Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
JENSEN
I’ve always had this ability to get what I want. Whether it was charming teachers for better grades, making every sports team I tried out for, or getting the popular girl to go out with me. I had to work for it, sure, but I always found a way.
Take Sabrina Mendenhall, for example—the most popular girl in high school. She lost her virginity to me. I made her laugh, reeled her in with personality, then sealed the deal with confidence and good looks.
Same with Alley. Same with everything.
Until I fucked it all up.
Life was easier back then. If something didn’t go the way I planned, I’d just pivot—pick a new path and keep moving.
But it’s not that simple when you’re thirty-five and married, still cleaning up the wreckage of an addiction that took hold before you even saw it coming. There’s no easy out. No quick fix.
Rehab wasn’t easy, nothing about getting clean was. I think part of me thought I’d show up and magically get better. I didn’t. Rehab was the worst and best thing that ever happened to me. The hardest thing I’ve ever had to try at. That alone was frustrating—that I couldn’t charm my way to sobriety.
I learned a lot about myself there. Addiction’s complicated as hell. There’s no single cause. It’s layered. In therapy, I dug deep and started to understand some of the things that made me more susceptible.
Addicts don’t look like me. Or so I thought. I was too strong, too disciplined, too in control. But it wasn’t control. It was arrogance. Blind spots dressed up as confidence. And the worst part? I was never taught how to lose—because I never had to.
Horns blare around me as traffic halts on the bridge. “Fuck,” I mutter. I should’ve stayed at my parents’ a couple more hours. With tomorrow being Christmas Eve, and rush hour traffic, it’s a graveyard of glowing red taillights.
I just saw my parents for the first time since I’ve been back. We talked, and it actually went better than I expected. I was nervous, and it wasn’t easy. I had a lot of shit to work through with my mom. Stuff that came up a lot in rehab.
Not that it’s her fault. I take full responsibility for my actions. But she’s always babied me—treated me different than my siblings, like I was fucking special. I never knew why, and no kid’s ever gonna complain about that. Hell, I loved it growing up.
I love my mom, and we’ve always been close.
But my whole life, she’s been more of a friend to me than a parent.
She never taught me consequences or how to deal with shit, not like she did with Jeff and Megan.
She made my life easy. I was never held accountable.
Life was a fucking walk in the park—until pain meds became my crutch.
There’s never been confusion with my dad about his role. He was the parent. There were moments when I was younger that he would have beaten me black and blue if my mom had let him.
Even still, he never hid his anger. He wanted to punish me, and sometimes he did, behind her back. I thought he was being a dick for it then. Now? I kind of wish he’d done it more.
That’s the thing. I wanted my mom to be mad at me.
All these other people on my list—the ones I need to talk to, make things right with, apologize to—they’re all pissed at me. Or at least they were. But my mom? She never was.
How the hell was I supposed to know what’s real?
What I’m actually worthy of? Fuck, did I even earn the things I thought I did, growing up?
Or was she behind the scenes the whole time, pulling strings, opening doors before I even reached for the handle?
Manipulating opportunities I thought I worked for.
Jesus. No wonder I can’t tell the difference between confidence and control.
My whole perception of life’s been warped in the worst possible way.
We talked about some heavy shit tonight—stuff from when I was little.
My mom cried. A lot. I’ve seen her cry plenty of times, but never like that.
Never that emotional, that vulnerable. And now I finally get it.
Why she was so scared. Why she never wanted to be the one to punish me, even when I fucking deserved it.
“You have a new message from Megan. Do you want me to read it?” Siri blares through the speakers, interrupting my thoughts.
“Read the message,” I say aloud.
“Talked to Amber and Matt. They can do the Berkshires the third week in February. So plan on that. See you tomorrow.”
The Berkshires. Shit. That’s only seven weeks away.
Seven weeks to prove I’m worth another chance—because I don’t even want to think about going without Alley. I don’t know if I could. It might be too triggering.
