Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
ALLEY
THEN
MAY
Oh my God.
He’s on something.
I had my suspicions, but I didn’t want to believe it. I couldn’t even go there. But now I know.
He’s definitely on something. I just don’t know what.
I wrack my brain, digging through everything I know about withdrawal—because that’s exactly what’s happening in our bedroom right now. Again.
It’s Sunday morning. One week ago, Jensen woke up with the same symptoms—symptoms of withdrawal.
“Shit,” I say aloud. I’m in the kitchen, coffee in hand, rooted to the spot. My brows pull together, cursing myself for not seeing the signs earlier, the sleepiness that started last fall, the irritability, him showing up late… his eyes.
But he didn’t have a prescription.
It doesn’t matter. I should’ve seen it. I should’ve freaking seen it.
Dammit.
I take a deep, shaky breath, my fingers trembling around the mug’s handle.
I set my coffee down before I spill it, and that’s when it all comes crashing in—six months of memories flooding at once: leaving the Halloween party, New Year’s Eve, the night he was “helping a coworker” with his car.
The arguments. Our sex life. All those feelings I had that things felt off.
And I just ignored it. I pushed it down because I didn’t want it to be true. It’s not like pain pill addiction is my go-to when it comes to my husband. He’s my person. The one I love more than anyone else. The one I trust with my life.
There’s a mix of emotions brewing deep inside me—anger, confusion, sadness—and the one bigger than all the others?
Betrayal.
He didn’t tell me. Not only did he not tell me, he lied to me.
My vision blurs as it all slams to the surface, and I gasp, realizing I’ve been holding my breath. Calm down. Maybe I’m overreacting. This may not be what I think it is.
I’m moving before I can even process, and a strange calm settles over me as I walk down the hall, barely aware of my own footsteps. I open the bedroom door and step inside.
Standing at the foot of the bed, nausea settles in the pit of my stomach as I take him in—shivering, soaked in sweat, dry heaving all morning. Aching. Groaning. Curled into himself.
It’s Jensen. It’s my husband, the man I chose to spend my life with. Except it’s not him.
“What are you on?” I ask, my voice trembling, thick with emotion I can’t seem to swallow.
His eyes squeeze shut, and he shakes his head.
“What are you on, Jensen?” My voice rises slightly, and I force myself to stay calm.
The agony is visible on his face. The pain, shame, torture—it’s all there, etched in the way his forehead creases. The way he can’t look at me. The way his lips press together.
The way a tear leaks from his eye.
I soften, torn between wanting to shake him and hold him simultaneously. “I can’t help you if I don’t know,” I whisper.
He opens his eyes briefly, just long enough to look at me, then shuts them again, tears now streaming down both cheeks.
It makes me want to die. To wrap my arms around him and make everything okay. But I can’t.
I won’t.
This right here. This moment. It’s one of the worst of my entire life—right up there with my mother dying.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. He knows I know. The look of guilt, the tears—it’s basically a confession. And one I know all too well. One I’ve seen far too many times.
He promised me. God, he promised me.
Knowing I won’t get anywhere with him right now, I turn on my heel, slamming the door behind me.
A volcano of rage erupts, abrupt and all-consuming. I storm into his office, determined to find whatever’s been slowly killing my husband’s soul. I yank open every drawer, ripping through the contents, tossing everything aside without a care for the mess I’m making.
I open anything that can be opened, my hands run along surfaces, over edges. I’m searching like a madwoman. From the corner of my eye, I see his backpack, tucked behind the open door. The ibuprofen bottle.
Remembering the other pills from the Berkshires, I dart for it, my hands moving faster than I knew possible.
Unzipping the top, I reach inside, frantically searching.
My fingers hit something hard that rattles.
But it’s not in this pocket—it’s in the one behind it.
I open the back pocket and pull out the bottle.
My hands are shaking, and I fumble with the childproof cap, struggling to open it. “God, come on,” I whisper, my voice cracking with desperation. It takes three tries, but finally, I get the lid off. I squeeze my eyes shut, inhaling deeply—too terrified to look. Too scared for it to be true.
Finally, I muster up the courage to dump all the pills onto the desk, praying I’m wrong.
Even though I know I’m not.
There are only two kinds of pills—ibuprofen and one other—a small, white, circular tablet.
I pinch it between my fingers and study the inscription—M 05 52.
Holy shit. My gut tells me it’s Oxycodone, but I rarely see actual pills anymore, and I’m not about to guess. Not with this.
