Pretty Ugly (Addicted Hearts Book 2)

by Jane Anthony

  “The key was consistency. Addiction is a lifelong disease that must be actively controlled and managed every day during recovery. I always failed because I was expecting things to fall into place perfectly with minimal effort. I thought because I was sober, good things would happen, and life would just suddenly get better. Finally, I accepted that a healthy life isn't a constant dopamine rush. I knew I’d likely never be able to recreate that same feeling, but I stepped back one day and realized I got something better. I got results and accomplishments that I earned, that were not a result of instant gratification. I got to see the labor of my hard work bloom into something beautiful. Every day, people traipse through those doors defeated and walk out brand new with their whole lives ahead of them. The first time I found myself on the other side, that was my ah-ha moment. Giving back. Using what I know to help others. It turned my affliction into a gift. The most rewarding payoffs take time. For me, it took seven tries. How many’s it gonna take you?”

  “Two,” I answer without thought. The pride shining in his eyes is a beacon. Rodney’s story holds more power for me than all the therapy and daily phrases combined. I’ve been where he is. Flying on hope and the feeling that my story can somehow do good. Knowing that after twenty years, he still feels that tremendous power is encouragement enough to succeed. I picked myself up once before, and I can do it again. This time, there will be no setback. I am conquering my illness; I am defeating it steadily each day. I can’t look back. I’m not going that way. My past no longer defines me.

  Rehab is weird. You can generally tell right away a person's drug of choice the minute they open their mouths. If a drawl comes out, there's a good chance that guy’s in for meth. Of course, they're easy to spot regardless. All they have to do is smile.

  East Coasters are most likely heroin users. An epidemic that runs rampant in the tri-state area and Florida. Again, easy to spot by the needle marks and bruising. Some in our arms, some in our feet. The long-time users had to get creative and have marks on their necks and faces. Those ones are obvious, but others are sometimes harder to place. Alcoholics, for example, have no tell at all except for the candy usually stuffed in their pockets, their bodies screaming for the sugar. We're a motley group of fuckups united in weakness, bound by strength, and all looking for a way out. Morose faces staring around the group circle sharing their tales of woe.

  Logan, however, is a total enigma. Too young to be an alcoholic, too handsome to be a tweaker, not a single mark in sight. Whatever it is was caught too early to leave a lasting impression, yet he still appears as though he’s ready to jump from his skin.

  The counselor, a heavyset redhead named Sharon, sits back in her chair with a clipboard perched on her knee. She goes around the room asking everyone the same question. “What are you grateful for today?” This is how we open the session.

  “Old-school punk and the way it makes me feel when I hear it,” says Bryan, a guy I’ve never spoken to. One who wears flannels and band tees, his eyes constantly bloodshot and his Converse tapping on the ground. He never looks straight ahead. Always down at his lap, twisting his fingers in a forever fight against each other.

  “For my cute little monster of a nephew and my baby niece. For the way they still smile whenever they see me, unlike the rest of my family.” That was from Ann. A woman who stole her dead mother’s jewelry and pawned it for crack. Her face is a mess of yellowing bruises. She admitted that her boyfriend beats her, but she never left because he fed her addiction, forcing her to stay.

  “That I woke up and didn’t have to stick myself today, yo,” adds Juan. Grumbles circle the crowd. He runs his fingers through his jet black hair, pushing it off his forehead, the thick silver chain around his neck glinting in the harsh fluorescent lighting. “And that I’m still young enough to start over. Ima go back to school when I’m outta here. Gonna earn a living and make some sweet coin.”

  The counselor smiles and turns her attention to Logan. “Are you going to share with us today, Mr. Cooper?” He crosses his arms over his chest and stares down at his outstretched feet. “I know it’s hard, but communicating our feelings is the first step to maintaining a healthy lifestyle.”

  “Logan’s grateful for the written words in books and the escape they provide,” I answer for him. His gaze snaps to his left. I feel it burning a hole in my cheek and turn my face to look at him. A moment passes between us. His lips quiver the tiniest bit, enough to show me that he appreciates the help.

  “And you, Chase?”

