Page 169

Phase one is to wean me off Velowake—a gradual tapering off to avoid relapses. Dr. Sturgeon prescribed bupropion to help with the withdrawal process and to stabilize my mood, then melatonin for nighttime to help with my sleep.

Phase two happens concurrently with phase one and is trauma therapy focused—EMDR, cognitive and dialectical behavioral therapies, including reframing and positive self-talk strategies to deal with my recurring nightmares of Mom and Raya’s deaths. This includes journaling, rewriting my nightmares into something less distressing, like talking back to the little kid inside me who never forgot, telling him he’s okay because I’m okay.

Then there are the affirmations.

I’ll never forget, but I’ll learn to live with the memories instead of inside them.

They’ll remind me how precious life is and how I should make the best of it.

Eventually, we’ll move to phase three, which is forward looking—going to support groups if I’m ready, finding a passion outside of marketing I can devote my time to, something meaningful, things of that nature.

A few minutes later, a small group of us hovers over our stations in the kitchen.

Valenti, the smug bastard, strolls in, all smiles and charm. He falters when he sees me and looks at his clipboard, clearly confused because my name isn’t there.

He frowns. “Mr. Anders—”

“Casey. Casey Wentworth.”

He blinks a few times. I return with a wink of my own. “Just call me Casey.”

Valenti cocks his brow, then shrugs. “Welcome to the class, Casey.”

Whispers sweep through the room. I know people recognize me. A baseball cap and a plain T-shirt won’t hide my identity, but it’s obvious enough I’m pretendingnotto be Rex Anderson today.

It’s my way of honoring the version of me I’ve always hid—raw, vulnerable, and truthful.

My conscience.

Casey has appeared a few times in the past month, usually to give me his usual snarky opinions about how I fucked it up with Olivia. But just as my brilliant Olive predicted, and Dr. Sturgeon later confirmed, Casey’s appearances, along with the blackouts, have decreased ever since I started sleeping more and cutting back on my Velowake use.

Lana told me Olivia is still in LA, staying away from NYC until the scandal dies down.

We haven’t spoken.

She’s right—talk is cheap, actions are much more valuable, and I want to reach out to her when I’ve put in the work and made goodstrides. To show her I’m serious about my health, about her, and our future.

But I miss her every day.

Every night before I go to sleep, I fight a battle to stop myself from calling her just to hear her voice. Or, if she doesn’t speak, the reassuring sounds of her breathing and the idea we’re connected somehow.

I’ve started dreaming about her—how she argued with me on the sun deck, the way she screeched when I drove too fast on the F1 racetrack. I’d wake up with my heart clenching, but also more determined to get better.

Technically, Dr. Sturgeon recommended I avoid new relationships during the first year of my treatment. But he conceded upon evaluating my history and symptoms that my case appeared to be more aligned with a misuse of and dependence on Velowake, not a full-blown clinical addiction, which is more of a compulsion and a craving. He said that if I reach out to Olivia, I should take things slowly and be cognizant of my mental health.

I promised him I would take his advice seriously.

And deep down, I don’t consider Olivia and me to be a “new” relationship. We took a pause in our existing one.

“Buongiorno, class. Welcome to the only Italian pasta class you’ll ever need to take.” Valenti claps and the small group cheers.

I smirk. The damn cheeky bastard.

“Today, we’ll make a four-course meal. The starter will bebruschetta al pomodoro,where you’ll learn how to perfectly grill the bread for the tomatoes, garlic, and basil toppings. Then, we’ll have the pasta course of tagliatelle served withragù alla bolognese. Next will be the main course ofpollo alla cacciatora, and finally, dessert, which is my special boysenberry panna cottawith light cream.”

Assistants hand us the ingredients, and we follow his instructions to make the starter. I have to admit, because I was thoroughly distracted in Tuscany and pissed off at his flirting with my woman, I wasn’t paying much attention then.

But the asshole is actually a good teacher. He interlaces humor into his demonstration, goes through the steps slowly, giving tips borne from his experience that I file away for later, because they’re damn useful.