I shove my camera back into my bag and stagger away, hardly paying attention to the people I elbow aside. I don’t breathe properly until I’m in the bathroom with the door shut and locked behind me, cold water splashing my face.
“Shit,” I mutter, eyes squeezed tight. “Okay. Okay, breathe.”
I rub the heels of both hands over my forehead and exhale slowly, counting down from ten. I’m flush cheeked when I finally meet my gaze in the mirror again, the edges of my hair wet and stuck to my cheeks.
Someone knocks on the door. “It’s busy!” I shout, and put the toilet cover down so I can sit, clutching Albert against my chest.
The music thrums on outside, more muffled now, the lyrics indistinct. I pull my phone out of my back pocket and swipe over to the Messenger app.
I almost text Wyatt. I can imagine the way he’d respond, all comfort and reassurance. I would feel his words like a warm blanket wrapped around my shoulders.
But of course, that’s fantasy. Texting him now would just beforcing him to metaphorically rub my shoulders and would probably be weird.
I originally got this phone out to text my sponsor. Or…well, Shannon isn’t really my sponsor anymore, I guess. I’m supposed to find a new one here in New York. But she’s still one of my closest friends, so she’s on the hook for witnessing at least 10 percent of my meltdowns.
Not that I’ve texted her much since moving away from LA. I’ve gotten plenty of texts from her, but the only thingIever actually talked about was the time I whined to her about the Wyatt situation. I just kind of ignored all the other things she said.
Once again I prove to the universe that I’m the world’s shittiest friend. First there was Chaya. Then I ghosted all my dope-fiend friends when I got clean. And now Shannon.
Texting her right now, just to make her helpme,once again the selfish friend whotakes takes takesand never gives…it wouldn’t be a good look.
Fuck. Okay. Fuck being professional; I’m going in.
I text Wyatt instead.
Me:hey. I didn’t go to the Shabbos dinner, went to a party. someone’s doing coke out there and it’s got me a bit fucked up
My heart pounds as I sit there and stare at the screen, anxiety crawling at the nape of my neck. I shouldn’t expect a response. I probably shouldn’t have sent this text in the first place.God, if I don’t get a reply, it’s going to be so fuckinghumiliatingcome Monday—
Three dots.Oh my god. Oh my god.
Wyatt:Are you okay? Do you need me to call?
Me:no, I’ll be alright. Just holed up in the bathroom trying to figure out how to be a normal human again.
Wyatt:You should leave. I can call you an Uber. What’s your address?
Me:I’ll be ok. I came here with my roommates, I don’t want to ditch them.
Wyatt:I’m sure they’d understand your sobriety is more important.
Ophelia and Diego, naturally, have no idea I’m an addict. It’s a part of me I’d hoped to leave behind in California. I should have known that four years clean doesn’t make me the same as everybody else. They said that a million times in meetings, and I filed it away as information irrelevant to me. After all, I’d reinvented myself once; I could do it again.
Me:i’m fine. seriously
Wyatt:Have you been to a meeting in New York yet?
I cringe and bite the inside of my cheek. Honestly, I had kind of hoped to just…not go back. NA was helpful. I used to need it every day—sometimes more than once in a day, in fact. But it’s been four years. Aside from parties with unanticipated cokeheads presenting themselves in front of my camera lens, I actually do pretty well most of the time.
Me:No. I don’t want addiction to become my life, the way it used to be
Wyatt, of course, replies almost instantly to that one.
Wyatt:If recovery becomes your life, that’s not the worst thing in the world. Have you told anyone else here about your history? Do you have any friends you trust?
The little ellipsis at the bottom of the screen suggests he’s typing another text. A part of me doesn’t even want to know what he’ll say. It’s going to be something grotesquely kind and wise, and I don’t deserve either of those things from him.
From anyone, really.
