1. Gage
1
GAGE
12 MONTHS LATER
T here’s this look people give you when they’re trying to be proud, but you’ve let them down so many times they don’t really have any faith left. It’s this tepid smile with reserved confidence and sympathy in their eyes that basically says, ‘Well, let’s see how long you make it’ rather than ‘I’m proud of how far you’ve come.’
I’m used to it, but it still fucking sucks.
“You look good, Gage,” Paul says, wrapping me in a hug purely to hide his eyes from me. “Healthy. Good.”
Yeah, that’s what everyone says every time I get out of rehab, and trust me, I’ve been enough times to recognize patterns. Just that I look good and healthy—it’s an automatic reply to a situation they don’t understand, and I can’t blame Paul for not knowing what else to say. I mean, how many times have we gone through this together? Two? Maybe this is the third time. It says something about me and our relationship that I don’t even know.
All I know is that it’s Sunday. One year, almost to the day of that Sunday. The frappé and glitter Sunday.
“Thanks.” I hug him back, feeling… nothing. There’s no spark, no love, no gratitude. There isn’t anything negative either. I’m just empty and numb, and maybe that’s the status quo I need to get used to living in.
“Are you ready to go?” he asks, trying to take my bag from me.
But I’m a pretty shitty person because I haven’t told him I’m not going with him. I could have called him, put him out of his misery, freed him from having to wait around for his loser boyfriend to get out of rehab. Again. But I didn’t. Selfish, remember? I just wanted to look at him one more time before I set him free to the life he’s dying to live, but I’ve held him back from.
“You look good, too,” I tell him, not letting him have my bag.
“Thanks.” He rubs the back of his neck.
See, Paul is a successful man in a respectful job, exuding a level of confidence that makes him prideful. He has no idea how to feel awkward. Unlike me, who just had to show all my vulnerabilities to a bunch of therapists, specialists, peers, and support workers for the past year. I live in awkward. I got used to the shame and lack of dignity, but Paul has never had to, so he doesn’t know how to handle me. I’m the weak point in his life, and although he’s tried hard not to make me feel like that, I do by default.
“Thanks for coming,” I tell him. “It feels good to see you, and I’m glad I get to tell you this face to face.”
His eyes widen, and he licks his lips. Again, Paul isn’t used to being in the dark about anything. He prides himself on knowing everything there is to know and planning for all the possible outcomes he doesn’t already know. So, blindsiding him with a breakup outside a rehabilitation facility he waited twelve months to pick me up from is about as low as I can go, but it has to be done.
“Gage?” he asks, hands in his pockets now.
Paul visited me twice over the past year, and we spoke on the phone once every two weeks or so. I talked to my mom every day, Kristen every few days, and my brothers once a week. I don’t need Paul, and in my heart, I’ve already let him go. For me, not for him. But I’m going to make this about him because it’ll make me feel better. Not to mention his ego.
“I’m moving back home. I can’t keep putting your life on hold, and I’m sorry for how many times I have.”
“Gage,” he croaks, stepping back. “What?” There’s more anger than sadness, but I think I expected that.
“It’s what’s best for both of us. It’s good for my sobriety, and you won’t have to explain me away with excuses and lies anymore.” I reach out to grab his hand, but he pulls away. “I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner.”
A flash of rage crosses his eyes, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen it so intense before. “Sooner?” he scoffs at me. “Sooner? You should have fucking… given me a heads-up at least, Gage. Jesus.”
I note the lack of actual hurt. I mean, he’s butthurt because this took him off guard, but losing our relationship isn’t what’s cutting deep. It’s the fact that he’ll have to go home empty-handed and rework his plans. He’ll take a few days to be weird about it, and then he’ll realize how much weight is off his shoulders and how freedom tastes.
He can have alcohol in the house again, buy Tylenol at the drugstore in real-sized bottles instead of blister packs that get hidden or thrown away, and he can have a life that doesn’t revolve around my needs and fuck ups. He can keep everything he owns out in the open without worrying about me stealing it, and he can fuck whoever he wants without asking if it’s going to send them into a sex addiction spiral.
Because, yeah, that’s me: Gage Loser Rossum, addicted to… everything.
“But your life is here,” Paul says. “Your friends.”
“What friends?” I laugh. “A junkie has no friends except his vices and the ones he’s pushed away for trying to help. Honestly, I’m surprised you stayed with me this long.” Even though Paul has a hero complex and saw me as his greatest project, I always kind of liked that he wanted to save me. Too bad it never worked. “This is better for you, Paul. You’re better off without me.”
Paul’s eyes are sad, but mostly pissed off, and that’s about all he’ll give me. After a few awkward moments, he gives me another hug and tells me he loves me. I think he means it.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t enough, Gage,” he says. And I hate it because he is enough. It’s me who is the problem. “Thank you.” For setting him free.
