Page 174 of Toxic Kiss

I unzip the duffel and pull out the wig, mustache, large prescription-less glasses, and Dodgers baseball hat.

“I’m going to a meeting,” I say, holding the items up for him to see. “There’s one that starts in forty minutes at the church down the street. The last thing I want is to be dropped off in a limo or escorted by guards. I’ll make sure they don’t know who I am.”

Declan glances at his phone.

“We need to leave at three.”

“Relax. I’ll be back before then. Have a little faith.”

Turning, I march out and stop at the mirror to make sure my disguise is in place. This is my Bob persona. Bob the builder, Bob the farmer, Bob the candlestick maker. It really doesn’t matter. Bob is the mask I wear to be anyone but me. Meetings are a safe space. Nothing is shared outside of the room. But I’ve found out the hard way that not everyone follows that rule. If I’m spotted going in, then cameras will be waiting for me outside. Bob lets me walk around freely. Just another average person going about their day.

The hotel lobby is my first test, and sure enough, I walk through without anyone giving me a second glance. Not that I doubted it. I’ve used this disguise a lot. Pulling out my phone, my hands shake just enough to be annoying and remind me that I still need answers.

It’s nice to wander down the sidewalk, passing people without anyone screaming, pulling at my clothes, or begging me to fuck them. Craving this normalcy now is the complete opposite of what I wanted when I first dreamt of being famous. I wanted my name in lights and the world at my feet.

Walking up the steps of the church, my eyes dart around looking for someone hiding in the bushes with a camera. No one jumps out at me, and I take a deep breath as I cross the threshold. The meeting room isn’t hard to find. I slip in and head straight to the snack table. They’ve gone all out with cookies and sandwiches.

“Hi, I’m Joan.”

A woman—who looks like an elderly librarian—stands a few feet away. I hold out my hand, but it’s still shaking. I quickly pull it back. She clocks it with her eyes but doesn’t say anything.

“Sorry, I’m a little shaky today. Name’s Bob.”

She gives me a soft, motherly smile. Anyone’s mother but mine, that is.

“Welcome, Bob, we’re happy to have you. We’ll get started in a few minutes. Just waiting for a few regular stragglers to arrive.”

People slowly file in, and I choose a chair in the back row. All meetings are run a little differently, but the support is consistent.

“Welcome, everyone, familiar faces and new. This is a safe space. If you will all please join me in reciting the Serenity Prayer.”

We bow our heads, and I close my eyes as the prayer starts.

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.”

The prayer takes me back to the first time I heard it.

“I’m not going in there,” I argue, crossing my arms.

I don’t belong in this place. So, what that I party, I’m not an addict. I can stop anytime I want. But Auguste and my mother insist, or they’ll cancel the band’s tour.

“You don’t have to share anything, Cyrus. Just come in and listen. You may find it beneficial to hear what others have gone through and are going through,” says the counselor whose name I can’t be bothered to remember.

“Whatever.”

The room is large and bathed in gentle light, comfy chairs and plants take up most of the space. It feels more like a pretty cage than a meeting. The door closes, and I glance at it briefly, wondering if they will notice if I just sneak out, but I take my seat in the circle.

I know what they want.

They want me to say I’m broken, that I’ve lost control. But none of them have ever stood where I stand, felt what I feel, carried what I carry. I don’t need saving—I just need a little something to quiet the noise and numb the pain for a minute.

Fuck.

“Would anyone like to share?”

Joan’s voice cuts through the memory, and before I can talk myself out of it, my hand is already in the air.

Regret hits a second too late.