Chapter 19 #2
“I wanted to drink today,” I admit quietly, pausing to give her time to react.
She doesn’t. “Not because I was craving alcohol exactly, but because everything felt too loud and too much, and I wanted it to stop.” As I wrestle with the admission, a metallic taste clings to the back of my tongue, and my jaw feels tightly wound, like it's ready to snap.
The sensations are fleeting but potent, remnants of a stress response my body knows too well.
“Did you drink?” Her tone is even and lacks any ill will.
“No, but I wanted to. I hated that I wanted to.” I hang my head, ashamed beyond measure that I craved the one thing that would send Rhea running for the hills again.
“That's normal, Gray. Wanting something that's bad for you doesn't make you weak or broken. It makes you human.” She's quiet for a moment, then asks, “Are you still seeing the therapist Bruce set you up with? Or have you considered holding a meeting here? A sponsor?”
The suggestion stings a little, like she's questioning whether I'm taking my recovery seriously enough. But when I look at her face, there's no malice there, only concern.
“Dr. Hannah and I do video sessions twice a week, but it's not the same as being in the room with her or Bruce.
The sessions help remind me that I'm not alone in this and provide a space to explore my fears, even if they don't offer a magic fix.
And there's probably a meeting nearby. It could present a chance to connect with others who understand the struggle firsthand.” I do my best to allay her fears and my own.
“There’s a meeting. I looked it up weeks ago, just in case.” She pulls out her phone and shows me a screenshot of meeting times and locations. “Not because I was expecting you to struggle, but because I wanted to be prepared if you did.”
The thoughtfulness of the way she's been quietly looking out for my recovery, even when I wasn't asking for it, makes my throat tight with emotion. “You researched meetings for me?”
“I researched a lot of things. Meetings, therapists, and what to do if someone you love is having a bad day.” She tucks her phone away and looks at me seriously.
“I'm not the same person who left you, Gray.
I'm not going to enable you or pretend everything's fine when it's not, but I'm also not going to panic every time you have a rough day.”
“What if it's more than a rough day? What if I drink?” I ask, wanting to know if the worst happens, then where do we stand?
“Then we'll figure it out together, if you want to. But we can always figure it out separately, if that's what's healthiest.” Her voice is steady and matter-of-fact. “But one bad day doesn't erase one hundred thirty-seven good ones. One nightmare doesn't predict the future.”
She's right, and in the rational part of my brain, I know she's right. The nightmares aren't prophecies. They're just my anxiety trying to protect me from pain by convincing me the worst is inevitable.
“I'm sorry for today, for pushing everyone away, and for making you worry.” I feel like a total asshole, making her and the guys worry unnecessarily.
“You don't have to apologize for struggling. You just have to let us help when you are.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a while. The restless energy that's been building in my chest all day begins to settle, replaced by something that feels like peace.
“So,” Rhea says eventually, bumping my shoulder with hers. “Ready to go inside and let the guys fuss over you? Because they've been hovering by the window for the past twenty minutes, and I think Parker's about to vibrate out of his skin with worry.”
I glance toward the house and catch sight of five familiar faces quickly disappearing from the living room window.
“Subtle as always,” I mutter, but I'm smiling for the first time all day.
“They love you. Let them show it.”
Inside, the guys are arranged around the living room in poses of elaborate casualness that fool absolutely no one.
Andrew is reading a magazine upside down.
Parker is flipping through TV channels so fast that the images blur together.
Zep is organizing a stack of books that were perfectly organized yesterday.
“We're playing Cards Against Humanity, and before you say you're not in the mood, we already set up the cards. Rhea brought snacks from the coffee shop, and it would be a travesty to let them go to waste,” Parker announces without preamble.
“I don’t get a vote in this?” I ask.
“Nope. Democracy is suspended when one of us is having a shitty day.” Wyatt’s new rule makes me chuckle.
“House rules. Now sit down and prepare to be horrified by our collective lack of moral compass.” Parker pats the couch cushion beside him.
What follows is three hours of the most inappropriate, ridiculous, and healing card game in human history.
The guys pull out all the stops to make me laugh, combining cards in ways that would make angels weep and devils applaud.
Parker plays a card pairing 'relapse' with 'winning the lottery,' which makes us all groan and chuckle, a nod to the absurdity of how the wrong choices can, at times, be too tempting.
Rhea fits right into the chaos, reading cards with such a deadpan delivery that even sly jabs nearly cause me to fall off the couch laughing.
By the time we're too tired to continue, my cheeks hurt from smiling.
I notice the emotional shift. The crushing weight that's been on my chest all day has lifted.
As I sense this lightness, I realize the nightmares feel distant, like they happened to someone else, in another lifetime where I wasn't convinced love could survive bad days.
Joy and calm replace the fear and dread from earlier.
“Better?” Rhea asks as the guys clean up the cards, her hand finding mine automatically.
“Much better. Thank you.”
“For what?” Her smile is so gentle and full of love.
“For not leaving when I had a bad day. For researching meetings. For staying even when I was being an ass.” I sigh at myself for behaving the way I did.
“Gray.” She turns to face me fully, her expression serious. “I'm not going anywhere because of a bad day. Or a bad week. Or even a bad month, as long as you're fighting to get better. The only way you lose me is if you stop trying.”
“And if I drink again?” It’s my biggest fucking fear.
“Then we'll figure out what comes next. But I'm not making decisions based on what-ifs. I'm making them based on what's real, what's now, what's actually happening.”
What's real is that I made it through a bad day without drinking. I'm surrounded by people who care, and I am learning to accept help. Bad days are just moments. They don't define me.
It's not perfect. Sobriety isn't a straight line, and there will be more bad days ahead. But for the first time since the nightmares started, I believe that the bad days don't have to define the story.
Love might not be enough to cure addiction, but it's enough to make the fight worthwhile. That's all I need to keep going.