Chapter 40 Ground Zero
GROUND ZERO
NATE
The waiting room at Haven Ridge Recovery Center looks like someone tried too hard to make hell feel homey.
Soft beige walls, motivational posters about “healing journeys,” and chairs that probably cost more than most people’s rent.
But underneath all that designer bullshit, there’s still that institutional smell—disinfectant mixed with desperation and broken promises.
I’ve been staring at the same fucking pamphlet for twenty minutes.
Your Path to Recovery Starts Here.
Jesus Christ.
My path to recovery didn’t start here. It started three days ago, staring into a mirror and not recognizing the person looking back. Scott’s hollow eyes. The tremor in my hand and a weight in my chest that wouldn’t go away no matter what I put in my veins.
That was the moment I realized I’d crossed the line.
That Jake’s memory deserved better.
That if I ever wanted a shot at the future I used to imagine—one that had Nora in it—I’d have to stop being the version of myself that kept destroying everything the second I got close to having it.
My foot’s been tapping nonstop—withdrawal, nerves, anxiety, take your pick.
My whole body hums with restlessness, but underneath that is something new. A flicker of something that almost feels like resolve.
Like maybe this time, I’m not just saying I’ll get clean.
Maybe this time, I actually mean it.
Yesterday, though… fuck, yesterday was brutal.
The hardest thing I’ve ever done and I’ve buried my little brother, so that’s saying something.
Nora’s face when I told her I was leaving—the way her eyes went wide and filled with tears she tried to swallow down—it gutted me. I’ve broken her heart before. I’ve made it a fucking art form at this point. But this time, it felt like tearing a piece out of both of us.
Something that might never heal right.
People say things get better with time but time doesn’t fix shit—it just teaches you how to carry it without falling apart in public.
She was crying, really crying, and every instinct in me screamed to stay. To say fuck it, go run away with her, pretend we were fine.
But that would’ve been another lie.
And I’m tired of lying—to her, to everyone, to myself.
So I left the lake house and her behind in a town that’s been both the happiest place on Earth and absolute hell.
The only promise I can live with now is the hope that she’s going back to a life in London, doing what she loves, chasing her dreams, finding a version of peace I couldn’t give her.
The photo Luiza took of us in Málaga, Nora had given me before I left is in my pocket now, edges soft from my thumb running over them again and again. It’s the only thing that feels real anymore.
In the photo we’re looking at each other, smiling, the world around us blurry and golden. Like the universe forgot, for one second, how to be cruel.
“Nathaniel Sullivan? Dr. Hawthorne will see you now.”
The sound of my name snaps me out of my thoughts. I glance at Nick, who’s been sitting beside me this whole time, quiet but solid, the way he always is. His smile says everything—pride, fear, belief.
The things I can’t find for myself.
We both stand and he pulls me into a hug, and for a second, I’m not twenty-one. I’m just a kid who needs someone to tell him he’s going to make it out alive.
“I’m proud of you,” he whispers.
I can’t speak, so I just nod. Then I turn, every step toward that office feeling like both a death sentence and a lifeline.
Dr. Hawthorne is younger than I expected. He’s got kind eyes, steady hands, the kind of calm that makes you think maybe he actually sees people and not just their damage.
“Nathaniel,” he starts.
“Nate,” I correct.
He smiles. “Right, Nate. I’d ask how you’re feeling, but I’m guessing this isn’t exactly where you pictured spending the few next months.”
That honesty catches me off guard that it disarms something in me.
“So I’m just going to lay out the plan so you know what to expect. Fair?”
I nod.
“Great. We’ll start with a full medical and psychological evaluation,” he explains.
“You’ll go through medically supervised detox.
Given your substance history—pills, heroin, fentanyl—we’ll keep you safe while your body adjusts.
After that, we move into therapy, group work, life skills training.
Three months minimum. Longer if you choose sober housing after. ”
He keeps talking about visitation, phone calls, progress stages. I nod in the right places, but his words blend into a dull hum.
My brain’s already spiraling—how the fuck did I end up here?
How many times did I swear I could handle it on my own?
But then he says, “It’s not about punishment, Nate. It’s about learning how to live again.”
And something about that line sticks.
Learning how to live again.
A staff member leads me through the halls after the meeting with Dr. Hawthorne. Everything smells sterile and the floors shine too much.
My room’s small—two beds, two desks, one window facing mountains that feel too far away to be real. One bed’s already got stuff on it.
“Your roommate is Harrison St. Clare,” the staffer says. “He’s been here a week. Get yourself nice and settled and someone will be by to check in with you shortly.”
I’m sitting on the empty bed when Harrison walks in.
He’s in his early twenties, expensive looking haircut and dark eyes that’ve seen their own brand of hell.
“Roomie. Go on then, what’s your story?” he asks, dropping onto his bed. “What landed you in this five-star prison?”
No pretense. I like that.
“I got my brother killed,” I say. “And it should’ve been me.”
His eyebrows lift. “That’s fucked up.”
“Yeah.”
There’s a moment of silence before I ask, “You?”
He shrugs.
“Family didn’t like the optics of me getting locked up. Rehab looks better on a Christmas card.”
I almost smile. It’s the first time today I’ve felt human.
“Harry,” he says, holding out his fist. “Don’t be like these wankers and call me Harrison.”
“Nate.” I bump it.
“You want to grab food? It is edible, which is saying something. Just stay away from the apple pie, I don’t trust it”
“Maybe later.”
He grins.
“Suit yourself, man.”
When he leaves, the silence hits again. I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
This is it.
Ground zero, the place where you stop running.
I pull the photo from my pocket and hold it over my chest, tracing her smile. For the first time in months, I don’t feel like using. Not because the craving isn’t there—it always is—but because I finally have a reason to sit with it. To see what’s left of me underneath all the noise.
Guess that’s what getting better is about, not fixing yourself.
Just facing yourself.
I close my eyes, counting the specks on the ceiling until my mind starts to quiet.
One… two… three…
I let sleep take me sober and somewhere in the darkness, I tell myself—quietly, carefully—that I’m going to try again tomorrow because that’s what I promised her.