Chapter 43
chapter
forty-three
“I’m not past it. I’m just stronger than I was yesterday, and sometimes…that has to be enough.” – Cyrus
CYRUS
Stepping out of my room, I look at Haven’s closed door and shake my head. The girl is a fucking mystery. She knows me better than anyone, but when I tell her I love her, she’s all, Yeah, sure you do.
What the fuck do I have to do to make her believe me?
I hitch my duffel onto my shoulder and wince as the throbbing I’ve managed to ignore for a few hours comes screaming back. No one else is up, despite it being almost noon, but I can hear Declan on the phone as I head toward the kitchen.
He waves as I walk in and go straight to the fridge.
Empty. This is another reason why I hate being on the road.
We are never in one place long enough to have basic shit like milk and cereal.
That needs to be added to my next contract.
I shut the door and cross my arms, waiting for Declan to finish his call.
“Yes, that is correct. Run with that,” Declan says, and then hangs up and looks at me. “I think I have the perfect cover story set.”
“That’s great, I don’t care what you say as long as we are married.”
He steps close enough that I can smell the expensive cologne he wears. He may as well buy stock in the brand.
“You sure this is what you want to do? I mean, this feels…rash and your mother will hate it. Besides, if you cheat—.”
“I won’t,” I growl, cutting him off as I glare at him. “Yes, I’m sure.”
Declan still looks confused, but he doesn’t push when I don’t elaborate further. The last fucking person I want to have a heart-to-heart with is Declan.
“Alright. We have one more thing to discuss. That guy Charles is pressing charges,” he says and shakes his head. “He is from some fancy firm out of NYC. He won’t go away quietly and he has no interest in being bought off.”
I smirk, and Declan glares at me.
“This isn’t funny.”
“Yes, it is.”
Declan throws his hands up in frustration.
“Can you explain why?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. I am betting all charges will be dropped.” I turn to leave and stop. “Oh, I’m heading out for a bit.”
“Where are you going? Do you need the car or security?”
“No.”
I unzip the duffel and pull out the wig, mustache, large prescription-less glasses, and Dodgers baseball hat.
“I’m going to a meeting,” I say, holding the items up for him to see. “There’s one that starts in forty minutes at the church down the street. The last thing I want is to be dropped off in a limo or escorted by guards. I’ll make sure they don’t know who I am.”
Declan glances at his phone.
“We need to leave at three.”
“Relax. I’ll be back before then. Have a little faith.”
Turning, I march out and stop at the mirror to make sure my disguise is in place.
This is my Bob persona. Bob the builder, Bob the farmer, Bob the candlestick maker.
It really doesn’t matter. Bob is the mask I wear to be anyone but me.
Meetings are a safe space. Nothing is shared outside of the room.
But I’ve found out the hard way that not everyone follows that rule.
If I’m spotted going in, then cameras will be waiting for me outside.
Bob lets me walk around freely. Just another average person going about their day.
The hotel lobby is my first test, and sure enough, I walk through without anyone giving me a second glance. Not that I doubted it. I’ve used this disguise a lot. Pulling out my phone, my hands shake just enough to be annoying and remind me that I still need answers.
It’s nice to wander down the sidewalk, passing people without anyone screaming, pulling at my clothes, or begging me to fuck them. Craving this normalcy now is the complete opposite of what I wanted when I first dreamt of being famous. I wanted my name in lights and the world at my feet.
Walking up the steps of the church, my eyes dart around looking for someone hiding in the bushes with a camera.
No one jumps out at me, and I take a deep breath as I cross the threshold.
The meeting room isn’t hard to find. I slip in and head straight to the snack table.
They’ve gone all out with cookies and sandwiches.
“Hi, I’m Joan.”
A woman—who looks like an elderly librarian—stands a few feet away. I hold out my hand, but it’s still shaking. I quickly pull it back. She clocks it with her eyes but doesn’t say anything.
“Sorry, I’m a little shaky today. Name’s Bob.”
She gives me a soft, motherly smile. Anyone’s mother but mine, that is.
“Welcome, Bob, we’re happy to have you. We’ll get started in a few minutes. Just waiting for a few regular stragglers to arrive.”
People slowly file in, and I choose a chair in the back row. All meetings are run a little differently, but the support is consistent.
“Welcome, everyone, familiar faces and new. This is a safe space. If you will all please join me in reciting the Serenity Prayer.”
We bow our heads, and I close my eyes as the prayer starts.
“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.”
The prayer takes me back to the first time I heard it.
“I’m not going in there,” I argue, crossing my arms.
I don’t belong in this place. So, what that I party, I’m not an addict. I can stop anytime I want. But Auguste and my mother insist, or they’ll cancel the band’s tour.
