Lola Carlyle's 12-Step Romance

by Danielle Younge-Ullman

  “Lola?” Adam says. “Why the eyebrow?”

  “Eyebrow?”

  “Yeah, eyebrow,” he says and points. “That one there.”

  “What, you’re not greeting my eyebrow with renewed enjoyment?”

  Talia snorts and a couple of other girls chuckle.

  Adam looks at me, not amused, and suddenly the shame over my behavior yesterday comes back full force. And it occurs to me this is why he’s still using the stained binder—in order to constantly remind me. Suddenly I feel like I should apologize again, and get another one of his very nice hugs. Although the severity of his gaze makes me feel like I imagined the niceness of the hug, or imagined that it even happened in the first place.

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry, Adam,” I say. “I’m really not a morning person. But, new day. I’m all over it.”

  “Good.”

  After Contemplating, we rock climb at the beach.

  In group we each make a collage with the theme “Crossing Over,” with images from our addicted pasts, the idea being to use the image of a bridge or a road and show our bad behaviors and unhealthy thought patterns on one side and our new, good, and healthy behaviors and patterns on the other side. Apparently most days (when there isn’t someone brand-new to interrogate) we have some kind of themed artistic project in group and it’s supposed to lead to all kinds of discussion and growth, et cetera. Kind of “Arts & Crafts with Angst.”

  I’m just starting to relax into it when Jenny (the blonde who was in Barney) gets raked over the coals by Mary—some big thing about “not surrendering.” There are heated words and then Jenny has a huge meltdown where she admits a bunch of horrifying, painful things about her life as a child actor and Mary chars her butt for feeling sorry for herself. (Harsh in my opinion—I would feel sorry for myself, too, if I were her.) And all of it makes me realize I got off easy yesterday.

  Worse, I have therapy again this afternoon, which is going to be more of the same, but without anyone else for the therapist to get distracted by.

  This is all getting kind of annoying—I should be saving my mental energy for figuring out how to get some more time alone with Wade, rather than dodging psychological traps.

  Yep, somehow I’ve got to get out of therapy.

  I am so distracted in kickboxing I get myself kicked in the ear by Jade.

  “Oww! Watch it!”

  Jade grins and holds both arms out as if to say, What?

  “Watch it, emo girl. You could have knocked out my diamonds,” I say, and press my hand to my throbbing earlobe and the one-and-a-half carat there. “They are expensive, and my dad would kill me if I lost one of them. And he’ll kill you if I end up in the hospital.”

  Jade scowls, gives me the finger, and comes back in for more sparring. Somewhere near the front of the studio, the instructor is going on about finding safe places to vent our aggression.

  Surely he doesn’t mean each other…

  Dr. Koch pops his head in toward the end of class and gives me a thumbs-up, which I return with sincerity because seeing him has just given me an idea…

  When the hour is over, with thirty minutes to go until therapy, I head downstairs for an impromptu meeting with Dr. Koch.

  It goes well.

  Back in the dorm, I shower and change, then lightly crumple my schedule and toss it off the balcony into the bushes below, pack a few things in my purse, and exit the building…with my new Level Three access card.

  All it cost me was a couple of VIP passes to my dad’s next premiere. It’s not until January and I’m sure I’ll think of a way to get them by then.

  Out in the maze of courtyards, I manage to avoid another drama therapy class, Talia in deep conversation with her therapist (the earth mother apparently likes to therapize outdoors), and some guy playing a bongo drum, on my way to my destination.

  It would be too much to hope that I’d run into Wade again, and wandering all over the grounds is sure to get me caught. But I’m not going to spend the hour cowering in a corner either.

  Nope, I’m going for a swim.

  Sure, I’m not supposed to be at the pool even though I technically have access now. But that’s exactly why no one will think to look for me there. And if someone does happen to find me, it won’t look like I’m hiding, just confused.

  Because, of course, today I “can’t find” my schedule.

  On Friday I will misread my schedule.

