Amazing what my brain will jump to when I’m avoiding something difficult.
Focus, Lola.
I yank my gaze up—God, what if he thinks I’m ogling him on top of everything else?—then I fill my lungs with air and let it all out in one long sentence. “I really am sorry; it was totally out of line to pour coffee on your stuff and I truly, honestly feel terrible about it and I really, really promise I won’t do it again.”
“Okay.”
“And I want to add that it was very uncharacteristic behavior for me and I’m sure my parents will pay for the dry cleaning bills for the couch and your clothes, and for replacing your binder or the paper, or whatever. Seriously. In fact go ahead and get yourself a designer leather binder and, like, paper made from Indonesian silkworms or Mexican bark or whatever. I know you’re actually a hardworking guy.”
“Uh…thanks.”
“That’s it? ‘Thanks’?”
“But I’ll pass on the silkworms. What were you expecting?”
“Well…it was a big step, I thought.”
“To apologize?”
“Yes! And I was very sincere, Adam.”
He walks closer, never taking his eyes off me. “Good.”
“And I’m embarrassed. I have no idea what came over me.”
“Because you’re usually one hundred percent charming,” he says with a smirk, now only a step away from me and staring right into my eyes like he’s trying to gauge my sincerity.
“Exactly,” I say, but then, again, I find myself looking away. “And I don’t want you to think I’m…I don’t want you to hate me.”
I must be looking pathetic all of a sudden because Adam puts his hands on my shoulders. His skin is warm but instead of soothing me, it makes me jumpy. Then he squeezes and says, “Relax, Lola. It’s all right.”
I reach up, thinking I need to pull his hands off my shoulders and step away, but instead I find myself—WTF?—falling into him for a hug like some kind of desperate little girl, or not-so-little girl. And he lets it happen. He actually wraps his arms around me and pulls me closer, and it feels—crap, I can’t put words to it; I don’t know. We’re not that physical a family and in general I don’t hug a lot of people, so it’s kind of a shock. He smells really nice—clean and somehow sharp and he’s so warm and solid, and it…aches. Shit. To my horror I suddenly feel like I might cry.
“You’d have to dish out a lot worse than that for me to hate you,” he says.
“Okay,” I say, blinking hard, swallowing, keeping my face turned away, head on his chest as I try to pull myself back together.
“But please,” he says, “don’t take that as a challenge.”
Chapter Ten
After swearing up and down to behave myself and rhapsodizing about how excited I am to rejoin the program (and I am, especially in contrast to being locked up), I am released from solitary. Adam escorts me to the dining hall, where I’m just in time to grab some lunch before the afternoon program starts.
First up on my schedule is meditation. Like I need that after five hours alone in a jail cell. But fortunately with the morning’s drama out of the way, I can get back to thinking about Wade, which gives me something to meditate on.
I meditate on the sound of his voice, his extreme handsomeness, on the surprise in his eyes as I swooped in to kiss him, on the way he caught his breath, on the strong-but-fleeting warmth of his lips on mine…
And then, like the way it happens in dreams and things don’t make any sense, Wade’s face morphs into Adam’s and he’s not kissing me but staring, disappointed, like he saw me kissing Wade and knows I’m here for less-than-legitimate reasons…
“When a thought comes, observe it, then dismiss it.”
Yes.
It’s not my fault I’m not a real alcoholic.
Well, depending on how you look at it…
And anyway, since yesterday when I saw (and kissed) Wade, I now know for sure I have a purpose in being here.
I am here for him.
It’s not like I’m hurting anyone—I’m trying to help.
Exactly.
Drama is next and, despite my new and improved attitude, a bit of a nightmare.
Clarice, the drama teacher, has a bad weave and manages to mention how she was in Rent on Broadway about every five minutes.
“Failed actor?” I whisper to Talia.
“You’re such a bitch,” Talia whispers, and then cackles with delight, earning us a long, level gaze from Clarice.
