He leads me onto the sand, lays the blanket down, motions after you.
I lie back. Stare at the stars. They're beautiful. Bright. Perfect.
He lies next to me.
Two dozen feet away, waves crash into the beach with a soft roar.
The back of his hand brushes my wrist.
I take a shallow breath. Try my best to exhale slowly. "I don't know where to start."
His fingertips brush my palm. "At the beginning."
"I'm not sure where that is." I take a deep breath. Exhale slowly. Wrack my brain for the best place to start. Okay. That works. "I was miserable after college. That was true. I hated my job. I hated my friends. I hated how much I hated them. And I did try hobbies for a while. Working out. Reading. Even knitting."
He nods.
"It was a little after New Year's. I was determined to revamp my life, to find fulfillment no matter what. That was when I started seeing Ross."
"The guy you left for rehab?"
"Yeah. He was a clean-cut programmer type. But he also liked to party. I thought it was just booze and pot. But it wasn't. He didn't do it around me at first. Don't get me wrong. We'd get drunk as all hell. But that was it. I knew it wasn't healthy. But it felt normal. Especially with Lily's friends. You know the bro-grammer stereotype?"
"Yeah."
"They were like that. Always getting plastered. So I started getting drunk too. It was an easy way to forget."
"I've been there."
"You have?"
"Of course. The last few weeks… I want to do whatever it takes to make this ache go away." His fingertips brush the back of my hand.
"I'm sorry, Walker. Really. I never wanted to hurt you."
"I know."
"I was terrified to tell you. But it was more that I wanted to believe the past didn't matter. I wanted to believe I was more than a bunch of mistakes. You looked at me like I was this fascinating mix of passions and ideas and quirks. Whereas, whenever I looked in the mirror, I saw a recovering addict, period. And I wasn't ready to let go of the way you saw me. I needed to believe I was more than sobriety."
"I did mean it."
"But you…"
"I can't explain it either. I still don't understand it."
"Oh. Well… Where was I?"
"Your ex drank a lot."
"Yeah. He did. That was normal for a while. One day, we were at his friend's birthday part. It was a little after I got my second round of terrible GRE scores. It was all I was thinking about. And I was so tired of thinking about it. I wanted to do anything to make it stop. Or I thought I did. Because when I saw his friend using—"
"Using?"
"Shooting up. Heroin. I thought it was ridiculous. Like something out of a movie. Who did heroin? Didn't they know about blood communicable diseases? Hadn't they seen Requiem for a Dream? We got into this huge fight about it. I told him I was never going to hang out with those people again. He called me uptight. I called him an asshole. We both apologized, agreed not to talk about it."
He moves closer.
"But his friend was at the next party. He looked so calm, so at peace. Like nothing could be wrong. And everything felt so wrong. And I thought… well, I thought that maybe Ross was right. Maybe I only judged because I didn't know how good it could be."
He drags his fingertips up my arm.
"I hadn't been drinking. I knew better than to mix opiates and alcohol. Well, back then, I cared enough not to do it. And it wasn't like the guy was doing heroin. He was just swallowing some prescription stuff. Stuff I could get from a doctor. I convinced myself it couldn't be too bad. After all, I'd taken Vicodin when I got my wisdom teeth out. It didn't make me feel much besides tired. So when he offered me one, I took it."
"Was that the first time?"
"Besides after my wisdom teeth, yeah."
"How did it feel?"
"Like nothing would ever hurt me again."
"You hated your life that much?"
"Yeah." I stare at the bright stars. "I wasn't ready to confront it. I wanted to feel anything else. Anything good. But I wasn't going to start using drugs like one of the people I'd read about. Like some pathetic addict. I convinced myself it was like drinking. It is. Just stronger. More addictive. Dangerously addictive."
His exhale is heavy.
"For a while, I'd get high on the weekends. Then it was all weekend. Then most nights. I… I made a lot of bad decisions. But I held it together pretty well. Until I didn't. I'd get to work late. Skip meetings. I got reprimanded. I told myself I'd stop. And I did, for a while. I tried, I really did. But I couldn't take the withdrawal. I caved."
"How many times?"
"Half a dozen."
"For how long?"
"Two and a half years. More or less. I tried, hard, to stop after my sister found my stash. We were getting ready for a wedding. She saw it in my makeup bag and freaked out. Threatened to tell our parents. I promised I'd stop."
"Did you mean it?" He stares into my eyes, demanding an explanation.
I wish I had a better one. I wish the truth was less ugly.
But it is ugly.
And I'm done running from it. "I wanted to stop. The look on her face—it was awful. I never wanted to see that again. I tried. But… you know what it's like when you try to kick caffeine?"
"I never have."
"When you go too long without a coffee? Get a headache? Get irritable? Want caffeine like you've never wanted anything?"
"Yeah."
"Multiply that by a thousand. I wanted to make her proud, but it was easier being high. More comfortable. She caught me again. Asked me to choose. I told her I chose her, but—"
"You stayed high?"
Is that judgment in his voice? Or is it understanding?
I don't know.
I need to tell him all of this.
And I need him to accept it.
I can't do anything about the latter. So I guess I have to focus on the former. "I wasn't ready to stop yet. I wasn't ready to let go of my comfortable numb, to feel everything. It got to be this cycle. I felt awful lying to her. Then pathetic for being so weak. Then I'd be more desperate to get out of my head. So I'd do whatever I could get my hands on."
He stares up at the stars.
"There was still a part of me that wanted more. I studied a lot. Managed to pass the GRE. Kept applying to grad schools. Then I got into UCLA. And I was sure that was it. That I'd stop."
"Did you?"
"For a while. Long enough to start classes. Settle into my routine. But Ross was still using. There was always something around. I slipped."
His dark eyes fix on mine. "Why'd you stop?"
"My mom walked in on me shooting up. She started crying. She was worried I was going to die. It was like with Lily, but a million times worse. I knew, no matter what, I couldn't do that to her. So I agreed to go to rehab. And I took off winter quarter. And that was that."
"When did you get out?"
"February."
"Fuck, that's nothing."
"Four months." It feels like it's been an eternity.