It was the best damn thing that ever happened to me.
What a fucking monster I am.
My resolve to help Josh, to really help him heal and move on, doubles. Triples.
I blink away tears that are a cocktail of guilt, self-loathing, relief, and gratitude, and I clear my throat.
“I’m going to help you,” I pledge.
Josh blinks at the emotion in my voice. “I’m going to get better, Greta. I promise.”
I hear what he means. He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to. He’s holding onto the fantasy that we can somehow get back together. And I honestly don’t know if I should dispel that notion right now—because that isneverhappening—or say nothing.
It probably took a lot for him to get to this point. Where he’s ready to ask for help. Ready to seek help. There’s no smooth road to rock bottom. He’s vulnerable right now, and I can’t be the one who pushes the goal post further out of reach.
I’ve let him down enough already.
So instead of killing his hope, I nod. “I know you will.”
Josh releases a deep exhale, nodding fast in relief. “I—I don’t know how to thank you for this.” He raises a trembling hand across the island in my direction before dropping it. “I don’t think I could do this without you.”
Fuck.
“You were always the best thing that ever happened to m—” His voice breaks and his face crumbles. Josh turns away, hiding his emotion, his vulnerability, and guilt slaughters me. He sniffs and chokes on a sob. “Fuck, this is hard.”
I steel myself and lean on my training. “Feel your feelings, Josh. It’s okay to cry,” I encourage. “It’s healing.”
He shakes his head wildly, swiping at his face. “No. This is just what happens… when I need a-another drink… Please. I need something. It’s gonna get real bad if I don’t h-have a drink.”
Shit.
What the hell do I do? Is he really having withdrawal symptoms already? Should I just get him to the emergency room?
“Greta, please. Please let me have a drink,” he begs, chancing a glance up at me.
My training is in school counseling. Yes, I took classes that covered substance abuse and addiction, but most of them concerned identifying the signs in students and helping them connect to the resources that would take care of them.
None of those classes concerned how to help someone going through withdrawal.
“We should get you to a hospital.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “No. That’ll just be a waste of money.”
I frown at him. “But you need care. You can’t do this by yourself.”
He locks eyes with me. “I’m not by myself.”
I splutter. “Josh, I’m not a substance abuse counselor. Or a nurse. Or a doctor. I-I can’t manage the kind of symptoms you’ll have while detoxing.” My pulse is ratcheting up.
Good God, I wish Zach were here. This is too big. This is way too big.
Josh drags a shaking hand through his hair. “That’s why I need to keep drinking. At least until we find me somewhere to go.” He blinks at me, and then his gaze drops to my feet. “Some place I can afford.”
Some place he can afford?
I haven’t asked this question yet because I don’t think I can face knowing. But now the words grind out of me. “How can you not afford it? You took half of everything we had.”
He keeps his gaze trained on the ground. The bastard doesn’t even have the decency to look me in the eye when he finally answers.
