Bruce starts off. “Rhea, I want to start by thanking you again for coming today. Gray has been doing excellent work in recovery, but there are some things about his past relationship patterns that I think would benefit from your perspective.”
What follows is an hour of the most honest conversation Gray and I have ever had. Bruce guides us through topics we’ve never discussed, even when we lived together. He helps Gray articulate in ways he's learned and gives me space to share how his addiction affects me.
“I never realized how much I was hurting you, Rhea. Every time I chose alcohol over our life together, I thought I was escaping my pain, not causing yours. And I never really understood the demons you were battling until now.” Gray’s voice is heavy with regret.
I learn things about Gray's childhood he'd never told me. Details of the violence he witnessed and the foster homes before he and Andrew were adopted. Trauma shaped his understanding of love and abandonment. My heart breaks a little more with each revelation, understanding for the first time the depth of pain he's carried since childhood.
“Gray has made remarkable progress in understanding how his childhood experiences influenced his relationship with substances and with you,” Bruce explains. “But one of the challenges of long-term recovery is building a support network. It's about finding people who offer accountability and encouragement, without enabling.”
He turns to me directly. “Gray has asked if you might be willing to be part of that network, not as a romantic partner, but as someone who cares about his well-being and recovery. I want to be very clear that this is entirely your choice, and there's no pressure to say yes.”
The question hangs in the air between us. Three months ago, I would have said no immediately. I spent three years as Gray's unofficial addiction counselor, crisis manager, and cleanup crew. The thought of having those responsibilities again fills me with terror.
But the man across from me isn't the same one I left three months ago. This Gray is doing the work, showing up for himself, and taking responsibility for his healing. The support Bruce described isn't about managing his addiction or fixing his problems. It's about being a friend to someone fighting to stay healthy.
I pause, considering this new role. “Yes. I can do that. I can be a friend and support when you need it.” I'm as surprised as anyone by the words.
Gray's face transforms with such profound relief and gratitude that it takes my breath away. “Thank you. God, Rhea, thank you.”
Bruce interrupts Gray’s thankfulness. “As a therapist, it’s also important for us to consider that your trauma requires its own space. It is vital you continue prioritizing your own healing. Have you found a trauma-informed counselor or a support group like Al-Anon locally? Your recovery from codependency is just as important as Gray's sobriety.”
“I’ve attended a few local support groups in the last few weeks. I’m still sticking my toes in the water, so to speak.”
“It can take a few visits and the right welcoming committee to help you open up to sharing with the group.” Bruce’s smile is warm and encouraging in a way that makes me want to step more out of my comfort zone.
After the session ends, Gray asks if I'd like to stay for dinner and the evening group. The thought of leaving after just one hour feels impossible now that I'm here and I've seen how much he's changed.
“I'd like that.” I smile and nod my head.
We spend the afternoon like old friends, catching up after a long separation. We walk around the grounds, where guests are permitted. Gray speaks to me with honesty and vulnerability. It was once reserved only for our most intimate moments, until there weren’t any of those left.
Over dinner in the cafeteria, we talk about everything and nothing. We share the books we're reading, places we want to travel to, and memories from the good times in our relationship. Now we can discuss these without the weight of recent pain. It's easy, in a way I'd forgotten it could be. Natural and comfortable, with the kind of connection that made me fall in love with him in the first place.
“I missed this.” Gray’s hand reaches for mine as we walk the facility's grounds in the early evening light, but he pulls it away and apologizes. “Sorry, reaching for your hand is a habit I need to break.”
Offering him understanding and grace, I wave off the contact. “What did you miss?”
“Just talking to you. Being with you without all the chaos and drama and addiction taking up all the space in the room.”
It’s difficult to be vulnerable after putting up walls, designed specifically to keep Gray out, so I open and allow myself to be a little human and vulnerable. “I missed it, too. I missed you, the real you, not the version of you that addiction created.”
We walk to a nice patio just outside the cafeteria. We stand just close enough that our hands brush occasionally, and each touch sends little sparks up my arm. But there's no pressure in it, no expectation. Just the simple pleasure of being near another person who knows you completely.
As nine-thirty approaches, the familiar anxiety of ending our time together settles in my chest, but it's different now. It's not the desperate panic of wondering if he'll survive until I see him again. It's the gentle sadness of saying goodbye to a man I care about.
“Thank you for coming today. For the session, for staying, for agreeing to be part of my support system. It means more than I can tell you.” Gray walks me to my car.
“Thank you for doing the work. For getting healthy and becoming this version of yourself again. I'm proud of you, Gray. Like extremely proud.”
His eyes shine in the parking lot lights. “Can I call you tomorrow night? Same time?”
“Always. You can always call me.” I offer him the reassurance he needs.
I drive home through the dark mountain roads, feeling the cool night air on my face as tears roll down my cheeks. These aren't the desperate, heartbroken tears I’ve cried for most of our relationship. They’re a gentle release. As I breathe deeply, letting the quiet of the night soothe me, my shoulders begin to unknit, and calm settles in. They are tears of gratitude and hope. And they’re a testament to the strange joy that comes from watching a person you love choose themselves over their demons.
Gray is going to be okay. We're going to be okay, whatever shape that takes.
And for tonight, that's enough.