I sit on the curb after he’s gone, not at all surprised that my mom is late. That woman would show up to a party in 2024, even though it was in 2023, and act like it was no big deal. So, while she’s taking her sweet ass time coming to get me, I try to feel proud of myself because I’ve earned my own respect for once.
A whole year in rehab. Voluntarily. My choice to stay an unheard-of length of time. It’s the longest I’ve ever stayed, and this is the strongest I’ve ever felt after walking out of those doors. Not many addicts go to rehab once, let alone eight times, and even though most stints were much shorter, this time I’ve got a pocketful of new tools, a bunch of new contacts, and even a sponsor lined up in my hometown. But all that shit can be deceiving. Who knows how I’ll react when faced with anything that tempts me? My track record for willpower isn’t strong, but my shame for going to rehab eight fucking times is at an all-time high.
Please, for the love of all that is holy, do not bring me here a ninth time.
Twelve months sober. Come on, Gage. We’ve got this.
A whole hour and a half later, my mom’s run-down minivan squeals into the parking lot with an audible squeak in the front right tire and a clunk that doesn’t sound right. When she stops right in front of me, the brakes screech and groan, and she reaches through the open window to open her door from the outside.
Ah, Mom. I smile.
“Gage!” she screams at me like I might not have noticed her pull up. “My baby!”
Her light brown hair looks more silver, especially around the temples, and her laugh lines are just as deep as ever. If anyone can laugh in life, it’s my mom, and that’s a goddamn monumental feat while having a substance-abusing son. She’s shorter than me by a foot and a half, so when she rounds the front of the van, her short little legs pump out three steps to my one, and then I’m hugging her for the first time in months, and something feels right about it.
“Hey, Mom.” I hold her tight, and even though she’s still smiling against my chest, she’s also laughing, crying, and hiccupping.
“You beautiful, beautiful man!” she says, giving me a cheap shot to the abs. “You might not have gotten my height and skin, but you’re me otherwise.”
I laugh against her hair. “Was that your way of calling yourself beautiful?”
“No. Maybe. Oh my god, I’m so happy to see you.” She hugs me again, still laugh-crying.
Truthfully, I’ve been looking forward to seeing her for months. Visiting my mom used to fill me full of guilt and shame. I hated letting her down, and nothing gets by her—except time—so she always knew when I was high or jonesing. This time, I’m not using. I’m sober, clearheaded, and hopeful, and it’s the first time I’ve hugged my mom in years while feeling this way.
“Thanks for coming to get me,” I tell her, pulling back to look at her. “Even if you’re two hours late.”
She smacks my shoulder. “Blame the van.”
“The van I’ve offered to upgrade for five years?”
She crinkles her nose at me, not wanting my money. Yeah, I’m one of those fortunate—or unfortunate, depending on how you look at it—addicts who have some money and a career despite rehab and perpetual drug use. Without that money, I wouldn’t have been able to come here eight times. But if I was poor, I might not have gotten into so many drugs. Who knows? Hopefully, I won’t have to spend another penny on this place.
“Blame the snacks then,” she amends. “I had to stop at that cookie factory, and once I got in there, it was like a mismatched heaven. I got carried away.”
I smile again as I open the back door. She used to take us to this cookie factory when we were kids. It took two hours to drive there, but it was fun. Whatever cookies got broken or didn’t turn out right to be packaged and sold in stores got boxed up in bulk crates for the public to purchase wholesale. As soon as I throw my bag in the back, it bounces back at me.
“What have you done?” I ask, wedging my bag between the back of the front seat and a box of cookies. “There’s… how many boxes did you buy?” Big boxes. Like, twenty-pound boxes of cookies. My god.
“We have a four-hour drive, Gage. I thought you might be hungry.”
“For ten thousand cookies?” I laugh. “You know, sugar is an addiction, too.”
Her face falls, and I immediately feel like shit.
“Shit, that was a terrible joke. I’m joking, Mom. Sorry. Thank you for ten thousand cookies.” I smile at her.
Mom sighs, but she’s still smiling at me. Not like that pathetic one Paul gave me, but one full of all the hope I’m currently feeling. “It’s been a long time since you’ve lived with me. And this is the first time since you were a young teen that you’ve been with me while free and sober. Do you know how proud of you I am?” She bumps her knuckles to my abs again. “Do you know how proud of yourself you should be?”
I do know. I really do. But there’s always that bit of self-doubt that creeps in. It’s my kryptonite. That voice inside my head that sometimes speaks alongside the one that taunts me into getting high, having sex I shouldn’t have, stealing something, or getting drunk, and it likes to remind me I’ve been an out-of-control addict for over twelve years and that I’ve failed sobriety eight times already. Being inside is totally different from being outside.
But right now, the stronger voice is the one coming from my heart, telling me I’m still fucking here. Still fucking trying. And that’s gotta mean something, right? I have shit willpower, but at least I’ve got some heart.
