Lola Carlyle's 12-Step Romance

by Danielle Younge-Ullman

  “Well then, so I did.”

  “So…? What was that about?”

  “Poor impulse control?”

  “Really?”

  “No.” I swallow. “Actually, I always wanted to kiss you. Figured I’d check it off the list.”

  “Off the list?”

  “Yep.” I shrug like it’s no big deal, even though my legs feel like Play-Doh. “So, now I have.”

  “And?”

  “And it was fun,” I say, and then turn and start walking back along the shore toward Talia.

  Wade follows, half walking, half paddling in the shallow water.

  “Wait, wait! So…you had a crush? During the movie? Are you saying you had a crush on me?”

  “I wanted to kiss you, that’s all,” I say over my shoulder.

  “That’s a crush, Carlyle. I call that a crush.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why didn’t you say something? I know we lost touch for a bit, but you could’ve called me. Or friended me on Facebook, followed me on Twitter,” he says, all the while struggling to get out of the water and balance his board.

  “Followed you on Twitter? Please. I’m not some cheesy fangirl.”

  I searched Facebook early on, but he wasn’t there. By the time I looked again he had three thousand “friends,” most of them female. And I do follow him on Twitter, but not as me and not that I’d admit it, ever.

  “But you’d have been my cheesy fangirl.” He comes up beside me, carrying the board by his side. “I’m very fond of cheesy fangirls.”

  “You have enough of those.”

  “My loss.”

  “I’d be a bad cheesy fangirl. I’d get bored. I’m too fickle, I’m crap at the adulation thing, and I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing you on a T-shirt.”

  He howls with laughter.

  “Plus, I have trouble sharing.”

  He stops laughing and looks at me. “Sharing, huh? You sure?”

  I feel a moment of eww, but brush it away. “Very.”

  We get closer to Talia on her rock and the lifeguard station, and our walking slows almost to a stop, as if by silent agreement.

  “By the way,” Wade says, “I’m sorry about your parents.”

  “Aw, no big deal.”

  “Of course it’s a big deal. It’s your parents.”

  “Sure, but it happens all the time, right?”

  “Not where I’m from. Well, not as much.”

  “That’s why you started out sweet, W.A.D.E.”

  “Were you surprised? I mean, I was surprised when I heard. Actually I was more surprised that it was your mom who—you know, I was more surprised about that than anything. Although, the way your dad acted…uh, you know, with his own cheesy fangirls, maybe that makes sense.”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “It affected you.”

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  “Listen, I love the guy. I owe him. It’s one thing you had to keep his secrets, but he also seemed a little…distant with you.” Wade doesn’t say it, although obviously he’s thinking about my least favorite memory from the zombie movie—the night Dad left set with one of the actresses and forgot I was still there, needing a ride home. Forgot until the next day.

  “Let’s not…” I don’t want him to say it, any of it. La la la laaaa.

  “I get it. That’s fine. Anyway, I haven’t seen your dad since…I guess it was at Sundance last year. How is he?”

  “He’s good. Busy, but we Facetime.”

  “You get shuffled back and forth a lot? I know that can be a drag.”

  “Yeah, definitely,” I say, but then decide I’d rather not outright lie. Not this time. “Well, actually, no. They’re not exactly Chris and Gwyneth.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Ah, no biggie,” I say with a shrug and a smile.

  “If you say so. Anyway, tell him hi for me.”

  “Sure.” I nod and stand looking at him, my insides a tangled mess of exhilaration, nostalgia, confusion, and lust.

  “Hour’s up!” one of the lifeguards shouts, and then they blow their whistles in tandem. Wade and I both flinch and everyone else starts to head for the steep, winding path that leads back up to the main property.

  “I’ll bring the stragglers,” one of the lifeguards calls out, gesturing to Wade and me, plus a guy who’s limping in from the other direction. We’re still a few yards away.

  Talia, already at the bottom of the path, makes some dramatic faces, presumably about being surrounded by half-naked men, and motions that she’ll wait for me at the top.

