Lola Carlyle's 12-Step Romance

by Danielle Younge-Ullman

  “Whoa!” I hold up my hands and back up. “Jeez. Take it easy.”

  She stays there, panting and glaring at me, and I get my first real look at her. She has big dark green bruised-looking eyes and stringy, straight, shoulder-length dyed-black hair with brown roots growing in, and her vibe is all wannabe Demi Lovato crossed with Kristen Stewart, but in sweats, and the overall effect being more Avril Lavigne—ie, trying way too hard. And even though she’s stick-skinny, she looks like she could kill me.

  “Okay, no worries.” I step away. “I can choose my own outfit.”

  Back at my bed, I contemplate leggings and a different dress—tight and red with cutouts—but I’m rattled. I don’t feel like getting undressed and changing bras, et cetera, with Snake Girl in the room, and I don’t have time to look around for a bathroom, either.

  I re-zip the suitcase and settle for changing into sandals and putting on a fresh coat of Stila lip stain.

  At the door, I risk a look back, half expecting Jade to be staring at me with her teeth bared. Instead, she’s on her back again, but now her chest and shoulders are shaking and there are real tears rolling down across her temple and into her hair.

  Shit.

  I blink and lick my lips, then open my mouth to say something but cannot think of anything helpful. Finally I just tiptoe away.

  And if I thought that was weird, on my way back to meet Adam I glance into one of the other rooms and see a blond-haired girl curled up and moaning on the floor.

  Wow. The rooms are nice and the view is pretty…but these people do not look like they’re at a spa. They do not look like a steam, a pedicure, and a light lunch will fix them.

  Adam is sitting with his compact body flopped, legs splayed on a couch just outside the girls’ dormitory. There’s a TV on the opposite wall and all he needs now is a bag of chips to make the scene complete.

  “Awesome,” I say, sitting down next to him, kicking my shoes off and pulling my feet up under me. “What are we watching?”

  The couch is small, so our legs touch for a couple of seconds, but then he leaps up like it burned him.

  “We’re not watching anything,” he says, and clicks off the TV.

  “You get to relax; why can’t I?” I say, stretching out and wriggling my toes.

  “Much as I’d love to sit around watching movies with you,” he says, making it clear he would not love it, “I have a job to do.”

  “You would be much cuter if you smiled once in a while. Let me guess—you’re afraid to.”

  “What?”

  “You know, because you’re so young and you think we won’t take you seriously, so you’ve decided to act super authoritative all the time. Like, to keep your professional distance.”

  “I have no problems with my professional distance.”

  “If you say so.”

  He opens his mouth, shuts it, glares at me. “And cuteness is not my job, either.”

  “The list of things that aren’t your job is getting really long, Mr. Mentor.”

  “Let’s just go,” he says, shaking his head.

  “Fine,” I say, and stand. “Oh! But, um…you should probably know, my roommate? Jade? She’s all crying and weird. And there’s another girl lying on the floor of her room looking like she’s about to die.”

  He grunts. “Ar’right.”

  “Should someone…I mean…”

  “Eyes on the prize, Miss Carlyle.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s the prize?”

  Finally, an unwilling grin quirks at the corners of his mouth, and it changes his face. It’s not cute, it’s something else. Just for a moment there is a flash of humor, of intelligence, of other layers existing below the inflexible persona he’s projecting.

  “Look to your own recovery,” Adam says, and locks eyes with me.

  “Sure, but…”

  “We’re aware of Camille’s situation. And of Jade.”

  “But don’t you even—you act like you don’t even care.”

  “You have no idea what I care about,” he says in a suddenly cold voice.

  “Sorry. Jeez. Who pissed in your corn flakes?”

  For a second, he looks like he wants to throttle me.

  And then he lets out a bark of laughter, showing yet another side of himself, and shakes his head.

  “Well, aren’t you something,” he says.

  “Uh…thanks.”

  “It’s not really a compliment.”

  “I kind of got that. What about Jade and the other girl? Camille?”

  “Yes, yes. I’ll send someone to check on them both after I’ve dropped you at therapy. Happy?”

  “Ecstatic.”

  So, fine. They’re on it. I don’t have time to be getting all involved and overwrought about people I’ve just met, people who certainly don’t give a crap about me.

  I have my own problems. Many of them.

  Like remembering the stages of recovery so I can fake the right sequence of emotions for my apparent terror of a therapist. Figuring out how to get myself a Level Three card, finding the pool, discovering where the guys’ program happens and where they hang out when they’re not doing…whatever they’re all doing.

  “Oh, here’s an orientation package,” Adam says, and passes me a folder. “In there is a copy of the rules, plus your schedule. Memorize it. You’re going to be busy.”

  I glance at the schedule and see that there is, indeed, a long list of activities including drama therapy, creative dance, music, painting, yoga, surfing, group, twelve-step meeting, therapy, reflection, AA, and something called “Vision.”

  “Also, you’ll find a map in there.”

  A map. Finally something useful.

  “The building is obviously big enough and the property is almost five acres, not that you’ll be unaccompanied until you’re a Level Three, but I suggest you keep it with you.”