“I know.” I smile at the woman who loves me despite it all. “I am. Proud, I mean.”
By the time we get home, I’ve eaten over thirty cookies in varying flavours, and my mom is spinning a riveting tale about her forging club. Yeah, my mom makes swords and shit. She’s terrible at it, but she found a whole new friend group, and they go to the forge every Monday night to make weapons and gab and gossip. Pretty sure they all have a thing for the teacher, too, but she won’t outright admit it.
“Well, this is it,” she says, screeching the van to a halt in the driveway of a two-story house that has no memories and holds no nostalgia for me. My family moved out of the house we grew up in after I had my third overdose in it. This house is a little bigger, but a little older and more dire. I’m making a silent promise to myself right now not to overdose and ruin another home for them.
“It looks nice,” I tell her, unbuckling my belt. “I promise I won’t stay for long.”
“Oh, shut it,” she says, reaching through the window to open the door. Then she rolls the window up and turns the van off. Inside handle must be broken. I’ll fix that. “You’re welcome for as long as you want. Forever, even.” She smiles.
Don’t offer things you can’t follow through on , I want to tell her but don’t. If I fuck up again, I might get a grace period, but it won’t last forever. The people who live in this house are far too important for me to risk being a mess around. Nerves slither around inside me like a disease, and the more they fester, the more my palms sweat, and my mind tells me there’s a simple fix to settle them.
I clear my throat and stretch as I climb out of the van. The neighbourhood is old, which means there are mature trees, bigger yards, and older homes. It’s all very middle-class and boring, but Mom says a few interesting families have moved in recently. Her definition of interesting differs from mine, so I asked what she meant, and she told me there’s a Portuguese family next door. I’m like… what? I thought she was going to say something about ethnicities and big families being interesting, but instead, she went on and on about their cooking. She’s a big fan, and now our family and the Portuguese neighbour family have cookouts all the time, apparently. Mom is very food motivated, and this family loves to cook for her. Win-win.
She also says there’s a foster family up the road, an elderly couple that drive motorcycles, and the owners of a quaint little sex shop—her words—three doors down. At the very end of the dead-end street, there’s a historical mansion that’s seen better days, but the city won’t allow anyone to tear it down, so now some single guy and his son live there or something. Mom’s vague on the details, trying to stack boxes of broken and disfigured cookies in her arms while she chats my ear off.
“Anyway, I’ve almost convinced Marian to join us at the weaponry.”
“Marian?” I ask, grabbing my bag and a bunch of boxes.
“The lady three doors down and across, Gage. She’s in her seventies and is more badass than anyone I’ve ever met, including you. Her hog is loud.”
Her hog? My god. “I bet it is.”
Mom balances boxes on her knee to get her keys out, dropping them twice before I set my boxes down and take over. The maple in the front yard is sprouting fresh buds, swaying in the wind, and when I push the front door open, it slams right back in my face.
“Cross breeze,” Mom explains. “I left the back windows open.”
We finally get inside, and I notice this cross breeze. There are big windows everywhere, blowing wind through the house. Papers litter the hardwood floors, blowing all around, and tufts of pet hair roll like tumbleweeds.
“Slash!” Mom yells, and I look at her weirdly. “What? I was in my Guns N’ Roses days when I got him.”
I am well aware of her dog being named after the rockstar, but, “I thought his name was Saul Hudson?”
“We got tired of calling his full name every time he got out of the backyard, so naturally, he gained the nickname. Also, we got some weird looks until we explained it was actually a dog we were yelling for.”
Naturally.
Slash looks nothing like real-life Slash. He’s a tiny blond chihuahua who has no chill for about three minutes a day, but otherwise, he’s lazy in a way that comes with a lot of attitude and self-righteousness. I respect him for it. He doesn’t even get up when Mom yells for him. He watches from his throne—literally; he has a little doggy throne—side-eying me as the newcomer. When he blinks at me, I feel like I’m being tested.
“Ignore him,” Mom says. “He’s snooty about being left home today.”
We drop the cookies in the kitchen, go back for three more loads, and finally have them all in the house. No one else is home, so Mom shows me around the new place like it isn’t anything special, but I can tell she’s proud of it.
“You have two options. There’s an attic room we renovated. There’s even a cool little secret staircase that goes up there. I think Cole is secretly hoping you’ll take that room, but there’s also the bedroom in the basement. It’s cooler down there, but that comes with spiders and the odd mouse. What do ya think?”
I laugh. “The attic sounds nice.”
Even though it’s a little pathetic that I’m twenty-seven, well off, and moving in with my family again after leaving home at seventeen because I didn’t like their rules and judgement.
“Attic it is! I can’t wait for you to try the tart things the neighbours make. Flaky, chewy pastry with this custard stuff inside. To. Die. For. Gage. I’m not even joking.”
Hope I don’t get addicted.