The Art of Losing(58)

“What do you want from me?” Mike asked, staring at me. His eyes were pleading, but his tone was resentful.

My hands curled into fists against my thighs. “I don’t want anything,” I said. “I didn’t even want to be here, remember?” I stood and threw the door open, marching out into the hallway. I leaned against the wall, breathing deeply and trying to get myself together. I didn’t know how to get out of the building, and I didn’t want to attempt it when I was blind with anger.

I could hear the muffled sound of Mike and his mom arguing behind the door, but I could also hear raised voices from behind several other doors. I bet I wouldn’t be the only one storming out today.

A few minutes later, Jordan stepped out into the hallway, and I looked at my shoes as he leaned against the wall next to me.

“You okay?” he asked.

I nodded. “I just don’t think he gets that we’re broken up. I can’t be part of his support system. I can’t even be around him.”

“You’re right. I don’t think he does understand that yet. I’ve tried to explain to him that sometimes the things we addicts do when we’re using are too much for the people who love us. It can’t always be fixed. And what he did to you . . .” He whistled. “It was big of you to come today, and I think it was important for him to have the chance to apologize. He’s eaten up with guilt, but it comes out as anger.”

I nodded. I knew that, but it was still hard to feel sympathetic toward him. “You said ‘we,’” I said. “Are you an addict, too? Oh, wait, is that rude to ask?”

He smiled and I felt my stomach unclench a little. “I am, yes. Ten years sober last month. It means I understand where these guys are coming from, and I can relate to them.”

“Well, thanks for helping him. I may not want to do it, but I do want him to get better. I worry about him.”

Jordan took a deep breath and sighed. “I think you should know that addicts are liars and manipulators by necessity, so they can cover up how much they’re using, and Mike is no different. I say repairing trust takes time because it should take time. More than half of these people in here will relapse. So you can’t enable him.”

I quirked an eyebrow at him. “Do I look like I plan to?”

He chuckled. “No, I guess not. But remember what I said about the manipulation.”

I nodded, remembering the multiple times Mike had talked me out of being mad at him. He had even talked me out of breaking up with him.

“You should say that to his mom,” I said.

“I have,” he replied, “but she seems to be having more difficulty accepting that her son has a problem.”

I opened my mouth to say something to the effect that she’d better learn, but Mike and his mom walked out of the room then and I shifted nervously. I just wanted to leave, but I followed them back into the larger room with the circle of chairs. Jordan thanked us for coming again and told us we could take a tour of the facility or take a walk around the facility’s grounds. But I didn’t want to see Mike getting comfy here at rehab. I didn’t want to see the art room or the music room or whatever they did here. I wanted to go home. But before I could say goodbye and make a hasty exit, Mike pulled me aside.

“Thank you for coming today,” he said. “I know you didn’t want to, and I know it wasn’t easy. And I’m sorry for getting defensive. That’s not how I expected today to go.”

I crossed my arms across my chest, trying not to let him see how much I was bothered. I wanted to be cool and distant, impervious even, but it was getting harder to keep up that fa?ade. I just wanted to escape.

“I know you want me to just get over this and forgive you,” I said. “I know that you’re hoping I still love you enough to get past what you did. But that’s not happening, Mike. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

His jaw clenched, a reaction I was accustomed to seeing when he was drunk and I was pissed at him. It meant he was going to be stubborn and defensive. But he didn’t say anything, and I was surprised by his restraint.

“I have to get going,” I said. “I’m really glad you’re here and that you’re committed to it. I hope you keep feeling that way. Good luck.”

And then I turned and walked past the desk and out into the sun. I took a deep breath of humid air and felt my shoulders drop about an inch. I was done.

On Sunday, I met Raf outside while he was finishing a cigarette and the first thing he asked me was how the visit to rehab had gone.

I sighed as I sat down next to him. “It was a weird day,” I said. “They tried to teach us how to talk to each other and make amends and repair trust, and I just kept thinking, ‘It’s too late.’”

He nodded. “Do you think Mike knows that?”

I shrugged moodily. “I don’t know how many more times I can explain it to him.”

“Did he seem like he was taking it seriously?”

“Maybe,” I admitted. “But sometimes he also seemed like he was performing, and I could see this anger simmering that he was just barely keeping a lid on. I guess I could have been seeing what I wanted to see, though.”

Raf tilted his head in recognition. “Maybe not,” he said. “I think I know how he feels.”

“You do?”