Page 158 of Relapse

“I’ll take two shots of vodka.”

The words came out of my mouth automatically, like a reflex. I didn’t even want the drinks. But I needed them there. Needed to know they existed, so that I could reach out and touch them if the noise in my head got too loud. Maybe that was why I’d come here in the first place. To find out if those twenty-two days at Flourishing Foundations had actually changed anything in me. To see if my family’s money had bought me more than temporary sobriety.

Could I resist?

Did the skills they taught me work?

Was I stronger now?

The bartender glared at me, sizing me up. A sudden chill rushed through me. What if this man questioned my age? Or noticed the exhaustion? I felt like the last few weeks of my life were written all over my face, and I’d thrown down so many barriers, it was impossible to hide my inner demons anymore.

“Coming up,” the man said with a nod.

The shots arrived in a neat row. Clear liquid catching the colored lights. Limes and salt on the side for chasers. I stared at them.

They were beautiful poison. They were my father’s voice saying, “Just take it.” They were twenty-two days of waking up at 6 AM to meditate with strangers, of crying in a bathroom stall because I couldn’t remember how to sleep without a hit before bed, of asking God to forgive me, of admitting to a circle of broken people that yes, I was broken too.

I didn’t touch them. Having them within reach was enough. A security blanket of sorts. In truth, I was testing myself. I needed to know that I could survive the lion’s den. I needed proof that I was different.

This club was the den.

The shots were the lion’s fangs.

It didn’t take long for people to notice me. I could feel eyes drifting my way from across the room, lingering a little too long. A young guy sitting alone tended to attract attention.

I knew what I looked like. Lost. Maybe even vulnerable. One conversation away from being saved or ruined, depending on who reached me first.

It took less than a minute or so for company to find its way to me. Before I knew it, I was confronted with two makeup-caked faces. One was a tall, lanky blonde, the other a petite brunette who definitely had some work done to her cheekbones. They winked at me, flashing smiles, slowly creeping closer.

“Hey, there. You wanna dance?” The blonde asked with a sway of her hips.

I looked at the shots. Still full. Still there.

“I don’t dance,” I said, knowing full well it was a lie. Instantly, my mind went back to the last time I was in the club—with Delane—and how heated our time together was on the dance floor. It pained me to admit to myself, but much of that night was actually a blur. I wouldn’t want to see a replay of how I acted in front of her.

“How about me? I’ll teach you,” the brunette purred.

She leaned in close enough for me to catch a whiff of her perfume—a sugary scent that had been layered on by the buckets. My nose wrinkled instinctively at the invasion of my personal space, but she either didn’t notice or didn't care.

“Come on,” she said with a smile. “Let’s grind.”

I exhaled slowly, irritated that I couldn’t bring myself to say yes. I’d come to this club fully intending to get laid, and yet the second these women approached me, any interest I might have had disappeared. Go figure.

All I could think about now was Delane.

Her smile. Her voice. The way she’d looked at me before everything went to hell.

I hadn’t earned the right to miss her or want her. But my body almost hurt with how much I longed for her right then.

She was the one person who had seen something in me beyond the mess. She saw more in me than I saw in myself.

Because when I looked inward, all I recognized was a collection of cravings and avoidance strategies wearing human skin.

I paused. Took another deep breath. Like my counselor taught me to do.

“Stop that self-deprecating talk, Noah,” he would say. “You have to be in your own corner, one hundred percent. Don’t talk down to yourself.”

I closed my eyes. Trying to repeat the words to myself.