“Today we’re having our class outside,” Clarice says, and proceeds to lead us from the delicious air-conditioning of the studio out the back door into another sweltering day. We go through a wide archway to one of the numerous courtyards I saw on my tour yesterday. It’s rectangular and very pretty, with high ivy-covered stucco walls and an arch on each wall, a large patch of springy grass at the center, and multicolored tiled fountains tinkling on either end.
“All right,” Clarice says, once we’ve all settled on the grass. “I want you to close your eyes and go to your quiet place.”
“Not again,” I mutter. The meditation teacher was also very keen on this supposed “quiet place.”
Talia, beside me, giggles like she’s reading my mind, then whispers, “It’s all about the quiet place. You’ll be going there a lot. One time—”
“Talia,” Clarice says, a warning in her voice.
“Sorry.”
Talia must have a lot of trouble finding her quiet place.
“Okay, eyes closed,” Clarice continues. “Now I want you to think about your addict.”
“My what?”
“For those of you who are new, ahem, that’s the persona, the part of you inside that takes over when you get high,” she says. “A lot of us try to simply lock this part of ourselves away, but it doesn’t work. The addict always gets loose. What we need to do is learn to handle it when it happens rather than deny it exists. We need to hear what the addict has to say and come to terms with it. This is the path to both healing and coping.”
Aha.
“All right. Go deep and connect with the addict.”
Talia giggles again, then for a few moments all is quiet.
“Now, we are out in nature because I want you to think of an animal. Think of the animal that is most like your addict.”
My mind draws a big fat blank on this one.
“There is no right or wrong here,” Clarice says. “If you look deep enough, you will find it.”
I press my lips together and concentrate.
Alcoholic, alcoholic…what kind of animal would I be if I were an alcoholic and harboring an inner addict? Something thirsty, I guess. Thirsty and hungry and kind of desperate. Rat, vulture, squirrel, fox, bear, crow…perhaps this is where Jade got her snake thing. Snake. No. Guinea pig. Wolf. Dog. Lion.
A lion’s not a bad choice.
“Now I want you to keep your eyes closed and find the voice of your animal addict…”
Oh ho, wait a second. I think I know where this is going…
“And now…speak with that voice.”
Yep, here we go with the capital-D Drama Exercises. All I need now is a unitard and a dog-eared copy of An Actor Prepares—I’ve seen the old pictures of my mom in theater school and heard the stories—and I’ll be set.
Scrap the lion. The goal is to fly under the radar.
Maybe the crow?
All around me, people are embracing the exercise, and the air is filled with roars and squeaks and barks.
“Caw, caw,” I say halfheartedly.
“Beautiful,” Clarice says to us all. “Now with the voice connected, let your animal addict inhabit your body, all of your body, from your core to your fingertips. And, keeping that deep connection to voice and body, you may open your eyes and begin to move.”
Oh, give me Lady Macbeth. Give me freaking mime.
Do not make me flap around like an alcoholic crow.
And yet, I promised Adam I would behave.
>
“This is for you, Adam,” I mutter as I crouch low and say, “Caw, caw.”
After a couple more “caws,” I open one eye and survey the group.
Talia has found a very sexy cat in her quiet place and Jade is face-first in the grass, animal indeterminable. A tiny girl with blond ringlets scuttles about wiggling her butt and oinking. Seriously. Actually, she looks familiar…I think she used to be on one of those kids’ shows, maybe Barney & Friends—everyone’s been on that.
Caw, caw. Flap, flap.
I notice Clarice giving me the hairy eyeball and starting to come my way, so I rise to my feet, sigh from the bottom of my soul, and then flap my arms with more enthusiasm. “Caw, caw.”
“Don’t just move, inhabit the space!”
I jog a little. Flap some more. Channel my inner alcoholic crow.
“Caw.”
It’s excruciating.
“Don’t be afraid!” Clarice calls, her voice rising along with her enthusiasm. “Become your animal, inhabit the space, face your fear! I want to see you louder, bigger, faster!”
