To people who have never struggled with an addiction, this sounds like an easy thing to do. Admit you have a problem. Sure, we all have problems. Any of us can say those words. Some even sound convincing when they do.
Saying the words are not the admission, though. Talking about your addiction with people who have been through what you’ve been through. Listening to their stories. It changes you. And there’s a moment of pure clarity where you accept your addiction.
You accept the things you’ve done because of it. The choices you’ve made. You realize you’ve hurt people with your words and actions because the drugs were in control. You were allowing them to make decisions for you. To dictate your actions.
It’s that day, when she says the words, that I’ll begin to see a change in her. Her vision will be clearer. She’ll be looking at her life, her choices, in a whole new light.
Then we can start the healing process. Not only focusing on her mental health but also her physical health. She’ll grow stronger over time. Her conviction will be her driving force. She’ll find the strength to apologize to the people she’s wronged and ask for forgiveness.
Forgiveness is earned, though. She must prove she’s not the person she was when under the influence. It’ll be the hardest hurdle for her to get past.
“I don’t believe you.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she stares at me with hatred in her eyes.
They all give me that look. For the first month at least. I’m not here to be their friend, though. I’m not here to tell them what they want to hear. I’m responsible for their success, and if that means they hate me most of the journey, I can handle that. As long as they leave here with the understanding that I was here to help and that I’m only a phone call away if they ever need to talk.
A week, month, or year from now. I give each of them my personal cell phone number. I’d rather have them call me in the middle of the night than turn back to the addiction they kicked. In the eighteen months I’ve been here, only one person has called.
“Cell phones are a privilege, Daphne. You have to earn the right to use it. I won’t lie to you and tell you it’s going to be easy. You already know this is going to be hard, but I can promise you one thing.”
I’m baiting her, and from the look in her eyes, she’s not buying it. Most patients want to know. Daphne’s different. Stubborn. She’s not buying my bullshit, and she probably never will. I’m going to have to take a different approach with her.
“You will come out of this a better version of yourself. All those thoughts that are jumbled up right now, you’ll sort through them. We’re here to help you. I’m here to help you. As long as you actively participate, you’ll leave here in a few months knowing who you are, who you want to be, and with a healthy outlook on life. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“No,” she says firmly. “What I want is to go back to Chicago. To spend the summer with my friends.”
“And you will, as soon as—”
“You don’t get it, do you? No one wants to be here. No one wants to listen to your damn lectures about drugs or how you can help. That what we did was wrong. It’s like being criticized at every turn. No one cares what you think.”
“Then why are you here?” I challenge her. Patients love to be challenged, but I usually wait until they settle in a bit. It’s already clear Daphne’s not going to be the average patient.
“Alex fucking tricked me, that’s why. He told me he wanted to take me on vacation, and I believed him.” Balling her hands into fists, she looks like she’s about to blow a gasket. Anger and hatred don’t even begin to describe what I see in her eyes right now. It’s beyond that.
“He’s your brother. He cares about you. You had no reason not to believe him,” I say, trying to calmly rationalize things.
“Right. He cares about me,” she dismisses my words, her demeanor doing a one-eighty so fast I would have missed it if I blinked. Daphne flops backward on the bed onto her forgotten clothing, smashing the pillow over her face and screaming in frustration. “If he cared about me so much, why’d he leave me for four years? He knew what our parents were like. He knew I’d be miserable. And I was. Every day. So I found a way to escape.”
Without even realizing it, Daphne’s told me more than I figured I’d get from her in the first week. Maybe even the first month. The source of her addition. The reason she turned to drugs in the first place.
Her truth.
She did this to punish her parents. To escape from her reality.
It’s a common reason. One I’ve heard before. There are two types of addicts I deal with most commonly. If they’re not trying to escape someone or something, their addiction got out of control. Sometimes it’s as simple as a prescription from the doctor to help with depression or anxiety. Or to alleviate pain after an injury.
Once your body develops a tolerance for the dosage, people find other ways to self-medicate. Whether that be taking more pills than prescribed or turning to other, stronger drugs to handle their issues.
Knowing Daphne was using drugs as a means to an escape is helpful in her recovery.
What surprises me is that she’s angry with her brother. Not for bringing her here and trying to help her, but for abandoning her when it sounds like she needed him most.
It’s all about perspective, and while I make it a point not to judge people, especially my patients and their families, I can’t help but look at Alex differently now. His all-American, good-guy exterior doesn’t sound like it matches what’s on the inside.
Probably a good thing. It helps solidify the fact that I need to stay away from him.
With Daphne on the verge of a breakdown, I leave her to rest for the remainder of the day. She has her schedule. It’s limited the first week she’s here. She’s not allowed to interact with the other patients outside of meals. She knows what time dinner is, what she’s allowed to do, and how to reach me if she wants to talk.
She won’t call.
They never do.
Not the first day, not even the third. I don’t hear from them for an average of five days. Why? Because I’m the enemy. I’m the one they choose to hate, and when they do call or stop by my office to talk, it’s to take out their frustrations on me. I’m the punching bag.