  A deep breath hits my lungs. “Kat.”

  “You’re thankful for your cats?” Juan jokes, pulling rattling laughter from the group.

  “No. My fiancée, Katarina. I’m grateful for her love, and her support, and her forgiveness.” The person I've been lately . . . he isn’t who I want to be. I've been a walking heartache. Most people would have left me already, but not Kat. She stood there right beside me, watched as the storm blew through, and then cleaned up the mess with her head held high. I’m not just grateful; I thank God for her every damn day of my life.

  The rest of the group continues their deluge of positivity, and it eventually circles back around to Sharon again. “For many of you, this isn’t your first time in recovery. When someone relapses, their addiction is often worse than before. The feelings of shame and guilt further drive the substance abusing behavior in an effort to numb any uncomfortable emotions. But there is no shame in relapsing. The only shame comes from not asking for help when help is needed.”

  More grumbles, a few nods. She opens the floor for people to share.

  “I just feel so alone,” a small brunette says from the across the circle. I don’t remember her name, but her nose is pierced, and thick bangs cut across her eyes, making it hard to see their color. “Like an impulsive fucking idiot, I shared a needle with my ex-boyfriend. Fast forward a month, and I’m diagnosed with Hepatitis C. I am so disgusted and ashamed. I feel like a leper.

  “I know there are great treatments out there nowadays, and it's curable, but I can’t stand that I got myself into this situation. I hate heroin. I hate that I still crave it. I hate that I feel so stuck in limbo from this diagnosis that a warm shot of H seems like the only thing that could make me feel okay. I'm scared and sad. I have no motivation and feel like a worthless piece of shit.”

  “The hardest part of not using is filling up the empty space inside you,” I reply. All eyes land on me as if I possess the secret to life. I don’t usually say much in these sessions, but these days, there’s so much in my head that the only way to silence the screaming is to let it all out. “Before this little setback, I had four years under my belt. Whenever I thought about using, I liked to frame it as a choice. Saying things to myself like ‘I can't use’ frustrated me. Tell me I can’t do something and I’ll do it just to spite you. So every day, I’d wake up and think ‘Today, I choose not to use.’ That made me feel empowered, ya know? Because I was the one in control.”

  “Some control,” she bites back. “When you’re sitting here as dope sick as the rest of us.”

  “No one is exempt from doing the work. I got cocky. I got sloppy. I got lost along the way. It won’t happen again.”

  Sharon jumps to my defense. “I think what Chase is trying to say is sobriety starts in the mind. We need to make a conscious effort every day to stay on the right path. Working toward small attainable goals we know we can achieve, taking accountability for the way our lives turned out, and always working toward becoming a better person.”

  Bangs makes a pfft sound and crosses her arms in a huff. The hour moves, and soon enough, we’re shuffling toward the exit. “Chase! Hang back a second.” Sharon’s voice stops my flight, but my blood is screaming for nicotine. I step from the herding crowd, a cigarette already clenched between my teeth. “I just wanted to say good work today. You’ve been making great progress here.”

  “Do I get a gold star?”

  “Better. You get to live.”

  Cha
pter 19

  Kat

  I circle the lot at Sunny Oaks for the hundredth time. The first two rows of spaces are all dedicated resident parking for employees, the remaining spots filled with car after car, all gleaming in the midmorning sunlight. My stomach jumps with nerves. What’s Chase going to be like when I finally get to see him after all this time? Will he be the man I fell in love with? Or will he be some sort of shell of that guy, one with his eyes and his smile, but an inside that doesn’t quite fit?

  I stayed awake most of the night, the excitement of seeing him making it impossible to get a good night’s rest. In a couple of more weeks, I’ll be back to take him home.

  Walking into the lobby feels like I’m at a resort. Water cascades over rocks and trickles into a koi pond. The sound is soothing as I make my way to the desk to sign in. The woman behind the counter smiles, her dark purple lipstick doing her face no favors. “He never stops talking about you,” she says, handing me a My Name Is sticker with the letters K, A, and T written in blue Sharpie. For some reason, I’m reminded of Chase’s fingers. The blue-black letters permanently inked into each long digit. Overcome. A simple word, two little syllables that mean so much.

