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Or some big name sports star failed his drug test for weed and this is just a formality. A vacation.
Stupid shit like that.
One and fucking done.
But those cases are few and far between in the outside world. Everyday people who end up in rehab are usually there because deep down they need it, and not just ’cause they’re on a one-way ticket to the grave.
Black Diamond caters to everybody and everything. But they at leasttryto be efficient. And it just wouldn’t make sense to lump us together, any more than it would to lump those with eating disorders and those with anger management problems together.
The person next to me curses under their breath, shuddering, and I find my knee bouncing, antsiness buzzing through my veins.
I shouldn’t fucking be here.
Save my spot for someone who actually fucking needs it.
Kevin claps his hands together. “Okay, so who wants to share first today?” He looks around the room, dark brows raised above his teal-framed glasses. “Any volunteers?”
A chair squeaks along the linoleum, and in the corner of my eye, the prissy kid from yesterday sits up straighter like someone took a cattle prod to his spine. His weird little fascination with me seemingly forgotten, at least for the moment.
I’d recognize that wide, deer-in-headlights look anywhere.
We’ve got ourselves a virgin.
Sure, he can’t be the only first-timer here, but the others are too in their own heads, preoccupied by addiction’s thorny grip to give much of a damn about something as tedious as sharing their sad sagas with a group of strangers.
Red-level admits, I’m sure. Critical.
Group is the only time we see them this early on in their stay, barring those with more severe detoxes requiring a stint in the medical wing. We won’t see those guys for at least a week. Then it’s mandatory to participate.
Group therapy twice a week.
One on one counseling…
Seminars…classes…
And of course, my favorite: team-building activities at least once a week.
And by favorite, I mean I’d rather take a fork to my testicles than be forced to socialize and pretend I care about things like perfecting my doggy downward whatever the fuck.
“Nolan, how about you start us off?”
Blinking heavily, I cut Kevin a long sideways glance. He smiles encouragingly, and I wince. He’s a nice guy, ’round my age, and never gets too pushy. I know I can say no.
And todayespecially…I definitely want to say no.
But then I look across the room, see that kid’s dark eyes staring back at me, lips parted, and I find myself speaking before I can think better of it.
“Sure, yeah, whatever,” I mumble, sitting a little straighter. I run my hand through my hair, shoving the long strands back. It’s pointless. They just fall back around my scruffy cheeks. “Hi, I’m Nolan. I’m, uh—” I wave a hand “—seventy-eight days alcohol-free.”And before that I was five years…
The guy next to me clears his throat, hunching himself over, and my shoulders stiffen.
I shouldn’t fucking be here.
“Nolan?”
I glance to Kevin. He gives me a little nod, telling me it’s okay. He knows my story. Knows why I’m here. But I really don’t feel like getting into all of that today, again, for the fifty-millionth time.
“Is that how long it takes?” someone whispers.