  And on Monday perhaps I will sit by the ocean and go into such a deep meditation that I lose all track of time and forget about my schedule. Or something.

  There’s a small problem when I get to the pool—I can see it, but the iron gate is locked and the rest of it is surrounded by a high vine-covered fieldstone wall. Of course, I am a decent climber due to spending many bored hours as a child in a neighborhood where every house is surrounded by these types of walls.

  I am not to be stopped by a mere wall.

  I move back to assess the thing, then step out of my shoes, put them in my purse, zip the purse, and throw it over the wall. Thus committed, I take a last look in both directions, reach both hands up into the vines, scramble for a foothold, and start climbing.

  The thing is probably ten feet high and it’s not an easy climb. In fact it almost kicks my celebu-spawn ass to the curb more than once. I slip and scramble, skin one knee, and cut my forearm on a stick. But somewhere along the way, the sheer exhilaration of the effort kicks in and that, combined with the buzz of doing something so sneaky and fun, gives me the hit of extra strength I need to persevere.

  Before long I am up and over, then dropping down behind a hedge of yellow and purple hibiscus and collecting my purse. Stepping out onto the flagstone patio, I see the deserted pool with its small grotto and tiny waterfall, all surrounded by the giant wall and a lush, wild-looking flower garden.

  It’s paradise. And it’s mine, at least for now.

  I let out a long, satisfied sigh, then strip down to my polka-dot boy shorts and bikini top, and dive in. I glide through the water, relishing the luxury of solitude, the relief of spending a few beautiful minutes where I don’t have to think or talk or lie about addiction, or talk about thinking about addiction—a few minutes where I don’t have to think or talk (or lie) to anyone at all.

  When my limbs start to feel heavy, I climb out, pull one of the lounge chairs into the remaining sunlight, and lie down on my back.

  Sometime later I start to drift off, which is probably why I don’t hear the gate opening.

  But then a shadow falls over me.

  I open my eyes.

  The shadow is Adam’s.

  “Have a nice swim?” he asks, the hands on his hips belying his friendly tone.

  Clearly, I’m busted; it’s just a matter of what for.

  “How lovely to see you,” I say, and reach my arms above my head to stretch as though I’m completely relaxed and clear of conscience. “I did indeed. In fact, I’m going to do this every day.”

  “Really.”

  “Absolutely. In fact, it really renewed my enjoyment. Did you know that exercise is one of the best and most important coping mechanisms? I learned that in group and figured I should apply it right away.”

  “Ah.”

  “Could you shift over a bit?” I gesture at him to move. “You’re in my sun.”

  “I’m going to be in more than your sun pretty soon,” he says, not moving but seeming to get bigger.

  “Sounds kinky,” I say, and smile.

  “Cut that out.”

  “Am I bugging you, Adam?” In fact, I can’t seem to bug him at all, at least not in that way. It’s like he’s immune to my being female. It’s annoying. I reach languorously back with both arms to lift my hair off my neck, and I see his eyes drift, ever so slightly, down my arching body, before snapping back up to my face. That’s better—he might be immune, but he’s not unaware. “Or is it that I’m not supposed to say the word ‘kinky’?”

  He mutters a curse then picks up the en
d of my lounge chair, turns it on its back wheels, and rolls me into the shade.

  “Wheeee!”

  He sets me down.

  “I’ve been trying to cut you some slack until you calm down, settle in. But there’s a limit to the amount of shit I’m willing to put up with.”

  “I apologized for the coffee episode, Adam, and I—”

  “Your therapist is looking for you.”

  Oh. Uh-oh.

  “My what?”

  “And I’m starting to wonder why you bothered to come here if you’re not going to participate in the program.”

  I let out an aggrieved sigh and sit up.

  “I am participating. I’ve been up since six o’clock this morning participating.”

  “You missed your therapy session.”

  “Are you sure? When was it?”

  “Just now.”

  “Oh. Oops.”

  “Yeah, oops.”