  “Go on into the lounge. I’ll have someone let Chase know you’re here.”

  “Thanks.” I offer a polite grin and head in the direction where she pointed me. My shoes echo on the marble tile, but a vast area rug swallows the sound as I pass through. This place is another miracle I’ve yet to properly thank Erik for. The favors are piling up now. I’m going to have to give him my firstborn child to repay him for all he’s done. A stupid grin rolls across my face like I’m drunk on hormones. My fingertips graze my stomach. At eight weeks, it’s still too early for anyone to see. A small, bloated belly that’s barely visible now but will be big and round before I know it.

  The low din of a hundred voices greets me in the lounge. People sitting at tables, strewn about couches and loveseats, all smiling, chatting, laughing. A happy reunion, seeing their loved ones well again. A cold chill crosses my skin. The room buzzes with fresh hope, but how many will truly make it? Relapse rates after rehab are a staggering forty to sixty percent. It’s scary to think I could be back here someday. Visitor or patient.

  My eyes scan the sea of faces for only one, but I feel his tender gaze caress my skin first. His lopsided grin sets a blaze in my heart that ignites like a brushfire. It eats through my self-control, propelling me across the room, tears plummeting from my face. He looks so good. The image of his Crypt Keeper face has invaded my dreams for the past two weeks, eyes usually full of kindness and love a barren wilderness of nothing. That’s what hurt the most. Looking into his face and seeing a stranger.

  But the man I know stands before me now, love seeping through his warm smile as he opens his arms and swallows me in his warm embrace. “I missed you so much!” I gush into his neck, breathing him in as if I can drag his lifeforce inside me. I didn’t just fall in love with him once. With every glance, every grin, and every kiss, I fall again. I worried he might be gone forever, but he’s here, holding me so close to his body I feel his heartbeat against mine, and I never want to let go of him again.

  “You’re the best-looking thing I’ve seen in weeks.”

  “I look like ass!” I tell him, wiping the tears from beneath my makeup-free eyes. I prepared for the sob fest. A new emotion hits me every five seconds, and waterproof mascara can only do so much. Being pregnant is a bitch.

  “No,” he coos, cupping my face in his tattooed hands. The very ones that hold my heart. “You look beautiful. Always.”

  “So do you.”

  His heated stare drops to my belly, his fingers splayed out over my fitted tee. “How’s my little buddy doing?”

  “Still cookin’,” I answer with another wide smile. Jeezaloo, what happened to me? One minute, I’m having grand delusions of starting my own skincare line, and the next, I’m fantasizing about tiny shoes and planning a nursery. Chase and me and baby makes three type of hokey bullshit. I’m so going to become one of those annoying Pinterest moms.

  Just as soon as I’ve taken care of my drug-addicted baby daddy.

  “C’mon.” He takes my hand and pulls me through the mass of people. “Let’s get outta here.”

  A nervous giggle leaves my lips. “Where are we going?”

  “It’s too loud in there. I don’t want to share you with all those people.” Chase pokes his head around the corner and looks around before leading me into the hall. The whole thing seems overly scandalous. Like Romeo and Juliet. Two star-crossed lovers stealing down the corridors for a solitary moment of privacy.

  Rows of open doors break up the sunny yellow walls. Between two of them, a huge whiteboard hangs. “I have been given endless talents which I will begin to utilize today,” I read aloud, my voice hushed and far too cheery given the setting. I turn to Chase with a sarcastic smirk. “Endless talents, huh?”

  He raises his pierced brow and pushes me backward through the doorway across from it. “Talent’s gonna have to wait until we have more time.” He slips his large palm behind my head, his fingers digging into the long black hair spilling down my back, and drops his mouth to mine. The touch of his lips rushes through me like a heavy rainstorm after a desert drought. Drips and drops of desire pool in my blood, soaking in the initial taste of his mouth and the feel of his tongue twirling with mine.