I think the phrase is “Louder, faster, funnier,” but I doubt she’d appreciate my saying so. Around me people are going wild. Some look like they’re actually having fun, and most of them don’t even look embarrassed. Two are crying, which makes more sense to me. Except I realize it’s more catharsis than mortification, and Clarice actually seems quite thrilled with them both.
Must be one of those addict things I just don’t get.
I feel Clarice’s eyes on me again and add some frenetic movement to my crow dance. She moves on but keeps glancing over her shoulder, so I keep it up.
Talia meows over, head swiveling (in character), looking for Clarice before whispering, “Lola. Look.”
“Look at what?” I whisper back.
“Boys!”
Oh no.
“Me-ow…”
“Where?”
She jerks her chin toward one of the archways and meows again.
I am already frozen, mid-flap, but now I turn my head, slowly and carefully, to look.
And then I wish I hadn’t.
Because three shirtless guys are standing, peering through the archway, and of course, one of them is Wade.
And of course, I’ve been cawing and flapping my wings like a total, complete loser and he is looking right at me, an unmistakable shit-eating grin on his face.
All the romantic moments I’ve imagined, all those times I’ve daydreamed about seeing him shirtless, I never imagined this.
Chapter Eleven
Sadly, I can’t skip group. I was really only interested in attending if Wade was going to be there and I could support him through some angst and emotional drama, or at least flirt with him. Since that’s not going to happen, I’m not enthused.
And besides, despite my talents for verbal embroidery, I do worry about being unmasked.
But hopefully I can get through it by remaining inconspicuous. Otherwise I’m probably going to have to make up a bunch of lies about myself and my family, which is hard work, not to mention risky. Things are supposed to be confidential here, but please; I’m not that naive.
Sadly, the second I walk in, flanked by Talia and Jade, I can tell inconspicuous is out.
First, there are only six of us in the group.
Second, the woman who must be the therapist—an African-American woman with strikingly deep dark eyes and a mane of beaded dreadlocks—gives me a long, hard look, then a curt nod, and motions me to sit at the large round table. I can tell already that this is a woman who takes no shit, and who is expecting trouble from me. I guess I left inconspicuous behind when I freaked out in the lounge this morning.
“I’m Mary,” the therapist says. “I’m a recovering addict with eight years.”
“Hi, Mary,” I say. “Wow, eight years. That’s great.”
“Perhaps you could introduce yourself,” she suggests. “And tell us why you’re here.”
“Um, okay. I’m Lola. Lola Carlyle.”
Talia’s eyes widen.
“Carlyle, oh my God, Jules! I knew you looked like her! And Jules and Ben! Didn’t they have, like, the worst breakup ever?” she says, almost jumping out of her seat. “I knew you were famous!”
“I’m not really—”
“Whoa, whoa,” Mary says, then turns to me with a glare. “We don’t normally use last names. None of that matters here.”
“Sure it does,” one of the girls pipes up.
“Why would you say that, Emmy?”
“Uh, because if she didn’t have famous parents she’d still be in solitary after the shit she pulled this morning,” Emmy says.
“That’s bullshit!” Talia says.
“Yeah? Then how come I was stuck there for two whole days last week?”
“Maybe because you were acting like a psycho!”
All of a sudden, the two of them are standing up, shouting and swearing at each other across the table. I look around, amazed at how the rest of the group, including Mary, is taking this in stride.
Finally, just as I’m starting to worry there’s going to be an actual fight, Mary raises a hand and says in a loud, low voice, “That’s enough, girls. Sit down.”
And after a moment, they do.
“Emmy,” Mary says, “Lola and Adam have dealt with what happened, and we are moving on. Lola may have some anger issues to work through and if so, we’ll get to it. Talia, Lola can defend herself if need be. Everybody here is responsible for themselves, and for treating everyone else with respect. Let’s move on. Please continue, Lola. Why are you in rehab?”
Because I’m a fool.