  “I lost my schedule, okay?”

  “No, not okay. And for the record, I don’t believe you. Especially since you haven’t been to an AA meeting yet and you didn’t go to therapy on Monday, either. I let it pass because I could see how scared you were, and Dr. Owens said to give you a couple of days, some time to come around on your own. But you’re running out of chances fast.”

  “I went to the meeting last night, if you recall. Besides, Talia said I only have to go to, like, three a week.”

  “Listening to a speaker is not the same as going to an AA meeting.”

  “Doesn’t say that in the rule book.”

  Adam glowers.

  “Hey, at least I’ve read it. Ever skinny-dip here? It’s so sheltered and private, I bet people end up skinny-dipping all the time.”

  “No, Lola, it’s locked for a reason and I—” He breaks off. “These kinds of comments are inappropriate.”

  I pull my face into a mocking frown, lower my voice, and mimic him, “These kinds of comments are inappropriate.”

  He closes his eyes and takes what is probably supposed to be a calming breath.

  “Okay, I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. But you’re so serious all the time, you really bring out the worst in me.”

  “I’m serious for a reason. I’m serious because I know the damage addiction can do—to the addict, to everyone around the addict. I don’t think it’s something to joke about.”

  “I think the hardest things are the most important things to joke about,” I counter. “Laughter helps.”

  “Maybe ‘make light of’ is more what I mean.”

  “Were you an addict?”

  He looks at me like he’s going to refuse to answer, then changes his mind. “No. But it’s not like I don’t have it in me.”

  “Biologically, you mean?”

  “Biologically, genetically, yeah,” he says, brows drawing together in a troubled look.

  “Your dad?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Oh, come on. I’m supposed to share everything but never learn a single thing about you? That seems kind of unbalanced.”

  He lets out a huge breath, then sits down at the far end of the lounge chair.

  “See? How hard was that? Now tell me about your dad.”

  “He flamed out. You know how it is,” he says. “I was really young, but I guess he had a lot of potential. He moved out here and made a good start…”

  “Then he didn’t make it?”

  “Wasn’t that, exactly. He was doing well I think—I was little so I don’t know exactly—but he got disillusioned. There was a screenplay he wrote that I guess he was really proud of. It got optioned, rewritten, scheduled, preliminary casting, then shuffled, canceled, optioned again, rewritten—that whole cycle.”

  “Happens.”

  “Yeah. A lot of ups and downs. My mom says he was partying before that, but at some point it changed from partying to just…nasty shit. Drinking, drugs…and my dad, the guy he’d been, was, like, gone.”

  I know how that feels. I want to say so, but I don’t. Adam slumps, hangs his head, and I reach a hand out to comfort him but pull back at the last second, because where am I supposed to put it—his shoulder? His leg? His hand? Every option feels awkward.

  He turns to look at me then, his dark eyes giving me a full blast of everything he’s feeling—grief, fury, determination.

  “I get it,” I say after a few long moments.

  “Do you?”

  “You have, like, a mission.”

  “Yeah.” He nods.

  “So something good came of it.”

  “I want to help, Lola. I need to. That’s why I’m on your case all the time.”

  “Sure, yeah,” I say, hoping to back off from the sudden intensity of this conversation and therefore taking on a teasing tone. “You have to consider, though, Mr. Mentor, that what you think is going to help me and what I think is going to help me might be different…some of the time.”

  “What you have to consider, mentee, is that I actually know a lot more about this shit than you do. For real.”

  “Here we go again,” I say, rolling my eyes and lying back on the chair again as if I’m suntanning, which technically I can’t, being that we’re in the shade. “I guess our deep moment of sharing is over…”

  “Jesus, Lola.” He stands up. “You are going to drive me around the fucking bend.”

  “Aha! I bring out the worst in you, too—admit it.”

  “Listen: if I report you as noncompliant, you can be kicked out of the program. You realize that?”

