Chapter Seventeen

Well, that’s great.

I’ve gone and confessed to everyone here that I’m not an alcoholic, which means I can’t stay here, and the defiler has taken over my house, so I can’t go home, either.

Adam looks at me. I look back.

“Good chat?”

“Oh, fantastic.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

“Don’t.”

“All right,” he says, easing himself down into the other chair in the room, his voice softening. “What about your dad?”

“Yeah, what about him,” I say, deflating even further.

“No, I mean, do you want to call him?”

“Yes. I’d love to. I’d really love to.”

“O-kay then…” Adam gestures at the phone.

“Nah. Actually, I can’t. I mean, I shouldn’t. He’s…” I keep track of where my dad is most of the time, but I’ve been distracted, plus I’ve been without internet so I’m not actually sure right now. “He’s directing some crime drama, I think. In New York. I’m not supposed to bug him when he’s working.”

“This is kind of important, though, wouldn’t you say?”

“Look,” I say, “if I didn’t call him when I was afraid I was an alcoholic and might need rehab, I’m certainly not going to call him to tell him I’m not.”

“Ah,” Adam says, and as I look into his dark brown eyes, I feel like he knows, like he can see something I haven’t said and he knows about my dad and what I feel way deep down, and all I want to do is curl up into a ball and cry like I am some kind of whiny reject instead of the very smart, strong, resourceful, unsinkable Lola Carlyle I am supposed to be.

Right.

“But hey, whatever. I mean, he sends presents and I have a very nice allowance. Like my diamonds? And how about my dress?”

“Actually, I was thinking earlier that you look cute and sort of eatable—like a cupcake.”

“Well, Adam! Are you sure that’s an appropriate kind of comment?”

“Not entirely, no,” he says, then looks away and abruptly stands up. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Existentially, yes—we always have a choice.”

“I don’t mean existentially, Adam.”

“Oh. Then, no. Come on.”

We leave the office. Adam locks up behind him, takes my hand again, and leads me to the end of the hallway, up a short set of stairs, and outside to a courtyard I’ve never noticed before, with a labyrinth made of stone in the center.

“Nice,” I say.

“Yeah, it’s peaceful,” he says and then propels me toward a bench. “Now sit.”

I shrug and then sit near one end, and Adam straddles the other.

“So, Lola,” he says, hands braced in front of him and leaning toward me, watching my every move and expression. “You want to talk?”

“No, not really. You?”

“I’m here to support you for as long as you’re at Sunrise.”

“I appreciate it,” I say, and I do.

“I have a few thoughts for you to consider, if you’re up for it.”

“Lay it on me,” I say, and prepare for a lecture on wasting people’s time, waffling about whether one is an alcoholic when for most people it’s a very serious disease, and how now I’m going to be sent to some kind of hideous halfway house until some legitimate member of my family can come pick me up.

“You’re not the first person to freak out and try to bail at her first AA meeting.”

“Well, that’s very reassuring, but—”

“Just listen. I know it can be overwhelming, and I can see from your behavior since you got here that you haven’t really come to terms with why you’re here. Plus, some people’s stories are so hard-core, it can make your own experience feel invalid or not serious enough.”

“Adam—”

“And you thought rehab would be easier—that much is obvious. Like, you just had to get yourself here and everything would magically fix itself and it didn’t. So now you want out. That’s your addict talking, Lola, not you.”

“My addict. I’m starting to feel like she’s my invisible friend.” And then what he’s saying finally starts to sink in. “Wait. Wait just a second. Are you saying you don’t believe me?”

“It’s not exactly that I don’t believe you, it’s just—”

“Oh my God, you don’t.”

He looks down at the bench, then back up at me, eyes dark, face wiser than his years. Though I guess he’s not that wise or he’d have figured out I was faking being an alcoholic in the first place, not that I’m faking not being an alcoholic now.

“I believe you believe what you said,” he continues. “But you need to at least consider that you might be in denial.”

I start to laugh, and then I can’t stop. I laugh until my shoulders are shaking and I can hardly breathe. And then I’m crying at the same time and Adam is looking at me with a mixture of pity and alarm, which makes me laugh harder, and cry harder. And then he scoots closer to pass me a tissue, clearly not sure how to deal with me, and as I’m swiping at my eyes with the tissue, the crying takes over and I throw my arms around him and bury my head in his shoulder.

He doesn’t shush me or really say anything, just holds me, one hand in my hair and the other on my back, until I recover.

“Sorry,” I say, once I can speak again. “It’s been a heavy day.”

“I know.”

“So you think I’m in denial.”

“Possibly.” His hand rubs gentle circles on my back.

I pull away and look him in the eyes. “I’ve been drunk once, Adam.”

“Really?”

“Really, truly, honestly. Not that I never drank any other time, but I exaggerated—lied—about how much. I’ve only been really drunk once.”

“Once might be enough. You arrived with fifty chocolate bars, Lola, and you’re as jumpy and edgy as any addict I’ve ever seen. You skipped therapy to go swimming, you’re manipulating people all over the place, and you’re very good at avoiding the truth—telling it or hearing it.”

“That’s…that’s not—”

“And you’re sad.”

“Hey—”

“Not that kind of sad. Sad, sad. Like, deep sad.”

“I am not sad. Or sad, sad. No offense, but piss off.”

“I’m just saying if it looks like an addict and smells like an addict…” He shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You seem like an addict to me.”

“That’s…that’s… No.”

“Listen,” he says, shifting so we’re sitting side by side but keeping one arm around my shoulders, “regardless of what you believe, there has to be something going on for you to come here in the first place.”

I look down at that.

“Why don’t you just give yourself a few more days to see how you feel, to see if your perspective changes. I promise you, the program works if you let it.”

“Isn’t it, ‘It works if you work it’?” I say.

“That, too.”

“If I stay, will you promise to be more fun?”

Adam laughs, then says, “Nope.”

“Damn.”

“Besides, you don’t exactly have a choice. For now, you’re staying. My advice is, get your shit together and make the best of it.”

“Right. Goody.”

“One thing you might think about is the attitude,” he says. “It doesn’t help.”

“Au contraire,” I say. “My attitude usually helps me quite a bit.”