I light her goddamn cigarette and then, just to do it—I kiss her on the forehead, whispering, “It’s okay. Everything’s gonna be all right. Don’t worry. We’ll take it all slow.”
Then I bend down and kiss her mouth.
She pulls away after just a few seconds. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice coming out curt—her body tensed and withdrawn—angry, almost. “Look, I… I’m not sure I can do this. I mean, everyone’s acting like you’re gonna die or something if you don’t go to that program in New Mexico. I can’t deal with this. All my friends are turning on me. I feel like some sort of disease. This isn’t right, Nic. This can’t be right.”
I turn and kick the closest plastic chair with just about everything I’ve got—watching sort of mechanically as it smashes against one of the planter boxes, knocking dirt and cheap, fake-looking carnation petals out onto the concrete.
A crash echoes down the corridor—amplified—reverberating—loud enough that I’m even a little bit startled.
I make a noise like “ugh,” stomping my half-numb, half-pained foot on the ground. “That’s fucking bullshit. I mean, I’m sorry, but I’ve been goin’ in and out of these rehab places since I was eighteen, and I’m just so sick of their manipulative crap. The truth is, they don’t have a clue what they’re talking about. They act like they have this goddamn divine authority—like whatever they say is straight from God’s mouth. But it just doesn’t work like that. And, besides, all it really comes down to is business, anyway. These rehabs make a shitload of money, and the only way they can do that is to present themselves as infallible institutions that know, absolutely, the difference between right and wrong. That’s why if you ever question their system, they have to turn everyone against you—otherwise they’ll lose their illusion of absolute power.”
I flick my still-burning cigarette against the off-white stucco wall. Sparks pop in the air like red and orange flares. I crush the smoldering end down to burned ash with the toe of my sneaker. My eyes stay fixed on the edge of the wall there, where it meets the bland, nothing stone.
Inhale.
Hold the breath in.
Exhale.
Long… calm and slow.
“The point is,” I say, steadying myself, “they rely on fear to control us. And they control us to take our money and boost their own egos. But people like you ’n’ me, Sue Ellen, we threaten their system. If they don’t make an example outta us, all this false sense of power they’ve created will be totally gone—and then ain’t no one gonna pay them shit. You understand? They’re just trying to scare us. But the truth is, I fucking love you. So how could that possibly be wrong? I mean, I know for damn sure the only way I’m gonna stay sober is if I’m able to build a life that I want to hold on to—that I want to fight for. We can build a life that’s worth living. And not one of ’em can even touch us.”
My knees crack as I crouch down next to her, looking up at her face all flushed with crying. “Hey,” I tell her. “It’s okay. I mean, fuck ’em, right?”
She sniffs some snot up into her nose—smiling even—hiccuping.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I know you’re right. I really do love you, Nic. You’ve made me excited about life again. I honestly didn’t think that was even possible. Having to be away from you, well, I can’t imagine it. You make me feel good. I don’t know what could possibly be wrong with that.”
She stands awkwardly, pulling at my arm as she starts toward the door—her hands pale and delicate—an almost weightless pressure.
“Come on, Nic, hurry. If Sam or David sees me, I’m so goddamn dead. They just spent the last hour lecturing me about how I should refuse to even speak to you.”
“Yeah,” I tell her. “I got a little of that myself from Jason.”
She puts her key card in the electric lock, pulling it out quickly so the light flashes green, and she turns the handle and the door swings open and we step inside—safe and hidden from the world.
The room is laid out exactly the same as Jason’s, right above it—with the same furniture and dark, tacky, worn-out carpet. But unlike Jason’s immaculate, perfectly ordered bedroom and attached mini-kitchen, Sue Ellen’s room is already a mess of clothing and books and magazines and CDs everywhere. Honestly, I’m not sure how it was even possible for her to have trashed the place so goddamn quickly—though she obviously managed it all right. I mean, not that it bothers me any. I’m sure if it were my room, it’d end up looking the same way—except that I don’t own half as much shit as she does.
As it is, I end up having to throw a bunch of her clothes on the bed just so I can sit on the small foldout couch—stitched in a coarse fabric like the kind used for seat covers on a goddamn airplane.
I pull Sue Ellen down next to me.
This time, we kiss for real.
I put my hand against the warmth of her neck—feeling the arteries there tap-tapping hard against the skin’s surface.
Faster and faster.
All the blood in me flows down between my legs as the pressure builds with its own pulse, fucking sore and growing painful.
I almost decide to go masturbate in the bathroom real quick so I can just think straight. Besides, I absolutely do not want to have sex with her tonight. It’s too soon—too weighted with crass, embarrassingly pathetic need—as though all this has just been about satisfying a need to fuck and gratify our own stupid egos. Having sex tonight would be like admitting defeat to the counselors and everyone else who’re all so condescending and dismissive. This is not about sex. This is not about fucking the pain away. This is about two people following their hearts, even when the whole goddamn world
