I just hope I can make it through the next ninety days. Sobriety is my only hope. My hands tremble as I hang up, receiver slipping in my sweaty grasp. My message echoes in my mind.
"Please answer when I call tomorrow, baby."
I hate the desperation in my voice.
My legs give out as I collapse into the metal chair. Reality washes over me, and each wave is worse than the last. Rhea changed her voicemail and obliterated every connection to Case in Point. She’s not just taking a break from me. She’s erasing me.
“Fuck.” I run my hands through my hair.
I want to smash shit and reach for a bottle to let it pull me under until the pain fades. But all I have is this flimsy plastic phone, and even now, I’m not reckless enough to trash rehab property on day one.
Instead, I bury my face in my hands and let the flood of memories crash through me, because there’s nothing else left to hold onto.
Rhea laughs at a joke I told on our first date at this diner outside of Denver, her laughter ringing above the jukebox as she leans her honey-blonde head back. Her green eyes sparkled, making me feel like I was a person worth loving, instead of just another burned-out musician with an addiction problem.
Her small hands were working on my shoulders after a brutal show, the gentle pressure of her fingers working out the stress knotted in the muscles. The care she puts into every single task she completes, even loving a man as fucked up as me.
I’ll never forget waking up one quiet morning to the smell of coffee and seeing Rhea in my kitchen, wearing an old Case in Point tour shirt and humming as she stirred scrambled eggs in my battered skillet. When I asked about her song, she blushed and admitted she’d made it up about us and how happy she was with me.
My hand twitches, reaching for the ghost of her, hoping my fingers might still find the warmth she left behind. But there’s only chilly, empty air. That small emptiness aches more than any words ever could.
“You okay in there, brother?” The voice of my peer support specialist, Randy, cuts through my self-loathing.
I look up to find him standing at the entrance to the phone booth, his weathered face creased with concern. “Yeah. Peachy.”
He doesn’t buy my lie. "Do you want to take a walk? The facility features several trails. It might help clear your head."
Relief washes through me. I’m tired of pretending I’m fine. I want to say no, and wallow in my misery, but there’s a familiarity in Randy’s eyes. They’re patient and kind, like Rhea’s, willing to extend grace, even if it’s not deserved.
“Sure.” I finally give in and take the walk to clear my head.
We fall into a comfortable silence for the first few minutes, following a winding path through towering pines. The needles from the trees above have fallen and crunch beneath my feet. The air isn’t hot like I thought it’d be in September in Georgia, but it’s uncharacteristically cool all over the South before autumn is officially upon us. After a while, the Georgia mountains stretch out around us, morning mist covering their peaks.
"Is this your first time in rehab?" Randy’s voice is full of curiosity.
“Fourth. You’d think I’d have figured it out by now.” The weight of this truth lingers in the air between us, a silent testament to my repeated failure.
Randy chuckles. “It took me six tries. Many of us are slower learners than others.”
“What made the difference on the sixth time?” I secretly hope this man has all the answers to help me find a cleaner path.
His voice is rough with emotion, like the words scratch his throat on the way out. “I lost my daughter. She stopped taking my calls, inviting me to birthdays and school plays, and all those little moments that make up a life. One day, I realized I’d become a stranger to the person I loved most in the world. That’s when I knew I had to choose the bottle or her. Couldn’t have both anymore.” He kicks at a pinecone in our path.
The parallel to my own situation isn’t lost on me. Rhea walked away for the same reason Randy’s daughter did. Loving an addict means watching them choose their poison repeatedly, until you finally get tired of coming in second place.
“Did she forgive you? Your daughter?” It’s important to me that Rhea forgives me, whether she still loves me or not. If Randy’s daughter can forgive him, then there might be hope for me.
“It took two years of sobriety and a lot of groveling, but yeah. She forgave me. But I had to forgive myself first. That’s the hardest part.” Randy’s salt and pepper hair begins to blow all over the place as a huge gust of cool wind blows through my cotton t-shirt.
Forgiving myself. The idea feels empty. How do I find absolution after destroying the only good thing I had? Still, maybe seeing my flaws clearly is a step toward repairing what’s left. “I don’t know how to do that.”
“It takes practice, time, and a shit ton of therapy. You’re in the right place for all three.” Randy reminds me in a gentle way.
We reach a clearing with a wooden bench by a small pond. Randy sits with a sigh, and I join him. I’m grateful to rest. My ribs still ache, and the walk has left me winded.
“Tell me about your girl.” He makes it easy to talk to him. Hell, he makes it easy to want to share.
Being in a band doesn’t often afford me the opportunity to confide in others. My circle is small and doesn’t extend beyond the band very much or often. “Her name’s Rhea. She was the band’s assistant. Rhea’s smart as hell, funny, and beautiful with this thick head of blonde hair. She’s gorgeous in this way that just gets under your skin. She’s got this laugh that sounds like music, and she makes these little humming noises when she’s concentrating that drives me crazy in the best way.” I find myself smiling despite knowing I tainted every single memory we ever made.
