“I missed the artwork. It’s very Delia Deetz. You know, fromBeetlejuice. Catherine O’Hara is my redheaded sister-in-arms.” Nathan dragged his finger along an octopus-looking sculpture and pushed down the feelings rising in his chest. He didn’t like to be reminded of his failures. There were too many.
They rounded the trail and strolled under a thicket of pine trees. “For sobriety to stick, you need to take this seriously and put in the work. I don’t want you to wind up back here, or in jail.”
He held her hands and squeezed them as he peered back at her as earnestly as he could muster. “I won’t.”
He would not be back here. Because rehab was for people who were actual addicts. Nathan had drunk a little too much last November and had gotten into a bar fight, like one does. His father decided to be a parent for the first time in his life and shuttled him off to this place. That did not make him an alcoholic. Nor did winding up passed out in the alley behind his flat a few months later.
So he would drink too much sometimes and got a bit belligerent. So did any Manchester United or Arsenal fan! Rehab was simply the quickest way to get the authorities and his father, when he did decide to care, off his back.
“When is your father picking you up? I wish he and your mum could’ve attended for a family session.”
“Stepmum,” Nathan said.
“Sorry.”
“Unfortunately, he had to attend a conference this weekend. He’s delivering the keynote, and I told him he shouldn’t miss it. It is a massive opportunity.” Right about now, his father and stepmother were tanning themselves silly on a beach in Hawaii. The only keynote he was delivering was asking a hotel waitress to refill his mai tai.
She pulled a business card from her suit jacket pocket. He admired her for not giving into the crunchiness of this place and dressing in baggy, rumpled clothes like the other counselors.
“This is the information for a therapist in London. Besides going to meetings, I think it would benefit you to talk to him. We never got a chance to talk about your real mum.”
“Sadly, I don’t remember her. Like I told you, she died of an aneurysm when I was an infant, but I like to think she’s watching down on me from heaven.”
“That’s exactly what you said when I first brought her up. Nearly word for word.”
Nathan bit back the pain crawling up his throat. He shrugged his shoulders. “Because that’s all I know.”
Like fuck was he going to tell her or anyone the real truth about his mother. Any therapist would get a massive hard-on at that sordid little story. What was there to talk about? He was conceived in a porta-potty at an Oasis concert. Nine months later, she left him on his dad’s doorstep and wanted nothing to do with him. No good would come from rehashing that history. He was going to care about her as much as she cared about him, which was not at all.
His counselor studied his eyes again, but too bad for her, Nathan’s storytelling ability could beat her bullshit detector every time.
“Nathan, you need to take this seriously. Rehab is only a first step.” She held onto his hands again, much like a mother would, Nathan thought. Well, other people’s mothers. Her penetrating gaze cut through the armor he needed to survive such a touchy-feely place like this. “I see a part of myself in you. I had money and success and a sarcastic sense of humor, but there was a hole inside me I kept ignoring. I didn’t think I had a problem. And then I lost everything.”
She looked away for a moment and composed herself. Nathan rubbed her shoulder, then gave her a hug. He appreciated that she’d shared about her divorce in a session once. He wasn’t the type to be open like that.
“I’ll work on myself. I’ll go to meetings and keep doing yoga. I promise.”
“Nathan...”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“It’s time you start telling the truth to yourself.”
He put on a smile even though his insides were charred black. He swung her hands back and forth like their arms were jump rope. “I’ll be fine. One day at a time, right?”
* * *
“Landing is always the hard part.”Nathan dipped his olive into his vodka martini a week later. Sobriety had been incredibly boring. “Think about it. You’re in a tin can careening to the ground at three hundred kilometers per hour. It’s bound to be bumpy. But I pride myself on having the smoothest landings.”
“Wow.” The guy across from Nathan shook his head in disbelief. “I could never be a Royal Air Force pilot. It sounds terrifying. I’ll gladly stay behind my camera.”
“It’s nothing.” Nathan shrugged and took a sip. “I live for the excitement.”
He wasn’t too impressed with this new bar. It looked like every other trendy place in Soho. Dark lighting and red curtains and plush couches. At least the bartenders weren’t just eye candy; they could make a decent drink.
“So do you wear those flying hats?” The guy asked. “You know. The ones with the brim that goes out to here and they’re round on top?”
He tried shaping it above his head. Nathan would never play charades with him.