“You don’t have to share anything, Cyrus. Just come in and listen. You may find it beneficial to hear what others have gone through and are going through,” says the counselor whose name I can’t be bothered to remember.
“Whatever.”
The room is large and bathed in gentle light, comfy chairs and plants take up most of the space. It feels more like a pretty cage than a meeting. The door closes, and I glance at it briefly, wondering if they will notice if I just sneak out, but I take my seat in the circle.
I know what they want.
They want me to say I’m broken, that I’ve lost control. But none of them have ever stood where I stand, felt what I feel, carried what I carry. I don’t need saving—I just need a little something to quiet the noise and numb the pain for a minute.
Fuck.
“Would anyone like to share?”
Joan’s voice cuts through the memory, and before I can talk myself out of it, my hand is already in the air.
Regret hits a second too late.
Joan nods, and I push to my feet.
The room suddenly feels too big as I move through it. Thirty pairs of eyes track me, and each step is a little heavier than the last. By the time I reach the lectern, my hands are shaking worse than before. I grip the wood like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
“Hello, my name is Bob…and I’m an addict.”
“Hello, Bob.” The words echo back at me in that perfectly practiced way.
My mouth is dry, and my tongue feels heavy. I stare at the wood grain, at the grooves worn into it by the many people who stood here before me and told their truths. It feels like standing on the edge of something I can’t come back from. I don’t normally share, but today…today, I have to.
“A friend of mine…” My voice catches. I clear my throat, but it doesn’t fix the break. “Someone I care about deeply asked me if I was clean.”
It wasn’t the same question that I get from everyone. It was her. Haven sat there, looking at me like she needed the truth more than anything else.
I lift my head and really look at those gathered here this time, at the people sitting in front of me.
I’ve never really seen them before. And definitely not at those first meetings years ago.
Back then, I thought I was different. Better.
That I didn’t belong in rooms like this, and everyone else was the problem.
Not me.
Arrogance is a funny thing. It sounds a whole lot like confidence until it breaks your life apart.
“There I was. Sitting in a jail cell…not for the first time.” A few people smile. I don’t. “I told her I was clean.” My grip tightens on the lectern. “And I am. From the drug that put me here.”
I let that sit because it sounds good, like I’ve got it handled. But there’s more.
“But I’m not sober.”
The room stills, and every breath thrums in my ears.
“I haven’t been sober for a long time.” Saying it out loud feels like something ripping open in my chest. “I um…I lost someone five years ago.” My words are slower now.
“My best friend. And after that…everything got loud. Work. Life. My own head. I needed something to shut it up. I needed to stop the pain from attacking…every part of me. There was no end, and I wanted it to stop. Just for a little while.”
A few people nod. They get that part, each in their own way. Their own experience, their own struggles, losses, pain, and abuse. Every single person sitting here has a story.
I huff out a quiet breath.
“I told myself I had it under control, that I was different. That I wasn’t like…” I gesture vaguely to the room, then drop my hand. Shame crawls up my spine. “I was wrong.”
My throat tightens, and I gasp in a lungful of air and force the words out.
“It took me a long time to admit I had a problem. Longer to admit I am the problem.”
A few people smile as if they’ve stood in that exact moment of reality. I feel it in the room.
“And then I found a way to lie to myself that felt…acceptable.”
My jaw ticks, every joint throbs, and not for the first time do I wonder if this pain is punishment for my sins.
“I thought that as long as I stayed away from the thing that landed me in rehab, I was fine.” I shake my head slowly. “I wasn’t fine. I haven’t been honest with myself…or anyone else.” My voice cracks.
“I sat there staring into her eyes and felt her disappointment. Not in anything she said or did, but it was there. And what hurt most was that under that was worry and compassion,” I say, my gaze dropping back to the wood, because I can’t look at them right now.
“The thing is…I feel like I’ve been given a second chance to fix something I broke. I can show up for someone who still…cares enough to ask without judgment and quietly demands me to be the better version of myself .”
I can see Haven in front of me as if she’s in the room. Arms crossed, hip cocked to one side as she gives me the look that orders me to get my shit together.
“And I don’t deserve that second chance,” I admit. The words scrape my throat on the way out. “Not the way I’ve been living. And certainly not with her.”
Meet all their eyes. No more hiding.
“So here it is, the truth that I don’t want to admit.”
I shuffle back and forth, while sweat trickles down my neck.
“I’m not okay. But I want to be.”
That’s the part that almost breaks me. Wanting it after everything. I want to be okay.
“Thank you.”
Everyone claps as I head back to my seat, and the applause doesn’t feel like it’s for someone else. For the first time in a long time…I feel like myself.