  I flip through and find the map. What I need is one of those stars that says “You are here” and then a Google Map that shows me the way to the male dorms. Wade’s location via GPS would also be helpful. But no luck—it’s just an ordinary map.

  “Now, follow me,” Adam says, and lopes away without even looking to see if I’m coming. I have to jog to catch up, and my sandals make a conspicuous clip-clop on the terra-cotta tile.

  “So, Adam…” I say, once I’ve fallen into step with him.

  “Yeah?”

  “The male and female programs are separate?”

  “Yup.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it,” I say.

  “Really,” he says, without so much as a sideways glance.

  “Yes, really. I think my healing process, my, uh, recovery, will go faster if I’m surrounded by women. I mean, not counting you. No offense. Come to think of it, why do they have a guy working with us?”

  He grunts for an answer, then takes me by the elbow to steer me left and produces an access card to get us through a doorway. We’re now in a hallway with what are obviously office doors on one side and massive windows overlooking the grounds and ocean on the other.

  “Wow,” I say, and stop to look, though since I live on the ocean I’m less moved than I’m pretending to be and really trying to stall while I get information. Also, I need to use up some of the minutes of my therapy appointment—the shorter it is, the better.

  “Yeah, it’s nice,” Adam concedes.

  “So what’s your deal?”

  “My deal?”

  “Yeah, like, what are you doing here? Where are you from? Why do you want to spend all your time with alcoholics and drug addicts and so on?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Well, you know a lot about me. Including every single thing I packed to come here and all the answers on that questionnaire probably—”

  “I haven’t read your answers, actually.”

  “The point is, it doesn’t seem fair. Or balanced, or whatever. And I’m supposed to trust you, right?”

  “All right. I grew up here
—Venice.”

  “California boy.”

  “Yep.”

  “Venice is nice.”

  “Depends where in Venice you live,” he says with a grimace.

  “Parents?”

  “Mom’s a social worker—”

  “Aha!”

  “Yeah, runs in the family, kind of.”

  “And your dad?”

  “You’re nosy, you know that?”

  I wait.

  He sighs. “My dad was in the business—like yours—”

  “How do you know who my dad is?”

  “Your last name, to start, and you’re a dead ringer for your mother. Give me some credit.”

  “Fine. So your dad?”

  “He couldn’t stick it out.”

  “It’s a hard business. What’d he do after?”

  “Can we move on to something else?”

  “Sure. Why are you allowed to work with female patients? Clients?”

  “Patients. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, I guess because if the male and female programs are separate, I figured they might do the same with the staff.”

  “We’re professionals.”

  “I thought you were a college student—how can you be a professional?”

  “I met the criteria to work here, I was hired, I signed contracts, I get a paycheck every two weeks, therefore I am a professional.”

  “Is there a special training to be a mentor?”

  “I’ve done courses in mental health, addiction therapy, recovery, prevention…so yes.”

  “Hmm.” I lean against the window and tilt my head so the light shines through my hair. I’ve learned a thing or two about lighting from Mom over the years. And yet, Adam does not appear to be moved. Not one bit. “You must also be good at fending them off.”

  He frowns. “Fending who off?”

  “You know,” I say, “the sex maniacs. Addicts, I mean.”

  He gives me a disappointed look.

  “No, no, listen,” I say. “I’ve already heard about this from Talia. Since we’re all locked up like Rapunzel with no access to the opposite sex and there you are, the only somewhat attractive, red-blooded male around…”

  At this, Adam cocks his head and lifts his eyebrows.

  “Nobody’s locked up,” he says.

  “No?”

  “No. We try to foster an atmosphere of respect and trust. It’s a ‘respectful separation.’ The guys are just in another wing.”

  “Ah.”

  “But don’t pull that ‘attractive, red-blooded male’ shit on me, Lola.”

  “I said somewhat attractive.”

  “I said, don’t pull—”

  “I’m not pulling any—”

  “Stop.”

  He gets up in my space and he’s suddenly less Jonas brother, more Hemsworth brother in kick-ass superhero mode, which is to say large and intimidating.

  I shut my mouth.

  “Thank you,” he says.

  I nod.

  “People come here because they want to get better.”

  “Of course.”

  “And as for me,” he says, “I think I have a pretty good handle on the teenage psyche.”

  “Yes, well, it can’t have been that long since you were one yourself.”

  “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “Not often. How old are you?”

  “I can handle myself.”

  “What a relief,” I say and, even though my celebu-spawn flirting doesn’t exactly work on him, and obviously he isn’t going to tell me his age, it did help me get the information I need, sort of.

  He checks his watch. “Let’s move along.”

  “Sure.”

  There are a couple more turns and then we’re at the door, a big oak door behind which lies Madam. Outside is a chair, presumably for those so keen they want to get here early. Unlike me.

  I would not call myself keen.

  In fact, I think I would really be better off without therapy.

  Adam puts up a hand to knock.

  “Adam?”

  He pauses.

  “I…I think it might be too early.”

  “No,” he says, “we’re right on time.”

  “No, no. I mean, for me. Too early for me.”

  “To have therapy?”