  I wave her off and start toward the steps myself.

  “So, Carlyle,” Wade says, following, “you gonna kiss me again?”

  “What, now?”

  “No, not now. Sometime.”

  “What for?”

  “Well…what do people usually kiss for?”

  “Oh. That.” My pulse is suddenly thundering. I pick up my sandals as we pass Talia’s rock and remind myself that the whole idea is to act confident and like I don’t care too much. “Probably not.”

  “Oh.”

  “Hey, you two okay to walk up?” the remaining lifeguard calls out, looking from us to the top of the path where the rest of the group is arriving. He’s still down near the water and he’s got an arm around the shoulder of the bedraggled surfer who is either over-exhausted or having a breakdown or both. “We’re just going to take a minute.”

  “No problem.” Wade sets his board on the nearby rack.

  “Great. Thanks,” the lifeguard says.

  And then Wade and I reach the bottom of the steps.

  “Hey, I was just joking anyway,” Wade says, “about you kissing me.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I mean, we’re not really supposed to be…”

  “Fraternizing.”

  “Yeah, that,” he says.

  “Too bad,” I say, as a gust of ocean wind tries to blow the heat from my skin. “Because I was going to say I would probably wait for you to kiss me next time,” I add, and then start up the path.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Friday brings another opportunity to skip therapy.

  Meanwhile, Adam is getting even more pointed with the affirmations, starting with, “I enjoy attending meetings,” which means I really might have to show up for the AA meeting tonight, even though I know it’s going to make me feel like the biggest liar and worst person in the universe.

  Lacking any better options and starting to feel nauseous with dread, I duck out of meditation fifteen minutes early to avoid Adam, who I know is otherwise going to be waiting to escort me to therapy, and head once more to Dr. Koch’s office. I can’t get in trouble if I’m with the big boss, right?

  “Any chance you can be my therapist?” I ask him when he looks up from his desk to where I’m standing in the doorway.

  “Miss Carlyle. Come in. Make yourself comfortable.”

  There’s a large high-back leather chair across from Dr. Koch’s desk. I close the office door behind me, make my way to the chair, and sit.

  Dr. Koch puts down his pen, folds his hands together, and gives me a knowing look. “What’s the problem? You don’t like your therapist?”

  “To be honest…” I say, and then decide not to be, “I haven’t exactly connected with her.”

  “Therapy is an intrinsic aspect of treatment,” Dr. Koch says. “But sometimes the connection is a work in progress.”

  “I know. That’s why I figured maybe you could be my therapist. I mean, we’ve connected. And obviously you’re qualified,” I say, waving at the framed certifications sitting alongside the celebrity photo ops on his wall.

  Actually, regardless of his certifications, I’m sure he’s not qualified. He seems weak in the intuition department, plus he has the makings of a major fame-whore. Which means he’s perfect. I figure it would be much easier to chat with him three times a week than have to contend with the likes of Madam. All I have to do is
give him enough juicy tidbits to feel he’s getting the inside story of my life without telling him anything of substance. Easier said than done, but I’m up to the challenge.

  “You could be my personal doctor—my specialist.”

  “Well…”

  “And I would give you all the credit for my recovery—which of course you’d totally deserve. Has anyone told you you’d be great on TV?”

  “I’ve had a few people say so,” he says, sitting up straighter. “But of course, I’m very busy and fulfilled here at Sunrise.”

  “Of course.”

  “It would really have to be the right project, the right situation.”

  “Absolutely. You wouldn’t prostitute yourself out like some people do. But I could see you as the subject of a serious documentary series. Kind of like those ones my dad directed for HBO back in the day.”

  “Indeed.”

  “In the meantime, what do you say? Are you my new therapist?”

  “I would love to see to your case personally, Miss Carlyle,” he says with a sigh. “But ironically, too much of my time is taken up with administration, media inquiries, and so on for me to be anyone’s regular therapist. However, I am hoping to be involved when your family comes in. Is there any chance we can get both your mother and father here together?”

