“Talk to me,” she says quietly.
“Nothing to talk about. Just a rough day.”
“Gray.” Her hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with the kind of gentle pressure that somehow makes everything feel a little less overwhelming. “I love you, which means I'm not going anywhere, but it also means you can't lie to me about how you're doing.”
The words hit harder than they should, maybe because they are the exact fears that have been eating at me all day.
“You say that now,” I mutter.
“Say what now?”
I take a long breath, bracing. “You say you're not leaving, but you said it before. You still left.” My voice betrays every ache. I can't keep the fear out. It hangs there, waiting for judgment or distance in her eyes. Instead, I see patience. Still, the words don’t undo the tightness inside me.
“I left because staying was killing me slowly. I left because you were choosing alcohol over me every single day, and I couldn't watch you destroy yourself anymore.” There’s no malice or defensiveness in her voice, just a gentle explanation.
“And what's to stop that from happening again?” The question comes out raw and vulnerable, exposing the fear that's been clawing at me since the nightmares started.
She's quiet for a long moment, and I brace myself for platitudes or promises that we both know might not be enough. “Nothing. There's no guarantee, Gray. I can't promise I'll never leave again, and you can't promise you'll never relapse. That's not how life works.” Her words acknowledge the uncertainty, but there's strength in facing it. Maybe love isn’t a promise but a practice. Accepting uncertainty allows hope and fear to coexist, providing a way forward.
“That's not exactly comforting.” I blow out an exasperated breath because I’m tired of my own shit today.
“I'm not trying to comfort you. I'm trying to be honest with you.” She shifts to face me more fully, and her green eyes are steady and clear. “But I can promise that I won't leave over one bad day. I won't leave because you're struggling or because sobriety is hard or because you're human enough to have fears and nightmares.”
My head snaps to hers again in shock. “How do you know about the nightmares?”
“Because I know you, and because I've been having them too.” Her confession stops me cold.
“You have?” My voice betrays my surprise.
“Different versions of the same theme. You're drinking again, and I have to walk away a second time. It’s us destroying each other all over again.” She squeezes my hand. “It's scary, loving a person in recovery, but it's also scary being an addict in recovery. We're both taking risks here.”
Her confession eases the knot in my chest, the first real shift away from isolation I've felt all day. For a moment, I’m not the only one haunted by impossibly dark futures. I’m not alone in seeing disaster in the shape of love, and that simple realization loosens the grip my fear has on me. Relief starts to settle in.
“I wanted to drink today,” I admit quietly, pausing to give her time to react. She doesn’t. “Not because I was craving alcohol exactly, but because everything felt too loud and too much, and I wanted it to stop.” As I wrestle with the admission, a metallic taste clings to the back of my tongue, and my jaw feels tightly wound, like it's ready to snap. The sensations are fleeting but potent, remnants of a stress response my body knows too well.
“Did you drink?” Her tone is even and lacks any ill will.
“No, but I wanted to. I hated that I wanted to.” I hang my head, ashamed beyond measure that I craved the one thing that would send Rhea running for the hills again.
“That's normal, Gray. Wanting something that's bad for you doesn't make you weak or broken. It makes you human.” She's quiet for a moment, then asks, “Are you still seeing the therapist Bruce set you up with? Or have you considered holding a meeting here? A sponsor?”
The suggestion stings a little, like she's questioning whether I'm taking my recovery seriously enough. But when I look at her face, there's no malice there, only concern.
“Dr. Hannah and I do video sessions twice a week, but it's not the same as being in the room with her or Bruce. The sessions help remind me that I'm not alone in this and provide a space to explore my fears, even if they don't offer a magic fix. And there's probably a meeting nearby. It could present a chance to connect with others who understand the struggle firsthand.” I do my best to allay her fears and my own.
“There’s a meeting. I looked it up weeks ago, just in case.” She pulls out her phone and shows me a screenshot of meeting times and locations. “Not because I was expecting you to struggle, but because I wanted to be prepared if you did.”
The thoughtfulness of the way she's been quietly looking out for my recovery, even when I wasn't asking for it, makes my throat tight with emotion. “You researched meetings for me?”
“I researched a lot of things. Meetings, therapists, and what to do if someone you love is having a bad day.” She tucks her phone away and looks at me seriously. “I'm not the same person who left you, Gray. I'm not going to enable you or pretend everything's fine when it's not, but I'm also not going to panic every time you have a rough day.”
“What if it's more than a rough day? What if I drink?” I ask, wanting to know if the worst happens, then where do we stand?
“Then we'll figure it out together, if you want to. But we can always figure it out separately, if that's what's healthiest.” Her voice is steady and matter-of-fact. “But one bad day doesn't erase one hundred thirty-seven good ones. One nightmare doesn't predict the future.”
She's right, and in the rational part of my brain, I know she's right. The nightmares aren't prophecies. They're just my anxiety trying to protect me from pain by convincing me the worst is inevitable.
“I'm sorry for today, for pushing everyone away, and for making you worry.” I feel like a total asshole, making her and the guys worry unnecessarily.
