Epilogue
SAN RAFAEL, CALIFORNIA
“Now, all you have to do is sign here,” the receptionist says, pointing at the dotted line.
I skim over the page, cautious to sign my name on any kind of document that I haven’t had my lawyer go over.
The woman must see the hesitation because she sighs.
“It’s just having you sign to confirm that you know the risks and that discharging yourself before the recommended time is completely voluntary. ”
I nod, pushing the pen right along the dotted line as I sign. I may not have read everything on this page, but I do want to get out of here by any means necessary.
“Thank you.” The receptionist takes back the clipboard, taking out the paper so she can place it on the printer. After a few bells and whistles from the ancient machine, she hands me a copy of the discharge papers and smiles. “You’re all set. Let me get your stuff from lockup.”
I heave a relieved breath. I miss my phone, my cigarettes.
Everything was taken from me when Tom drove me here.
I feel stripped of so much autonomy; it’s like my skin is itching to do anything meaningless, like scrolling through my social media feeds and laughing at stupid videos.
If I can muster up the energy to do so, considering how the last few weeks have gone.
I glance over the counter to the magazine the receptionist was reading, the page still open to the desired article.
I bite my lip and lean over to grab it, my stomach hurting from the hard surface as I strain to reach it.
When it’s finally gripped between my fingers, I sigh with relief and bring it to eye level, a surprised huff escaping me when I see the title.
What the hell?
In the spread, there are a shit ton of photos of Cyrus and Jamie in positions that seem very…
un-platonic. My stomach churns as my eyes fly over the words of the article.
Not only are the photos themselves in bad taste, but the article also leaves much to be desired.
The writer is mean, speculative, and practically calls the two rock stars liars for keeping their relationship a secret.
My mind immediately goes to Josie and how this will affect her life.
How will the pack be able to turn this around?
How will they explain it? These are things I never cared about before, but Josie is now a piece of them, so I can’t help but wonder what kind of disaster this will be on top of the mess I’ve already made.
There’s a split second of panic where I wonder if they will think I did this. I definitely threatened it more than a few times, but I would have never gone through with it. The fact that someone actually did this makes me scared that the heat will fall directly onto my shoulders.
And I don’t need that right now, not when my friendship with Josie is already slipping through my fingers.
I toss the magazine back and cross my arms, my patience wearing thin now.
An instrument-heavy song begins to play from the speaker in the corner, my ears intrigued by the harshness of it.
It calms the anxiety that just rose from the article, sending it back into a little box in my chest as the instruments play a haunting melody.
I’m surprised the front desk isn’t listening to something more elevator-adjacent.
This is dope. The singer belts out a dark tune, a death growl emitting from him as he expertly commands the attention of the listener.
I find myself closing my eyes, the dark vocals sweeping me away, when steps come from nearby.
My eyes jolt open to see a familiar man in a white coat making his way through the room.
His blond hair is short, and his skin is starting to wrinkle from being old and wise.
I try to shrink myself where I stand, but it’s futile because his eyes find mine anyway, his stride paused as he looks at me with surprise.
“Cleo.” Dr. Hancock nods and takes in my casual attire with a brow lift. His subtlety is masterful. He has the power to see right through his patients, and I am no exception. It makes me antsy, my skin prickling the longer he looks at me.
I know he can see my intention, and disappointment seems to flicker over his features.
“You’re leaving,” he states, no question or doubt in his tone.
I nod. “Just waiting on my stuff.”
“We were making such good progress.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes at that.
To him, it may have felt like progress, but to me it was torture.
Every therapy session with him was like fighting a bull while being covered in red vinyl tape.
There was nowhere to run or hide, only me in the ridiculously slippery leather armchair being forced into telling all my childhood secrets, and I don’t like to think about that.
I have spent a lot of time trying to bury that past in a box, and I had no plan to dig it back up.
“I told you, Doc,” I respond, going for bored and nonchalant. “I don’t need rehab. I need to be in my penthouse watching old reruns of MTV Cribs.”
His observant gaze is on me once more. “You don’t seem like an MTV Cribs kind of woman.”
“Fine. It’ll probably be Bob’s Burgers,” I admit.
He nods, approval in his small smile. “That’s much more believable.
” He places his hands in his pockets, probably attempting to be casual about my departure, but the disappointment is still prevalent and it pisses me the fuck off.
“Cleo, if you ever need to return, there will be a spot waiting for you.”
“I’m good as new, Doc,” I say, continuing my streak of avoiding the emotional component of this conversation. “I no longer feel shaky; my skin has its usual color back. I am good, I promise you.”
By the half-smile he gives me, I can tell he’s unconvinced. “The offer still stands. I hope you are able to make amends. I know how important your friends are to you, not to mention the music. You can always reach out to make an outpatient appointment if you ever need the extra support.”
My head moves on its own accord, nodding like I’ll consider it, but it’s a lie.
I can’t be in this building for another second.
I feel like I’m suffocating. For the last two weeks, I’ve had way more free time than I have my entire career, and I spent every second of it pondering my choices, feeling guilty for treating my best friend like shit, and for ruining our tour for everyone.
All the jobs people lost out on because it was abruptly halted, all of the fans I let down by my habits.
And I thought about the high that would make all of this anguish go away.
The receptionist returns, placing the cubby with my stuff on the counter.
She smiles, but doesn’t say anything else as I retrieve my items, my hands fidgeting as my finger moves over the corner of my Marlboro Reds.
I steel my spine and blink away the tears that are unfortunately taking over my irises.
“Goodbye, Dr. Hancock,” I say, turning toward the door and striding out.
I don’t look back, even when that glorious song from before follows me out, lingering through the automatic door and beckoning me to return with every taunted lyric.
It echoes through my mind all the way to the curb.
I pull out a cigarette, mumbling the lyrics to myself on this lonely, cold concrete while I wait for a cab.
It’s time to look forward, ignore the past, and get everything back on track. I’ve worked so hard for this life, and I can’t ruin it over a few imperfect moments. It’s time for me to take back control of my life, and get back in the studio with my girls.
But now with the silence settling in, and the persistent itch in the crook of my arm, I know that’ll be easier said than done.