  “See? That is exactly what I’m talking about.” I screw my face up to imitate his frown: “If I report you as noncompliant, you can be kicked out of the program.”

  “Or you could be transferred to another facility—somewhere less pleasant.”

  “Ooh, I’m so scared.” I continue with the mockery despite the moment of ice-cold panic this particular threat gives me.

  “You have to stop doing that,” he says.

  “Sure. As soon as you stop acting like you swallowed a rule book. Hey—by the way, how’d you find me?”

  “Cameras.” He points to two places among the vines and I see lenses, one trained on the pool and the other on the wall. “In most of the potentially unsafe areas.”

  “What?”

  “Just because it doesn’t look like anyone’s watching doesn’t mean they’re not. Impressive climbing.”

  “Oh my God. Hello, invasion of privacy?”

  “Uh, hello, invasion of the pool area you’re not supposed to be in?” he says in a mocking tone. “Are you going to go off about human rights violations again? Am I going to have to change clothes?”

  “Well, there’s no coffee around, but I could shove you into the pool.” I stand up and advance on him.

  “I fucking dare you to try,” he says, a spark of challenge in his eyes.

  “You actually think I would?”

  “Are you kidding? I know you would.”

  I am tempted—so tempted. But he doesn’t look easy to move, truth be told, and really it never works to push someone in a pool once he knows you’re planning it, so really I’m just inviting a wrestling match, which I would likely lose. And it would be on camera. And just yesterday I promised him I would behave better, and here I am already in trouble again.

  Still, he is so fun to provoke…

  I take a step toward him, then another and another, until I’m close enough that I have to tip my head up to meet his eyes.

  “Go for it,” he says.

  “You don’t know everything about me,” I say, placing my palms on his chest.

  “Likewise.”

  “To try to push you in now would be so predictable.”

  “Also predictable? You’d be the one going in, not me.”

  “And would that be appropriate, Mr. Mentor?” I give him a very small push but do not succeed in moving him.

  “Not really,” he says, pushing back against my hands for a second. Then he shakes his he
ad, sidesteps away, and heads back to my lounge chair.

  “You’re tempted, though,” I say, following him. “Admit it.”

  “That’s enough, Lola,” he says, his change in tone signaling he’s not playing anymore.

  “Fine,” I say. “Another time, then.”

  “There’s not going to be another time because you’re not going to be sneaking into the pool again. Right?”

  I sigh. “If you say so.”

  “Promise?”

  I make a face.

  “I didn’t think you liked being in solitary that much…”

  “Fine, I promise. No more sneaking into the pool.”

  “Thank you. By the way, how the hell did you get out of the building in the first place? That part I don’t have on camera.”

  “With my card, of course,” I say, and hold it up close to his face. It’s the same card, but inside it’s been reprogrammed.

  “Your card?”

  I smile. Adam’s eyes narrow.

  “Don’t tell me,” he says. “You got Level Three access.”

  “Not everyone takes such a dim view of my participation,” I say, with a tilt of my head and a shrug of one shoulder.

  Adam breaks away, takes a few strides from me, and appears to be swearing at the bougainvillea. The words “fuck” and “fucking Koch” are heavily featured.

  I’m tempted to say something about triggers and anger management, but decide that might be pushing my luck. Pushing my luck further, that is. Instead I pull my beach towel straight on the chair, put my Ray-Ban Fat-Asses on, and lie down.

  “I’ll be escorting you to therapy on Friday,” Adam says, spinning around and coming back.

  “Fine by me,” I say, stretching my arms up over my head.

  “And I mean all the way in the door to therapy.”

  “That’s dandy. Very nice of you. Now, would you mind if I catch a few rays before dinner? I’m fragile and I need my vitamin D.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “‘I eagerly surrender to the twelve-step program,’” Adam reads first thing Thursday morning.

  “Eager” is a stretch.

  As I battle the twelve freaking steps, my rescue effort/love life withers—I have not seen Wade since the meeting Tuesday night.

  In addition: