I need to apologize, except my head is a fucking hurricane right now, and if I try to talk to him in this state, I’ll probably make things worse.
I push off the sink. That’s when I notice my hands are shaking. The tremors crawl up my arms like electricity under my skin, my mouth as dry as the desert.
This is my body telling me what to do.
I need a drink. One drink to take the edge off and quiet the storm in my head.
The phantom taste of whisky burns at the back of my throat, and for a moment, I swear I can feel the comforting weight of a glass in my hand.
I push my fingers desperately into my temples. I can’t go down that road. I made a promise to myself for the sake of Effy. I need to do this for Effy. I need to stay sober for Effy.
My hands clench into fists, nails digging into my palms.
I need to wait it out. But fuck, it’s so tempting when everything feels like shit.
I swallow hard as I shove myself away from the sink. I don’t trust myself to stand any longer. If I do, I might walk straight to the nearest bar outside Arcadia.
Crashing onto the mattress, I wrap my body around a pillow for comfort.
I need to make this right and I need help to do that. I need Yosh to help me.
The demanding voices clash inside my head. I close my eyes and let them. Eventually, exhaustion wins, and it takes me to the land of dreams and nightmares.
A guy I recognize as a German finance bro approaches my table. He parts his lips, then nods in apology the moment he spots the blue necklace on my chest.
I give him a polite smile before he moves on to the next table.
Earlier, I snagged one of those ugly lanyards at the front desk. It signals that I’m on a silent retreat, meaning I don’t wish to speak. Not that I care about the “retreat” part; I simply don’t feel like talking tonight.
So I go on with my dinner, in silence.
Scribble a verse onto a napkin, in silence.
And meanwhile, I’m scanning the pool-side terrace for my therapist, in silence.
But he’s not here.
Usually—if I can even call it that after one day in paradise jail—a group of therapists and medical staff eat together at the long table. They’re here again tonight, just like yesterday, but Yosh isn’t with them. If I remember right, he wasn’t there yesterday either.
I find Erin at the head of that table, laughing and gesturing like as she’s scrolling through something on her tablet. She waves and smiles as she spots me looking her way.
Eagle eyes like hers need to be handled with caution. But at least her reaction tells me she doesn’t know about the little act I pulled with Yosh earlier today.
I sigh, pushing back from the table. My feet take me to the one place I might find him.
A few minutes later, I spot his familiar silhouette in the meditation garden.
He’s alone, sitting in front of the man-made waterfall, legs crossed, hands resting on his knees, eyes closed in deep meditation.
I grab a mat from the rack and settle down beside him.
I’m not really sure what to do, so I sit and listen to the water, to the parrots in the trees, to his deep breaths as his chest rises and falls. Instinctively, I try to match his pace, syncing my inhales and exhales with his.
He notices.
His breath stutters, a frustrated groan humming in his throat. Me trying to keep up is clearly throwing him off balance. Maybe talking is the better option.
“Yosh, I—”
