destructive tendencies and decisions, but you haven’t steered away from them the way I would hope.”
“I’m only human.” I give her my best sheepish grin.
She doesn’t fall for my attempt to lighten the mood. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Daniel. You’ve already said you recognize that.”
“Ay, it’s true.”
“Tell me, what is the best-case scenario with being with Jules?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m asking what, in your mind, do you hope to gain out of this relationship?”
I struggle to answer, and she uses the opening to lay bare everything bad about being with Jules.
“This relationship, which consists of sex, drug temptations, a disregard for the support you need in your recovery—a relationship that has to be hidden from your brother. Tell me what is the good that comes out of this?”
“Well fuck me,” I say with a laugh. “Put it like that and I’ve got no answer, have I?”
“We’ve talked about your reflex to make a joke of things. Let’s put that aside at this moment. Time is running short. Soon, you’ll be off to Mexico with the woman you’ve described as a threat to your sobriety.”
“Ah, you know I’ve never blamed anyone but myself for my problems. If I slip up, I won’t put that on Jules. Every fucking thing in my world is a temptation. So, this is on me, no matter what.”
“Of course, it is. But why set yourself up for a harder time? Why willfully keep Jules so close to you when it only exacerbates the possibility you’ll make the wrong choice and use again?”
I shake my head. “I dunno. Maybe because the sex is so damn good?”
Ms. Patterson straightens in her chair. “Surely she’s not your only option for that.”
With a wink, I tell her, “Just wanted to see what your reaction might be.”
She sighs, frustrated. I don’t blame her. I’m being a bastard. I’m wasting the effort she made to grant me more time. See, it’s not like I don’t know when I’m fucking up at the time I’m actually fucking up. I just can’t help myself. Lack of impulse control, is the official diagnosis. It’s either that, or like I said, I’m a bastard.
Getting back to the point, Ms. Patterson says, “You said Jules is a substitute addiction, one that isn’t as dangerous as the real thing. But what happens when whatever she gives you isn’t enough anymore?”
This puts it all in perspective. I can see now more than ever what my draw to Jules is. She’s my way of testing myself. My way of seeing whether I really have shed my old identity or if I’ll go crawling back to it. Have I really changed? Can people change? That’s what I’m trying to sort out. And like Ms. Patterson pointed out, I’m playing a dangerous game in pursuit of the answer. But that’s what I do. That part of me hasn’t changed.
“Ah, my dear Ms. Patterson,” I say with glibness I don’t really feel, “that’s the very thing I’m after finding out, amn’t I?”
She takes a deep breath and exhales. “Okay, we’ll figure it out together.”
That measure of support strikes deep inside my chest. I think my adoration for her has escalated to love.
Standing, she signals that our time is up, and I reluctantly join her.
“You’ll take extra care on this trip, won’t you?” she asks.
“I’ll be back in one piece,” I promise.
She hesitates. There’s something more she wants to say but can’t. Or won’t.
I want to reach out and hug her. I want to wrap my arms around her and thank her for caring for me. For being the one true constant in my life. But for once, I do the right thing by restraining myself.
“Adios, señorita.”
The smile she gives me is just as conflicted as the hesitation she had a moment ago. But there’s nothing I can do about it. Roscoe and I are off.
27
The flights to get to Tulum are long but afford us the opportunity to become double members of the esteemed mile-high club: once on the way from Dublin to our first stop in Atlanta, and again from there on to Cancun. It’s obnoxious, I know, but you gotta live a little.
After more than fourteen hours of flying, we’re ready to dash right into the crystal blue waters. But first we connect with our private car service for the nearly two-hour drive to Tulum, which finds us chasing the late afternoon daylight. We could have taken a basic taxi or even a shuttle bus, but this is one of the concessions I’ve made to Jules’ desires for the VIP treatment.
I’m footing the bill for this trip since Jules made it clear it was my idea to travel. She also made her preferences known for wanting first class airfare along with top of the line hotel and other accommodations for our activities. A part of me wonders if she thinks I’ve got Gavin McManus-level wealth. I may live in a posh house and drive an expensive car, but neither is mine and I don’t have the bank account to back them up.
I’ve never had a huge attachment to money. It’s always been someone else’s that I enjoyed, like with my party circuit “friends.” Or it was Shay’s when he bailed me out on numerous occasions. It wasn’t until this last part of Rogue’s tour where I was put on salary, that I ever associated money with something that I earned. The cause and effect of me actually doing a job and getting compensated for it resonated for the first t
ime in my life. I became thoughtful about where and how I spent it. And because so much was provided for me first on tour, and then with staying at Shay’s, I’ve built up a good savings. So, I’m happy to pay for the trip, but this isn’t going to be a Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous episode. We flew business class. And while we’re staying at a boutique hotel right on the sand, it’s the bargain one that goes for two hundred dollars a night, rather than the ones on either side of us that charge upwards of six hundred dollars a night.
We discover it still affords us our very own piece of paradise when we get checked into our ocean view bungalow.
Jules pulls aside the mosquito netting of the king size bed and falls face first onto it with a happy moan. I join her, though I’m on my back, raised up on my elbows so I can see the water glimmering in the early evening sunlight. There’s not one cloud in the sky and all we can hear is the gentle crashing of the waves and the breeze rushing through the willowy palm trees reaching high into the sky.
What I wouldn’t give to have Roscoe here. I can just imagine us wandering for hours along the beach, hunting for sticks to throw along the way. Walking next to me in this vision is not Jules, but Ms. Patterson. I indulge in this fantasy for another minute, curious how my brain will fabricate the non-office version of her. Her hair is down, blowing softly about her face. She wears a tropical patterned pink and green mini dress, showing off her lovely legs. There’s a smile on her face as she reaches for my hand.
“Let’s get a margarita,” Jules says as she pulls herself upright. “Then we need to test that water.”
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