I’m used to it. I grew up being an addict’s punching bag. There’s nothing they can say to me, about me, or accuse me of that I haven’t heard before. I’m numb to it.
It was also what drove me to become an addiction counselor. I couldn’t help my mother, but I refuse to believe that my life experience wouldn’t help someone else. And when I share my story with them, it gives them hope. I may not have been the one working the streets of Vegas for her next fix, but I grew up watching it happen. I understand where they were, and I’m an example of what they can do.
That they can overcome their pasts and be the doctor, lawyer, or teacher they once dreamed they could be. Nothing is out of reach as long as they choose to strive to reach their full potential all while maintaining control of their addiction. It’s something they’ll always need to be mindful of. It won’t go away. They’ll have urges from time to time. As long as they keep their focus on what’s ahead and not on what’s behind them, their chances for success increase ten-fold.
I have high hopes for Daphne. She’s still young with what could be a very bright future ahead of her. She has her brother on her side, willing to do whatever it takes to help her. Her support network may be small, but she’s not alone, and that’s what matters.
And for the time being, she has me. She might not want my help yet, or anyone’s help for that matter. Until then, I’ll check on her a few times a day and offer to talk or just listen if she’s willing. I won’t push her. She’ll come around on her own eventually. They all do.
“So, what do you think?” Vivian asks, pulling her bag higher on her shoulder, a clear sign she’s on her way out of the office for the day.
“I think Daphne’s going to be just fine.�
� Focusing my attention back on my paperwork so I can also leave, I give her a quick assessment of what I’ve seen so far. “She’s almost past the anger stage of withdrawal, placing blame for her situation. I can tell she wants to get better, but she’s not ready to admit that to herself yet. She’s going to be a challenge, that’s for sure. I’m hoping to have my first session with her by the end of the week, and then I think she’ll be ready to sit in with the others.”
“That soon?”
“Possibly. She’s already talking, and she doesn’t even realize it. I’m going to try and convince her to come here for her first session before the weekend.”
“And the brother?”
“He seems to care. She’s angry with him right now. Not just for bringing her here. She feels like he abandoned her, and she’s holding on to that anger.”
“That’s great, but not what I was referring to.” When I look up, I find Viv with a raised eyebrow and a smirk on her face. “Mr. Neil seemed to be easy on the eyes, don’t you think?”
“Didn’t really notice,” I reply quickly, averting my eyes so she can’t see my lie.
“Keep telling yourself that, Harley.”
She’s gone before I can defend myself. Not that I’d be able to sound convincing. There’s not a woman alive who wouldn’t notice how handsome Alexander Neil is. He oozes sex appeal, and just the sight of him had my panties wet.
Or it could be the fact that it’s been almost a year since my last sexual encounter. I mean, a girl can only take care of herself so many times before she craves the real thing. And I bet he could satisfy any cravings I have.
3
Alex
* * *
“It’s fully furnished?” I ask as the landlord pushes the door open. He wasn’t exactly clear the three times I’ve spoken to him in the last twenty-four hours. Between his mumbles and thick southern accent, I’ve had to repeatedly ask him the same questions over and over.
It’s obvious he’s not from around here, accent aside. He looks like he crawled out of a dark bar in the middle of the afternoon, yet he’s dressed like he came from the beach. Shorts with his gut hanging over the top of the waistband, a tank top that’s seen better days, and flip flops. His balding, shaggy brown hair sticks out in every direction. And don’t even get me started on his smell. Stale beer and cigarettes.
“Yeah. Lady who moved out last month left everything behind.” He motions for me to step inside, but he doesn’t follow right away. I watch him linger in the hallway out of the corner of my eye.
“She didn’t die, did she?” I ask, taking in the small space. He listed it as nine hundred square feet, but that feels like a stretch.
The furniture is somewhat dated but seems in good condition. There’s a ton of natural light coming from the front windows into the living room and bedroom area. It’s smaller than I was hoping for, but most studio apartments are. It could all fit into the game room back home. Hell, this place is almost as small as my dorm room in college.
But it’s close to the rehab center, and the beach is only a few blocks away.
“Not here if that’s what you’re asking.” He doesn’t offer any more of an explanation, and I don’t ask. As long as I’m not about to be haunted by the ghost of the woman who used to live here, I’m fine with this.
I found out quickly that the housing market in the small area I was looking was almost non-existent. It’s been a full week since I started searching with minimal luck. I looked at a loft yesterday that was a shit hole, and I have one more place to check out tomorrow, but neither of those options are furnished. This apartment is the most expensive of the three, but I’m able to check off every box on my must-have list. Including being furnished so I don’t need to buy or rent furniture while I’m here. There’s enough in my savings account to cover everything for the next few months until I can access my trust fund. I’ll be living on a budget, but it won’t be as tight as if I were still staying in the hotel for almost four hundred a night.
“I’ll take it,” I say before I change my mind.