“Uh, binge drinking.”
My one main drinking episode was a binge.
“Why do you drink?”
“Wow,” I say. “That’s really getting to it.”
“Why?”
“Well…lots of reasons. Lifestyle, partly. I mean, everybody in Hollywood drinks and no one cares if you’re underage. So, I let it get a little out of hand. You know how it goes.”
“I don’t, actually. I don’t know how it goes for you.”
“Oh.”
“We’re not so interested in the surface reasons here, Lola. Like, what pain are you medicating for, what’s missing in your life? We want to know the deeper why.” This doesn’t even sound cheesy, coming from Mary.
“The deeper why. Gotcha.”
“So?”
“I suppose it’s related to the quiet place and my inner addict?”
“Sarcasm isn’t going to help you.”
My heart thumps as I feel everyone staring at me. Staring at me like predators, like vultures, waiting for me to show the right weakness (disguised as the deeper why) so they can tear me apart.
As if.
And yet I have to give some kind of answer, and the best lies are ones that are closest to the truth.
“When you put it that way,” I say, speaking slowly like I’m searching deep inside, “I guess my life might be lacking normalcy. And…stability? Like, it sounds so glamorous, the parties and awards ceremonies—my dad loves to take me to those. And I can buy whatever I want, do whatever I want. But it’s disruptive, right? It’s lacking in structure. And I guess on some level, you know, talking about the deep why thing, I’m restless and looking for something to fill the void.”
“The void, huh? Are you lonely?”
“Lonely? No,” I say quickly.
“But that question bothers you.”
I shake my head and give a baffled look.
“Hmm. How much do you drink?”
“Oh my God,” I say with a shrug and a big, self-deprecating roll of my eyes, “I lose track. But I love tequila.”
Talia and one of the other girls give sympathetic chuckles.
Mary studies me; I stare back.
She asks a few more questions. Everyone seems to be watching and listening to my every word as I fill in more of the story about my supposed addiction. I’m glad I
spent time working on my “history” before I arrived because Mary has some very specific, pointed questions—everything from what was my first drink and the reason I took it (I say someone handed me a glass of champagne at a party when I was thirteen) to whether I’ve ever blacked out to what made me realize I had a serious problem.
I admit to having blacked out—I actually did—and make up a story about partying too hard and passing out in a bathroom stall at an industry party as my rock-bottom moment.
“Sort of like Charlie Sheen, but with my clothes on and without the porn star or the coke on my face,” I say. “But it wasn’t good when my dad’s assistant found me and had to sneak me out back into the limo. That’s when I realized, you know, that I needed help. My parents are so awesome; the last thing I want to do is embarrass them.”
Around the room, heads are nodding and I feel simultaneously exhilarated and ill.
“Congratulations on taking the first step,” Mary says, and everyone claps.
And I exhale. They believe me. I can do this.
Chapter Twelve
Tuesday night, I go to the evening meeting and covertly study beautiful Wade, who started out as earth-shatteringly hot and is getting more tanned and fit by the day, while pretending to listen to the guest speaker—some famous hockey player who trashed his career and almost died from taking a variety of drugs and drinking like a maniac.
Wade catches me looking at him and winks, and I duck my head to hide my smile.
Emmy and Jade sit nearby shooting killer glances at Talia and me, and Talia practically sits on top of me. I’m not sure if she thinks she’s protecting me, which I don’t need, or wants to adopt me as a pet or what, but I don’t want to hurt her feelings, so I just try to deal with it.
There’s no chance to talk to Wade, since he’s on the other side of the room, and Adam herds us girls out of the meeting and back to the dorm as soon as it’s over.
Wednesday morning, Adam stands up in the lounge and reads from his coffee-stained binder: “‘Every day is a new day with a new beginning and a new end. I greet each minute with renewed enjoyment.’”
Around me, people are scribbling in their journals and I know I should be too, but…really?
Lola Carlyle's 12-Step Romance Page 9
