Page 162 of Camp Bliss
“You are unbelievable.What do I want from you,Josh?” My voice pitches to something stratospheric. “Beyond getting you help so you get the hell out of my life? Not a damn thing.”
And this man who blew up my life and betrayed me in the most devastating way has the gall to look wounded.
Am I crazy? I must be crazy right now for not opening the fucking door and pointing the way out.
I stare at him in bewilderment, and as if he’s reached his limit, he turns and stalks to the fridge. Before I can utter a protest, he’s grabbed a Purple Haze and twisted off the top.
“Wait—”
But he’s already drinking it—chugging it. And all I can do is gape at him. He drains the bottle in less than thirty seconds.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, feeling truly out of my depth.
And, shame on me. Because this isn’t the first time I’ve seen him do this.
But it’s the first time I haven’t made a mental excuse.It’s the heat… He’s exhausted… It’s been a long day… He’s got a lot on his mind.
When what I should have said was:I’m worried about you… This isn’t okay… You need help… Let’s talk about treatment.
Shit.
Shit.
For all of my education. For all of my dedication to wellness, self-care, healing, and therapies, I’m nothing more than an enabler.
As I watch Josh reach for a second beer and crack it open, I’ve never felt more like a piece of shit in my whole life.
I have to do better. Because if I can’t fix this, what business do I have trying to help anyone? What good am I to other people if I let this happen to someone I lived with for years?
What good am I to Zach if this is my track record?
I bite my bottom lip. “We have work to do, Josh.”
He looks at me with a sickening mix of relief and hope. “I knew I could count on you, baby.”
* * *
Three hoursand four beers later, we’ve gotten nowhere. Or, at least, nowhere good. None of the state-sponsored facilities have an opening right now. And the waiting list isn’t encouraging. If we’re lucky, a spot for Josh could open up in about three weeks.
I can’t even.
After arguing for a good half hour about it, Josh finally gave in and let me call Compass Recovery and Vermilion Behavioral Health, two local, private rehab centers. The first questions they asked were about insurance.
I have guests who will show up in four hours—later, if I’m lucky—but I still have errands to run. And nowhere to put an alcoholic ex-boyfriend except for the trailer I share with my current boyfriend.
At least, I hope Zach is still my boyfriend.
The universe does me a solid when my phone lights up with his picture. It’s of him grinning wide. Standing on the paddle board like some kind of water lord, his hair a sun-dried mess of curls. Even though he’s squinting against sunlight, I can see the fire in his eyes. He was looking right at me when I took that picture a couple of months ago. And seeing it on my phone now gives me a measure of reassurance.
Because now that I know what it looks like, I see love in his smile. Neither of us has said the words, but as I answer his call, I wish we had.
“Hey…” I say, tamping down on the relief and emotion welling up in me. I feel Josh’s eyes on me from the couch. Without a second thought, I head for the front porch. “Just gimme a second.”
“He’s there?” Zach’s voice is as stiff as iron.
“Yeah, but I’m walking outside,” I answer, my voice hushed. I slip out to the porch and shut the door behind me.
“Look, I’m in an Uber on the way to the airport.” he says, all business like. “I have a flight to Charlotte that leaves in a couple of hours, and then I’m on standby for one to Lafayette. If I’m lucky, I’ll be home tonight.”