I bolt to the kitchen for my phone and pull up , typing in the number. My stomach drops instantly, a knot forming low and deep. My chest tightens, and the air leaves my lungs like I’ve been punched.
I’m right.
Dammit. Why did I have to be right? My new reality crashes through me like a tidal wave, powerful and overwhelming.
Without thinking, I dump my coffee in the sink and chuck my mug against the hardwood floor, screaming through clenched teeth. It shatters on impact, sharp pieces scattering, and I welcome the sound.
I know too much about addiction to stay calm. I’ve seen it up close—watched the lies pile up behind familiar eyes. I know the mask the addict wears, the stories they sell to protect their secret.
Now my favorite person in the world is wearing it.
And I don’t recognize him.
I sink to the ground, leaning back against the cabinets. It’s too much. Everything swirls inside me, and an audible cry tumbles from my lips as I let myself fall apart.
My head tips back, and I feel the fear creep in–dark and black shadows of my past swirling into every corner of my mind, filling it with doubt and heartache.
The irony of it all—my dad finally coming back into my life just as I feel Jensen slipping away.
My reconnection with my dad was one of the best moments of my life. It was the first time I really listened to him, actually heard him. The first time I let the addict tell their story. It was heartbreaking.
It didn’t take away the hurt, or the years of aching for him, or the tainted memories, but it helped me understand.
He didn’t choose alcohol. Alcohol chose him.
As healing as it was, I still fear losing him again. It’s a vulnerable place to be, like I’ve opened myself up for target practice, just waiting for the arrow. I never thought I’d need a shield in my own home.
My heart breaks into a thousand little pieces. For me, for my dad, and for Jensen—the man that I love even more than myself.
Anger stirs with everything else inside me.
I’m pissed—at the doctors, at our medical system, at the pharmaceutical companies, at Jensen.
But mostly, I’m pissed at myself, for pushing away the warning signs.
I should have seen this. I should have known.
Maybe then Jensen wouldn’t be in there, going through hell.
I gasp for breath, my head pounding as I sit here, crying for what feels like hours until the sobs quiet. Until the sharp edge of panic dulls and a cold, heavy numbness settles in.
My head tips back, my chest rising and falling with each deep breath. Pieces of my last conversation with my dad resurface—how much he loved me and Michael. How much he loved my mom. That his addiction was never about us. We were what kept him going, kept him trying.
He told me if it weren’t for us, he would’ve ended up on the streets long ago. Just like that man I stepped over months ago.
My eyes squeeze shut, silent tears falling down my cheeks. I won’t let that happen to Jensen. I love him too much. And I know how much he loves me. He needs me. He’s already trying to make it right.
God, he’s already trying, and I’m out here instead of beside him.
I force myself into motion, picking up the broken glass. I run a finger along the chipped wood where the mug hit—a scar for this moment. One more mark left by addiction, carved not only into our home but into my heart, along with all the others.
I walk slowly toward our bedroom, my heart pounding, the tightness in my throat impossible to swallow.
I stop just outside the door, hesitating. Delaying the reality.
Once I step inside, there’s no going back. The Alley and Jensen I once knew will be gone—because once I walk through this door, it becomes real. No matter what happens next, even if we make it out stronger, we’ll never be the same.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, I steady myself and slip inside. The room feels heavier than it did before, the weight of the truth now lurking in the air. I walk over to the bed and lower myself beside him.
He winces, like even the subtle shift of the mattress sends an unbearable pain ripping through his body.
I bite down hard, trying to hold myself together. I have to be strong for him.
But it’s so hard to breathe.
My chest feels like it’s collapsing in on itself. Like my heart is being squeezed in a vice that won’t let up. It’s too much.
I reach for his hand, gripping it tightly—like if I hold on hard enough, I can keep him from hurting.
“I know it’s Oxy,” I say, the words catching in my throat, thick and strangled.
His eyes squeeze shut, shame spreading across his face.
“Babe.” My voice breaks. “Look at me.”
He opens his eyes, his gaze meeting mine. The sorrow in them is so heavy—it nearly breaks me.
“I’m here.” My voice cracks, and I swallow hard. “I’m right… here.” I’m fully crying again. There’s no stopping it. “I’ve got you, okay? I’m not going anywhere. We’ll get through this. Together.”
His eyes fill, tears brimming, lips quivering as he whispers. “Promise?”