  “Yeah. I mean, it’s a big day. I just met my roommates and I’m trying to get integrated. It all feels like a little bit…too much, too stressful. And…and stress is the biggest trigger, right? I read that somewhere. And God forbid I should be triggered on such an important day.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Regardless, there’s no negotiation. You have to go.”

  I look at the big oak door again and my insides twist. It’s not that I’m afraid, exactly. But if Madam really is some kind of psychic, truth-seeing ass-kicker I cannot handle with my celebu-spawn powers, I could be unmasked, humiliated, and booted from this place before I even see Wade, much less save him so we can run off into the sunset together.

  “Are you coming, too? For the session?”

  Adam shakes his head. “I don’t take part in one-on-one therapy sessions. I’m like…more like a guidance counselor. I’m the guy you come to if you have an issue—”

  I snort.

  “—if you have an issue or you want to change your programming.”

  “Okay, perfect: I want to change my programming.”

  He raises a thick dark eyebrow and hooks his hands in his belt loops.

  I pull out my schedule.

  “Right. See here, it says ‘Vision.’ That sounds like something I need right away. I would like to switch that to now and therapy to…tomorrow.”

  “No.” He puts his hand up again, ready to knock.

  “But Adam!”

  “What now?”

  “What about the energy thing? If I can’t handle a massage or spa treatments, my energy really might be too fragile for this today.”

  He drops his hand from the door, steps closer, and looks into my eyes.

  “Everyone’s scared when they get here, Lola,” he says, attitude gone for the moment.

  “Not the way I am.”

  “Exactly the way you are,” he says. “Without alcohol, drugs, whatever the addiction, you feel stripped down, vulnerable. How many days have you been sober?”

  “My last drink was three days ago,” I say, happy this, at least, is true. “As you know.”

  “Right. So the worst of the physical is probably over by now, but there’s the psychological, the emotional withdrawal. You’re without your crutch for the first time. Counseling will help with that.”

  Unable to sustain his gaze, I look down at my feet. And then I wonder how many addicts take time to get a pedicure before they come in. Not many, I’m guessing. Most of them probably go on one last binge instead.

  Crap. I really might not be as well prepped as I thought.

  “Everyone here has been through it, Lola. Everyone. So you don’t have to pretend to be brave and you don’t have to bullshit.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  “It’s what I know.”

  His sincerity, combined with his intensity, slays me. It’s one thing when he’s uptight, or acting tough, but this side of him is disturbingly, disconcertingly compelling. Looking into his eyes at close range, they’re focused and full of conviction, and it’s almost like he has a superpower—this thing he can turn on that will cause me to be willing to do anything he wants. Whatever he wants. Mixed with that is another factor—that Adam being nice is much worse than Adam being a jerk, because suddenly I feel like a terrible person.

  “Fine,” I say, and my shoulders slump. “I get it. I’ll do it.”

  “Good.”

  “I don’t have to like it.”

  “You probably won’t.”

  “Nice,” I say. “Okay, I just need a minute.”

  “Sure,” he says.

  I pul
l myself forcibly out of his physical zone, then sit down in the chair and wait for him to leave, but he just stands there.

  “You were going to talk to someone about Jade…?”

  “It can wait.”

  “No, no. You go. I’ll be fine.”

  “I have to deliver you to her, Lola,” he says, and then before I can stop him, he knocks.

  “But you said I could—”

  “Calm down. I’m just going to tell her you’re here,” he says, and then opens the door a crack, sticks his head in, and finally goes all the way inside.

  I hear the low tones of a hushed conversation and then Adam’s voice: “Yes, I’ll tell her.”

  He reappears, leaving the door mostly open behind him.

  “I said you need a moment,” he says, “and she’s just finishing some paperwork, so go in whenever you’re ready.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’m good from here.”

  “You want me to wait and introduce you?”

  “You know, this feels like something I need to do myself,” I say, channeling some melodrama and standing up.

  Adam smiles, nods his approval, then starts off down the hallway.

  I’m turning to knock on the doorframe as he reaches the corner and looks back.

  I wave.

  He waves, and then disappears.

  I wait a full five seconds…then I turn in the other direction…and run like hell.

  Chapter Seven

  So, I look like a coward.

  But if I can’t actually do what I came to do, maybe I should bail and leave the space for the real addicts.

  Because, just possibly, I might be in over my head.

  Also, if I decide to stay but I’m going to act like a total idiot and possibly get caught somewhere I’m not supposed to be, assuming I can get to the place I’m not supposed to be, I’ll be cut more slack on my first day than I will later on.

  Also, yeah, I am a coward.

  I don’t want my inner life taken apart and examined. I don’t want to talk about my feelings, my childhood, my repressed sexual desires, or any of that stuff.

  I come to a locked door, slide my card into the slot, and cross my fingers. The light goes from red to green and the door clicks open. Thank you, Dr. Koch. I step through, look around, and realize I’ve found my way to the studio section where I had a brief tour earlier on. I duck around a couple of corners and run down a set of stairs, hoping to put some distance between myself and the possibly pursuing sadistic shrink. I get to a door that goes outside. Through the glass I see palm trees, flowers, a blue sky. I send out a prayer and put my card in the slot.