Fuck, just being at my parents’ house was triggering. Sitting on that same couch where I detoxed… remembering the fallout between my mom and Alley. Where everything started to fall apart.
I’m already bracing myself for tomorrow night. Christmas Eve. It’s always been my favorite day of the whole year. Charades. The food. The way my family packs into the living room like it’s a sporting event.
That first year with Alley was by far my favorite.
We hadn’t even been dating that long, but that night?
That’s when I knew I was falling in love with her.
The last girl I’d ever bring home. The first woman I’d ever say I love you to.
My last first date. My last first kiss. My last time sleeping with someone new.
She’d won the Best Guesser award. Her cheeks were red with embarrassment, and her dimple popped from all the laughter. Our eyes locked mid-speech from my mom, and things had never been more clear. It was like Cupid shot me straight through the goddamn heart. She was it. The one.
The only one.
Hard to believe that was five years ago. Tomorrow night’s going to be tough without her.
A memory barrels in—a fucking nightmare buried so deep it feels like a missile to the chest, making it hard to breathe. Christmas Eve. Last year. Alley. My family.
Holy shit. I was on Oxy, and that night, I locked myself in the bathroom at my parents’ to do a line of coke.
Alley was outside the door, begging me to come out, to finish charades.
I’d gotten up right in the middle of it.
When I finally opened the door, she was crying.
Screaming. And I left. I fucking left her there. On Christmas Eve.
I took the car and—God, I don’t even know where I went. Can’t remember. But I know I didn’t go back.
Guilt and remorse hit all at once, and my eyes sting. I swallow hard and grip the steering wheel. I’m such a fucking asshole.
No wonder she left me.
These memories come in at random—half-remembered flashes I’d do anything to make untrue.
Every time one hits, it knocks the wind out of me.
I’ve been out here apologizing, asking for forgiveness like I left a damn dish in the sink.
But the truth is, I stood at the center of everyone’s lives with a bomb I didn’t even know I was holding—then lit the match.
In therapy, we talked a lot about forgiveness. Problem is, with addiction, the person I need to forgive the most is me. And that’s a hell of a lot harder when the memories keep popping in like a fucking Pez dispenser loaded with shame.
Mom’s constant softness taught me I’d always be forgiven. It’s like I never developed the muscle to cope with failure, loss, or rejection. This whole thing—the addiction, losing Alley—it’s the first real consequence that’s ever stuck. And I failed it. Fuck, I failed it worse than I ever imagined.
Traffic picks up, and I let my foot press heavier on the gas.
I can’t spiral right now. I’ve come a long way.
Accomplished a lot. I went to rehab. Got clean.
I didn’t talk my way into sobriety—I pushed through.
Did the work. Changed my diet, my habits, my mindset, my entire lifestyle.
I worked with therapists and counselors.
I cried. I journaled. I did shit I never thought I’d do.
And now, there’s only one thing left to do.
Get my wife back.
My phone rings, and I glance at the holder on the dash. It’s Keith.
I hit accept and pray he has news from Alley’s attorney.
My eyes pop open. It’s still dark, but the glow from the nightstand hits my eyes. I reach for my phone, a new text lighting up the screen.
It’s from Alley. It’s 2:11 a.m.
I take a shaky breath, pulse already picking up. I open the message.
Alley
Hi. I don’t really know what to say, or why I’m texting you right now. I couldn’t sleep. But thank you for saying all of that. I think about you too. I’m not sure why I’m telling you that… I guess I don’t want you to think that I don’t. Tonight’s… hard.
A wave of relief rolls through me. Not explosive. Just strong and steady. It’s the first real sign of hope—something to fuel the fire I’ve been barely keeping alive.
I let out a breathy laugh. “She still loves me.”
That’s all I needed.
A little vulnerability.
Proof that she misses me. That she cares. That she still loves me—even if she won’t say it yet.
I lie back down, a calm settling in. My resolve stronger than ever.
I don’t text back. Not yet.
A grin spreads wide.
She still fucking loves me.