I swallowed around the sudden lump in my throat. “I… I can’t lie, I want things to work out with Nix. Badly. Really badly.”
I bit my lip, thinking suddenly of the way Brennan and Joker just seemed to fit together. I felt that way with Nix—and part of me hoped that this would be the start of a new chapter for me. A chance to see what Nix and I could truly be.
“But I’m doing this for me. I’m so sick of shooting myself in the foot. This whole contract—the relationship with the club, and the job itself, is such an opportunity for both of us, and I fucked it all up because I’m choosing booze over anything else.” I pressed my lips together. “And hurting people in the process. It’s just a fucking mess. I’m done being this way.”
Brennan nodded as he squeezed my shoulder.
“Done being like my mother,” I said through gritted teeth—the first time I’d vocalized that fear aloud. “I’m not going to end up like her.”
“You won’t,” Brennan said. “You’re already leaps ahead, because you’re here doing this. And you have me, and the club, and Nix behind you.”
I nodded, then scrubbed roughly at my eyes. “Thank you.”
“Get your stuff,” Brennan said with a warm smile. Then he glanced at the clock. “They’re expecting you right about now.”
I grabbed my duffel out of the footwell and climbed out of the truck. Brennan did as well, then walked around the truck and pulled me into a rough, hard hug, clapping me on the back a few times. “You got this,” he said.
I pulled back and nodded, then looked toward the glass doors of the facility. Despite the fear, I dared to think that… maybe he was right.
Maybe I was going to be okay.
“See you in a month,” I said, and walked toward the facility. And hopefully, toward a new life.
20
Dawson
The first week, I had night sweats. After four days, I had cramps, too, and vomiting in the morning. Enough that the nurses at the facility had me on an IV in the morning to replenish my fluids.
And the urges. Fuck, I’d thought I’d had a handle on my drinking, but I’d never experienced desire like this. After five days without a drink, it was nearly all I could think about. I was climbing the walls of my little facility room, with its narrow bed and tiny dresser and pitiful lamp. At night, I was bored, and lonely, and exhausted, and yet all I could think about was how much I wanted a beer, or a shot, or even a shitty gas station forty. Anything.
The strength of the urges shocked me. How long had it been since I’d gone this many days without drinking? I’d probably never taken a break of this extent since I started my drinking career.
But once I could sleep through the night without waking up tossing and turning, it got easier.
The second week was packed full. I had group therapy every morning—it wasn’t unlike the meeting I’d been to with Nix, filled with people sharing stories remarkably similar to mine, some with a harder fall to rock bottom, some with different vices, but all looking to restart their lives. I had gym sessions, and one-on-one sessions with a psychiatrist, a doctor, a nutritionist.
At night I read, since I’d opted not to have visitors or take phone calls yet. And the further away I got from my last drink, the better my brain seemed to work. It still wasn’t easy for me to focus on reading—I was easily distracted, my thoughts galloping around my mind now that I didn’t have the booze to slow them down—but I was able to focus for a little longer. Try a little harder.
I still had my cell phone, and every night, I’d opened my thread with Nix, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
During the middle of the second week, I finally built up the courage to reach out to him. I didn’t know exactly what to say—not like I wanted to restart our conversation with a thrilling discussion about my physical withdrawal symptoms—but the books seemed like a good way to start.
He’d had so many in his apartment, well-loved and well-considered. Maybe this would be a way we could connect while I was gone.
Turns out, I typed, maybe reading is fun.
Nerves curled in my chest as I waited for a reply.
But then, minutes later, my phone buzzed with a notification. Reading Rainbow was right all along, Nix messaged. What are you dipping into?
I didn’t have a whole lot of personal time with my phone before lights out, and then another day filled to the brim with recovery activities and sessions, but the hour of free time I did have each day quickly became an impromptu book club with Nix. I mentioned one of the nonfiction books I’d picked up out of curiosity, and the next day, Nix had started it, too. It was a lifeline—not only a tether to the outside world, but a way for us to connect. Tangible proof that he was there, waiting for me, and still interested in me even when I was shut up in the facility.
It made me feel less alone.
“Dawson?” My therapist’s voice brought me back to reality.
I settled back onto the overstuffed couch in Dr. Wyatt’s tiny office. She adjusted her horn-rimmed glasses, her brown eyes warm as she watched me.
“Sorry,” I said. “Just distracted.”
“That’s okay,” she said thoughtfully. “We were talking about any changes in your mood since going on the prescriptions.”
I nodded. “I’m not sure yet,” I admitted. “I guess… it doesn’t feel real.”
“What do you mean?”
I sighed. It was the third week of rehab, and just a few days ago, Dr. Wyatt had prescribed me a little bottle of pills, after telling me I fit all the criteria for attention deficit disorder. I’d thought that was a disease for kids, but the doctor had quickly clarified that many adults struggled with it, and many of them went undiagnosed well into adulthood, especially if they grew up in rocky circumstances.
And my circumstances definitely qualified as rocky.
“It was so simple,” I said. “When you laid it out like that.”
“In what way?” she prompted.
“I just thought I was antsy,” I said. “But my brain really just… can’t handle being understimulated. And it makes sense why I’m so good at construction, and why it feels so good to hyperfocus on those projects.”
“You were self-medicating,” she said with a nod. “The alcohol made it easier for your brain to cope with the lack of stimulation when you were alone or experiencing boredom.”
“Yeah,” I said. “A vicious cycle.”
“What cycle do you see?” she asked.
“I drink because I’m depressed,” I said with a shrug. “And then the drinking makes the depression worse.”
It was only in therapy that I realized the dark cloud of depression that’d followed me around most of my life. My life wasn’t bad, hadn’t been bad since I was a kid, but it’d just felt… empty. Despite the job, and my friendship with Brennan, I’d just lacked a general sense of fulfillment. And I’d had no motivation to go out and try to find it. It was just easier to find short-term relief in the bottom of a bottle.
I’d thought I was normal—that everyone felt like I did.
And now, on medication for my newly diagnosed ADD, it was like a fog was lifting from my mind. Things were just easier: reading, sitting through group therapy, sitting alone with my thoughts at the end of the day. Off booze, too, my mood was simply… better. I woke up happier, ready to face the day, instead of in a hungover haze with a headache and an internal countdown to when I could crack my first beer. I’d thought that alcohol made my day-to-day routine more bearable—and maybe, sometimes, it did. But more often than that, it just introduced more obstacles.