Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 109164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
“Okay.”
“Need some help unpacking?” She starts toward my suitcase when her cell rings. She pulls it out of her purse and sends it to voicemail. One second later, it begins to ring again.
“Do you mind?” she asks, a fine line forming between her brows. “It’s Cal. He’s been trying to call me since last night. I had forty missed calls from him. He never calls me this much. Must be important.” Her voice is tense.
“Why haven’t you called him back?” I probe.
“I’ve been pretty busy trying to help my sister get to rehab. His stuff can wait,” she says, irritated.
“Right now might be a good time to see what’s going on.” I press.
“Yeah, I better, or else he’s going to keep blowing up my phone. I have to go anyway.”
Walking over to me, Harper places a kiss on my forehead. “I’ll see you soon.” I nod. She smiles, heading toward the door to exit. Her phone begins to blare once more. “Cal, hold one second, okay?” She looks back at me. “I will call you the moment I’m back in New York. If you need anything, Bae, don’t hesitate. I’ll always be there for you. I love you.”
“I know, and I love you, too. Thank you for everything. For bringing me here for . . .” Tears begin to fall down my cheek, and I swipe them away. “Thank you, Harper.”
Harper’s lip turns upward, and she nods before placing the phone back to her ear. “Hey, sorry about that, baby. I miss you. I’m heading back home now.” She grows quiet for a minute and then steps out of the room. I lie in my bed, and I think I can hear Harper’s voice change when she says the words, “I don’t understand,” but before I can register the rest of the conversation, her voice fades into the distance.
51
Bailey
The first night is harder than I thought it would be. I’m alone in my room, and without someone to distract me, I have too much time to think.
I know I shouldn’t be thinking of that night, but I can’t stop myself.
Drew says what I saw was wrong, and I didn’t even let him explain.
Instead, I ran off.
Got drunk.
And high.
That’s the part I keep getting tripped up on.
I don’t remember getting high.
I’ve never resorted to drugs before.
How and why had I escalated, and if I don’t remember, how will I ever train myself not to resort to it again?
I know the answer should be simple—don’t drink.
Find another outlet. I plan to do that, but while I’m here, I also want to figure out my catalyst. If the going gets tough again, will I fail?
Even though I try to push the thoughts away, it consumes me. I pace the room for a while, and finally when the walls start to go blurry, I realize I’m ready to crash.
The next morning comes before I know it. As my lids flutter open, I sit up with a start. For a second, I forget where I am. Why I’m here.
But eventually, it all comes back to me. Every last twisted detail.
I had given in to the sinful temptation only drugs can have.
I was weak.
But now regardless of everything, I’m going to get strong. I had tried on my own . . .
But I wasn’t strong enough.
Now I am.
It’s only a few hours later when I’m sitting in front of Dr. Roberts, the resident therapist. This is my first time talking to one. I’m not sure what to expect.
When she leans forward to the table and grabs a little recorder, my back tightens.
“Don’t worry, Bailey, no one will hear this but me.” It does nothing to ease the tension that is coiled inside me.
It’s like a venomous snake ready to extend its neck and snap.
“Bailey, would you like to tell me why you’re here?” she asks.
“You know why I’m here.”
She places the recorder down but not before she flips it off. Then she leans back in her chair. Getting comfortable. Relaxed, the way she holds her body is as if she’s my friend. Just someone who wants to chitchat.
“I do, and it’s important you know why as well as what your expectations from treatment will be.”
Her voice drops sugary sweet. Like a strawberry syrup one would put on a sundae. If I didn’t know better, I’d think we were friends. My shoulders drop.
Her lax attitude penetrates my own uptight one, like a strange case of psychological osmosis.
“I fucked up. I thought I had it under control,” I mutter out, embarrassed on how weak I was.
“And?”
“I didn’t,” I admit on a sigh.
“So why don’t you start from the beginning then.”
This place is nothing like I imagined, but it’s exactly what I need.
It’s not like all the rehab facilities you see on TV. Nope, not at all. Here, there are no crazy celebrities fighting and seducing each other.