  I freaking hope not.

  “Um…doubtful.”

  “Let me rephrase that: would it be helpful for you to have them both here?”

  “I don’t see either of them agreeing to that, Dr. Koch.”

  He studies me for a moment. “Perhaps they need to be made to understand the effect of their behaviors on you? Perhaps they can be persuaded.”

  “I don’t think I can—”

  “Not by you. By me.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “I have my ways. And of course you wouldn’t be aware, as you’re insulated at Sunrise, but the press has been after your father for comments about you being here. So far he has declined, but perhaps he’ll want to participate. And your mother is obviously quite willing. You’d be surprised at the progress that can be made when we get a family in a room together. You might also be surprised at how persuasive I can be.”

  I do not need my parents in here, together or separately, and I’m about to say so when the office door flies open, revealing a red-faced Adam standing in the doorway.

  Dr. Koch stands up.

  “Adam—”

  “With all due respect, sir, I need you to reassign me.”

  “From what?” Dr. Koch says.

  “My newest mentor assignment is driving me insane,” he says, stalking over to stand in front of Dr. Koch’s desk, his back to me. “It’s going to send me over the edge. And I can’t—I’m afraid I can’t remain…detached. I’m not detached enough to do a good job. Please, I need to be reassigned. Ideally to the other wing.”

  “I see you are upset,” Dr. Koch says in a velvety tone. “And I know you care deeply about your work, but that’s what makes you so promising. And really, you’re only here for the summer.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll be finished in a few minutes,” Dr. Koch says, with a pointed glance over Adam’s shoulder, to me. “Perhaps then we can talk?”

  Adam frowns, starts to turn. “Oh, I didn’t even realize you had—” And then sees me curled up in the high-back chair and does a double take. “You—!” For a split second he looks embarrassed, but the look quickly turns to aggravation. “Oh, for God’s sake, Lola, what are you doing here?”

  I bat my eyelashes at him, then smile.

  He lets out a strangled, growling sound, then turns back to Dr. Koch.

  “I told Miss Carlyle on her first day that she can come to me any time if she needs to talk,” Dr. Koch says. “We were just discussing the logistics and possible dynamics of having both her parents here for family therapy, which I would like to oversee.”

  “I don’t see how she’s going to do family therapy when she still hasn’t made it to regular therapy. When she’s doing everything in her power to avoid regular therapy.”

  Dr. Koch turns to me and frowns, but gently. “Is this true, Miss Carlyle?”

  “Um…”

  “Is it true?” Adam says. “I’m your staff, Doctor, and I said it. Of course it’s true. She’s supposed to be there right now. I was going to escort her.”

  “Obviously you did not succeed,” Dr. Koch says.

  “Obviously not,” Adam says through his teeth.

  “Tsk, tsk,” Dr. Koch says, shaking his head, and it’s unclear if he’s directing it to Adam, me, or both of us.

  “I would have an easier time, sir, if I could make her accountable,” Adam says. “If she didn’t have, for example, expanded privileges on her card that she hasn’t earned.”

  Dr. Koch comes out from behind his desk and makes a mollifying gesture toward Adam. “I know this isn’t the way things worked in the, ah, boot-camp environment of your previous placement, but I assure you, we do get the job done for these kids.”

  “Not all of them.”

  “I’ve told you before, the celebrity kids have particular needs. Unique needs,” Dr. Koch continues, and even though he’s theoretically on my side, I feel a little sorry for Adam.

  “With respect, I think that’s bull,” Adam says. “They’re addicts and their needs are the same as every other addict.”

  Dr. Koch backs up, smiles. “We shall have to agree to disagree. But perhaps we could finish discussing Miss Carlyle another time and…in private.”

  “That’s okay,” I say from my perch in the chair, “discuss away.”

  “No, he’s right,” Adam says. “Dr. Koch and I can talk later.”

