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“And you’re trying to control me,” he snapped. His cold eyes flashed, the barriers reinforced and guarded.
“I love you, Mikel. I want to help you, but I need you to help yourself too. Maybe if you went to rehab, or talked to a counselor—”
He shot to his feet and grabbed her face, his chocolate eyes now soft and pleading. “Please, Remy? Don’t leave me. I swear I don’t have an addiction. You’re making this out to be bigger than it is. I don’t need rehab. That’s for addicts. I’m just a guy who uses a prescription to help with my sleep and stress, just like countless others do. Honey, I don’t know what you have been reading, but you’re blowing this way out of proportion,” he said, scattering seeds of doubt.
“You don’t think you’re addicted?” she asked.
He shook his head, grabbing the bag of pills from her hands. “Could an addict do this?” He took her hand and pulled her into the bathroom. Dumping the pills in the toilet, he flushed the empty bag with it.
“Come on, Remy. If I needed rehab, if I was an addict or some shit like that, I wouldn’t be able to do that.” He pointed towards the swirling water. “I’ve seen addicts. I’ve lived with them. Believe me, I’m not one. You’re so smart, baby, but also naive. I don’t know who or what put that idea in your head, but it’s not fact.”
What he said seemed to make sense. She wanted to believe him, but that nagging feeling that gnawed at her inside was getting louder. He had gotten rid of the pills though. That meant this was over, for now.
“You promise you won’t do it again?” she asked, searching his expression for any sign of dishonesty.
“I fucking swear on my love for you. I’m done.”
“Do you have any more?” She searched his eyes.
“No.”
Could she believe him? She wanted to, and so she did.