The landlord hands over the key, demands first and last month’s rent, and leaves quickly once he’s been paid, not bothering to close the door behind him. I’m searching the kitchen cabinets, taking inventory, when I hear a commotion outside the door.
“Hello,” a small voice calls.
Peeking around the corner, I find a young boy standing outside my apartment door with a backpack at his feet.
“Hi,” I say, taking a step toward him.
“Can you help me?” he asks, unsure of himself.
“I can try. What seems to be the problem?”
“I can’t find my key.” The boy focuses on his shoes, avoiding eye contact.
“Are you locked out of your apartment?” Way to go, Alex. Ask him the most obvious question. It reminds me how bad I am with kids. Even when I was younger, I was never good at making or keeping friends. Not because I was a mean kid but because I was able to relate to adults better.
That’s the way my father raised me.
To be a mini version of himself.
And I was expected to act a certain way.
So when kids wanted to play, I had no idea how to act. I picked up on it after a while and was able to separate being a kid and having friends from how my father expected me to act, but it took time. It wasn’t until high school that I was able to maintain any friendships.
“Yeah. I’m going to be in trouble. Can you break in for me?” There’s a pleading look on his face when he finally looks up in my direction.
I want to say yes, to bust down his door so he doesn’t get in trouble, but I know that would only cause more problems for him and for me. “I don’t think it would be a good idea to break in, but I can call the landlord and see if he’ll come and let you in. Would that be okay?”
My suggestion alarms him, his eyes going wide. “He’s going to charge us.”
“To get in the apartment?”
The boy nods as he lowers his eyes back to the floor in shame.
“Let me guess, this isn’t the first time you forgot your key?” He doesn’t answer. “How about you hang out with me until your parents get home. That way we don’t get you in trouble.”
“But I don’t know you.”
Sound logic. He seems to be a smart kid.
“My name’s Alex,” I say, extending my hand to him. He tentatively takes it in his but pulls back quickly after shaking. “You want to tell me your name?”
“Phoenix.”
“And how old are you, Phoenix?”
“Eleven, almost twelve.” Dark hair and eyes, he’s a good-looking kid. Very polite for a kid his age. But there is one thing no boy his age can resist…
“I’m guessing you like video games and junk food.”
His head whips in my direction. “Do you have a PS4?”
Fuck. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I just teased him with the idea of playing video games.
“I don’t, but I do have a couch and a TV, and you’re welcome to hang out in here while you wait if you want. Do you have any homework?” I ask, gesturing to his backpack.
“Yeah. Stupid math.”
“Well, you’re in luck. I’m really good at math. Come on in.” He picks up his bag but pauses. “We can leave the door open if you’re more comfortable.”
Phoenix makes himself at home on the couch, turning on the TV and pulling out his homework. He sits quietly, glancing up at the TV every so often and in my direction even more. I was going to sit next to him, but I didn’t want to make things awkward, so I’m sitting on a barstool as far away from him as I can get without leaving the apartment.
An hour later, Phoenix perks up when the jingle of keys echoes in the hall outside.
“I think your mom’s home,” I state as he hurriedly shoves everything back in his bag.
The few times he spoke to me, it was about the most random topics. He asked if I like football. Told me he lives with his mom. Asked me where
I was from but not why I was here. Told me all about his friend from school who knows how to surf and wants to teach him.
“Thank you,” he hollers on his way out the door.
I don’t bother to reply. He slams my apartment door on his way out.
Looking at my watch, it’s a little after five o’clock. I still need to eat and go grocery shopping. In that order. If I shop first, I’ll buy everything in sight. On top of that, I need to swing by the hotel and grab my things and check out.
I reconsider my plan of attack as I stare at the queen-sized bed with the yellowing floral comforter. The hotel room tonight has already been paid for. I might as well stay there and check out in the morning. I want new sheets before I sleep here. I’m not sure when the last time the ones on the bed were washed, but I’m not taking any chances.
Snagging my key off the counter and my wallet, I lock the door behind me, fidgeting with the lock for a few seconds before hearing it slide into place. When I turn around, I’m met with the stunning blue eyes of a familiar dark-haired beauty.
“Mr. Neil,” she says, shock written all over her gorgeous face.
“Alex,” I correct her.
“What are you doing here?” Clearing her throat, her voice is professional, but she almost sounds angry to see me at the same time.
“I live here,” I state.
“Since when?”
“Since now. What are you doing here?”
“I live here,” she echoes my words and tone.
“Since when?” This is going to be fun as long as she plays along.
“A while.”
“Looks like we’re neighbors,” I reply, looking past her to find Phoenix staring at me through the crack in her open apartment door.
Directly across the hall. Of all the apartments in the city, I rented the one closest to her. Perfect.
“Right. So I just wanted to thank you for helping Phoenix today.”
“My pleasure.”
“Well,” she says, taking a step back, nudging her door open with her beautiful ass. I’m excited for her to turn around so I can take another peek at it. I can only imagine how nicely the yoga pants she’s wearing accentuate the shape. “Have a good night.”
Half Truths: An Opposites Attract Romance Page 2
