The Art of Losing(59)

“I have such mixed feelings about rehab,” he said. “I recognize that it helped me, but I resent that I needed it.” Raf’s eyes didn’t meet mine. “And I hate feeling like this.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“So ungrateful and angry. I hate it even more because it’s something that I’m responsible for,” he said. “I can’t be mad at anyone. I did this to myself.”

I turned to face him, but I didn’t interrupt.

“I remember that experience of having my parents in that room, feeling like I let them down so many times and not being able to promise I wouldn’t do it again.”

Can you blame them? I wanted to say. My jaw tightened. I wasn’t sure if it was better to not believe Mike when he said he was serious about being sober, or to have the truth from Raf and be disappointed by it. Both options sucked.

“Even now, six months sober, I still don’t even know if I am an addict,” Raf continued. “I just know that I don’t want to feel the way I did six months ago. I don’t want to stay in bed all day thinking about when I can get high and be oblivious again. To avoid my parents and the emptiness of the house. Of my life.” He paused, taking a shaky breath. He didn’t look at me. “But I also crave that escape. That numbness. I just want to get to a point where I feel better, but I don’t see it happening anytime soon. And being numb in the meantime just seems like it’d be so much easier than being patient.”

My anger faded. I wasn’t sure what I felt now. Sad? Curious? Both? This was the first time he’d really talked to me about his sobriety beyond a few fragments here and there. I didn’t want to spook him by asking questions. On the other hand, he was the one who was always forcing me to talk. It was time for him to take his own advice.

“Are you starting to feel better than you did before rehab?” I asked hopefully.

He shook his head. “Sometimes. It’s such a cliché to say ‘I have good days and bad days,’ but it’s a cliché for a reason. Some days, I feel so good I sing with the top down. And some days, all I want is to get stoned and sleep.” He dropped his face into his hands, scrubbing at his eyes.

“That does sound kind of nice,” I admitted.

“My therapist says this is all a normal way to feel.” He shrugged, still not looking at me. “And he thinks I’m making progress because even though I want to use, I can see the reasons behind not using and I can recognize that they’re more important.”

“Well, that’s good, right?”

“Yeah, but I’ve been in therapy half of my life and I’m still depressed. Won’t it ever just get better?”

“I don’t think it’s the kind of thing that has a timeline, you know?” I said, but my heart hurt for him.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I guess I know that.” He raised his eyes to meet mine, and there was a hint of a smile behind them. “He also pointed out that if I hadn’t gotten sober, I probably never would have reconnected with you,” he said. “And I wouldn’t give that up.”

I felt myself blushing. “Really?” I asked. “You talk about me in therapy?”

Raf nodded. His cheeks were pink, too.

“What else do you talk to your therapist about?” I asked.

He seemed surprised that I wasn’t asking what else he said about me, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

“We mostly talk about what a piece of shit I feel like most of the time,” he said. “How I question everything I say and do, every interaction I have, every move I make. How sometimes I lie in bed at night dissecting every word I said and everything anyone said to me, looking for proof that I’m stupid or boring or selfish. And usually finding several examples.”

My chest tightened. I slid my hand into his, and he lifted his eyes to meet mine.

“I know how you feel,” I said.

“I know,” he answered. “I’m not a special snowflake.” He pulled his hand from mine and put a few inches of space between us. We’d managed to avoid talking about our kiss a few nights before, but it hung between us like a spider web. I could feel it on my skin.

“Do you want to watch the movie?” I finally said after a few long moments of silence.

He nodded, so I hopped up and led him to the basement. For me, it was a space that was a minefield of memories of Mike, but for Raf, it was just where we’d played as kids. Happy memories. I was hoping it would lighten the mood. And he did break into a grin when he saw the walls lined with bookshelves and the stacks of long boxes on the floor, all stuffed full of comics. I had to pull him away from them or I’d have lost him for the rest of the afternoon.

We sat on the couch, and I was careful to leave some space between us, even though it was tempting to cuddle up and rest my head on his chest like I had with Mike. Instead, I lay with my head at the other end and put my feet near Raf’s legs.

It was a long movie. It was also not a particularly uplifting movie. But I could tell that Raf liked it, despite the changes. He wouldn’t let me pause when I had to pee. Twice. And he refused lunch, which was pretty stunning since I’d seen him put down three bowls of jambalaya and two pieces of pie in one night.

But the promise of a cigarette was enough to push him out the door. I grabbed a book off the shelf on our way out. “Take The Sandman with you. You’ll like it just as much.”