  “Oh, about therapy?” I say, and give an imploring look to Dr. Koch. “I think group and your proposed family therapy thing are sufficient. Especially with all the exercise and meditation and stuff. Honestly, you should see the mountain I imagined myself being this morning. Majestic, grounded, epic.”

  “She also hasn’t been to an AA meeting yet,” Adam says pointedly to Dr. Koch.

  Dr. Koch presses his fingers together, looks thoughtful.

  “Now that does look rather remiss of us,” he says. “To have you in rehab and not attending the meetings. The twelve steps form the backbone of nearly every successful recovery program, and I would hate for you to miss out. I believe we are treating you well and giving you ample respect for your…individuality. Do you suppose you could find your way to the meeting tonight, Miss Carlyle? And to most of the evening meetings from here on in?”

  “Well, when you put it that way—sure,” I say.

  Dr. Koch turns to Adam and beams. “You see? Sometimes it’s simply a matter of using the right words, in the right way.”

  Adam looks like he’s trying to swallow his tongue to keep from speaking.

  I check my watch. Therapy hour is almost over.

  “If it’s okay,” I say as I uncurl from the chair, “I’ve got music next and I don’t want to be late.”

  Adam scoffs.

  Dr. Koch says, “Run along then, and I’ll see you tonight.”

  I wave to them both and head for the door.

  “Now,” Dr. Koch says to Adam as I’m going, “you wanted to talk about reassignment?”

  “Oh, that…” Adam says with a sigh. “Never mind.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  In music, we do a cool thing with drums and a special kind of chanting called “intoning” that we use to create a “continuous voice.” It’s a trip. Combined with the relief from my successful therapy dodge, my entire body is humming.

  When I come out, Adam is there, waiting in the hallway. I brace myself for a lecture, but instead he smiles.

  “What?”

  “You look, uh, happy,” he says.

  “I like that class.”

  “Good.”

  “Strangely enough, you look happy, too. What’s up?”

  “I have a surprise for you,” he says.


  “Really? I thought I was in trouble.”

  “We’re moving on. No trouble.”

  “So? What is it then?”

  “Stop hopping around and come with me and you’ll find out. It’s in my office.”

  “I know,” I say, falling into step with him, “you’re giving me my chocolate back. Or my phone.”

  “Keep dreaming.”

  “Or one of my parents sent a care package,” I say as we go through the foyer to the east wing of the mansion and down a set of stairs I’ve never noticed before. “Or, like, lasagna from New York.”

  “They deliver lasagna from New York?”

  “Yep. My mom and Elise get it for us sometimes.”

  He pauses at the bottom of the stairwell, leaning on the chunky metal rail, and shakes his head. “Seriously, there cannot be a lasagna so amazing I’d be willing to pay to have it sent from New York City. You people are nuts.”

  “No, it’s really good,” I say, stopped just above him on the second-to-last step. “Next time we’re having it, I’m going to invite you over to try some, and you’ll see.”

  “You think you’re going to invite me to your house?”

  “Why not? We’re kind of…I mean, I annoy you sometimes, but aren’t we…friends?”

  “Friends is not exactly what we’re supposed to be when I’m your mentor, Lola.”

  “Oh. Is that the detachment problem you were talking about when you were trying to ditch me?”

  “Lola…”

  “Like you’re sort of supposed to be the boss of me, and it’s not really working?”

  “That was supposed to be a private conversation.”

  “Yes, and I’m a little hurt, actually. And now we’re not supposed to be friends. Is it a rule?”

  “No, it’s not that, exactly. It’s about the mentor-mentee relationship dynamic. It’s a professional relationship. There are supposed to be lines.”

  “I’m sure you’ve noticed, Adam, how I am about lines…”

  “Yeah, you like to cross them,” he says with a rueful smile.

  “If considering you a friend is on the wrong side of some line, I think it’s a stupid line. There’s no reason for a line like that.”

  “Yes, there is,” he says. “There’s a very good reason.”

  “What is it?”