  His breath fills my mouth. I link my arms around his neck, pushing to my toes to get closer. The sound of his moan is thick with want. Half a growl that falls into a sigh as I lean against him with all my weight. Tucked in his crow-covered arms, I feel my pulse flutter like the delicate butterfly spanning his neck. My beautiful man, hard and inked, with the fierce heart of a child.

  “Kat, baby, wait.” I pull back enough to see Chase’s fiery gaze soften. It swirls with a mix of emotions storming through his turquoise stare. The soft pink glitter of my gloss streaks across his bow tie lips. He pulls on the silver ring, gripping it with his teeth before letting it pop back out. “We can’t . . .” The words, while breathless and meek, still lodged in his throat. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows them down and starts over. “I haven't been properly tested. I've made a lot of shitty choices lately, and I won't chance this.” He sweeps a lock of blue-black hair off my forehead then weaves it behind my ear. “I just needed to kiss you, claim you again in case I don't get another chance.”

  “You have years of chances ahead of you, Chase.”

  He runs his hand through his shaggy hair. It hangs over his ears in adorable little wings. He usually keeps it trimmed close to his scalp, but with everything that’s happened, he’s in desperate need of a haircut. I kind of like it, though. All that darkness surrounding him makes his clear eyes stand out. “Saying I'm sorry isn't enough sometimes . . .” He trails off, emotion glittering in his eyes. My heart, as fluttery as it was a few minutes ago, suddenly feels like a stone in my chest. “I just . . . I dunno. Needed to feel you again before I make amends.”

  “Stop, Chase. You don’t need to make amends to me.”

  “No, Kat. I do. I’ve done so much that you don’t even know about. We can’t start our lives on a bed of lies. I tried that already, and my former life crept back with a vengeance.” He reaches behind him and pulls out a composition book. The whole thing is bent in half, the heavy crease cutting the marbled cover almost in two. With his gaze fixed on the book in his hands, he swipes past page after page of pencil-written text until he comes to the one he’s looking for. “God, this is hard,” he whispers, tonguing the corner of his mouth. The little ring bobs back and forth a few beats before he collects himself enough to start.

  They say ignorance is bliss, and that statement is true. I could have lived forever never knowing the things he admits, but I understand his reasons behind them. Forgiveness. Anger is a weight that only gets heavier as time goes on. It sits on your shoulders and fills your pockets, dragging you under, poisoning everything that’s good until not
hing is left but the anger itself.

  We’re here because of Chase’s inability to forgive.

  He never forgave his father.

  He never forgave his mother.

  He never forgave Desiree.

  Worst of all, he never forgave himself.

  So I sit through his awful amends, trying my best to dig deep into my soul to find the strength I need to forgive him, too. For my own sanity, my own piece of mind, and my own sobriety.

  Chapter 20

  Chase

  Things to apologize to Kat for:

  I lied about going to NA meetings. Instead, I was using them as an excuse to sneak off and get high.

  A couple of times, when what I needed wasn’t easily accessible, I stole your meds to keep me going until I could find something better.

  Twice I stole money from the register at Petaloúda. I let Jess take the blame, which led to you having to fire her, which ultimately meant you had to spend more hours at the salon. With you gone, I didn’t have to sneak around so much.

  I can’t say with one hundred percent certainty that I was faithful in New York, but I think I was.

  I was selfish. I let myself get caught up in my own shit and didn’t stop to think about how my actions would affect you. I took you for granted, and I’m sorry.

  I stare at her face, watching every emotion roll right into the next. Unburdening myself should feel like a weight lifted, but instead, it feels like my soul’s being twisted and stretched. I can’t undo it. No matter how badly I want to. It’s done. I can only repent and pray that she can forgive.

  When Kat looks away, a thick panel of ebony hair falls over her shoulder, concealing her face as she stares down at the low-pile carpet. “Talk to me, Kat.”

  “I think I should go.”

  She rises from the edge of the bed, the shoddy mattress springing up from her sudden movement. I jump up after her. “Don’t walk away from me. Please,” I beg, taking hold of her arm tighter than I intend. I deserve this. She should walk away from me. I’m poison. A disease that will only inflict her the longer we’re together. Volatile from the start, explosive right up until the end.