“Bye, Chuck,” I sputter, scared I’m going to drown in a puddle of tears.
I hear the two of them talking downstairs, but I can’t make out the words. I wait for my husband to come back and unleash a violent maelstrom of words on me, but the controlled disappointment in his voice is worse.
“We leave next week for the . . .” His voice cracks. “For the facility. That’ll give you some time to rest and heal.”
I stare at the ceiling, unable to meet the aqua pools of chagrin in his eyes. After a light stroke to my wrist, he disappears from the room.
Smashing the pillows beneath my head, I restlessly wait for sleep to come. Since I can’t move to my usual side position, I lie still on my back, my groggy eyes flickering open and shut as the whir of the fan lures me to sleep.
CHAPTER 10
Sibley
Dreading rehab, I alternate between sleep, depression, and frazzled nerves. Recovering from a car accident is one goal. Surviving the shadow of my husband is another. Holden’s been overbearing, leaving the house only for work and the gym.
Before Holden goes to the university to teach his night class, my best friend from college shows up wearing a guilty smile, as if hiding a secret from me.
I know Holden asked Adrienne to keep an eye on me. They’ve become friends over the years, so he implicitly trusts her. It helps she’s a counselor at a high school and can put anyone at ease with her warmth and snorting laughter. She’s a lot more soft spoken than I am, but she strengthens her tone when she needs to get her point across. It can be razor sharp and deadly when she’s pissed. I’ve always told her she’d make a good trial lawyer.
Adrienne and I bonded in undergrad over family tragedies and our love of Sex and the City. Looks-wise, we’re complete opposites. Adrienne’s curvy, long legged, and tall; I’m thin and of average height. I’m blonde, blue eyed, and fair skinned. She’s African American and has the most incredible, one-of-a-kind brown eyes with gold flecks in them.
Because of my soreness, we embrace in an awkward hug before I lead her to the living room to watch—what else?—reruns of Sex and the City. Making small talk, we settle in on the couch, half watching the show.
“I have to show you something.” She yanks her laptop out of her purse, which might as well be a suitcase, since I swear I’ve seen her remove a four-course dinner from there.
“What’s that for?” I ask curiously.
She scoots closer to me, pointing at the list of approved items on the rehabilitation center’s website. After reading out loud an underlined sentence about the type of clothing allowed—only comfortable garments such as sweatpants, athleisure, or lounge wear, nothing provocative—she shrieks in amusement. “Can you believe this?”
“Hmm . . .” I raise a brow. “Is this an instance where my clothing will cause me unwanted attention, and it’s my fault if I’m hit on or assaulted?”
“Clearly, they don’t want you to get the other clientele riled up.” She shrugs. “Or maybe the staff. After all, you are in the middle of nowhere.”
“Ugh.” I motion to the rest of the list. “It might as well be a prison. Especially with no cell phones or laptops, no keys, and no snacks.”
“Seriously, aren’t you scared shitless?” she asks. “I’m worried about your health. You do drink like a fish. You can drink me under the table!”
“Adrienne, anyone can drink you under the table.” I roll my eyes. “Two drinks are all it takes.”
We both giggle at this. Adrienne isn’t a big drinker. We both had an alcoholic parent. But where she hardly touches alcohol, I go through binges. If I’m honest, it was shortly after I met Nico Marcona for the first time that I started slipping again, but not because of him. I’d put more blame on my marriage.
“Addiction doesn’t just pop up one day, Sib.” She squeezes my fingers before letting them go. “Your dad was an alcoholic.”
I stare down at my wineglass, which is filled with water, a change from the Riesling I usually sip while relaxing on the couch, though this is hardly a time to unwind. “Unfortunately, that excuse doesn’t work.” I raise my glass. “But I do blame my husband.”
“Spoken like a true addict,” she chides. “When you’re an alcoholic, you blame others for your judgment.”
“I’m not trying to justify my behavior.” I’m noncommittal. “It is what it is.”
“I’m just wondering if you’ve dealt with your past.”
“In terms of?”
“It holding you back,” Adrienne remarks. “You told me before that you just took off on a whim for the desert after you graduated high school.”
“Yeah. A lot of kids leave home to go find themselves,” I add. “Or go to college out of state, like I did.”
“But you didn’t have a plan. You just packed your car and left.”
“It seemed like the right kind of weather.” I turn the volume down on the television. “And I met Holden and you and built a life out here. Not a bad choice—at least, not until recently.”
“But what about your mom? You said she’s never remarried.”
“No. She hasn’t. My mom has a lot of issues stemming from my dad’s death.”
“Like health?”
“Mental.” I stare down at my lap, twisting my hands anxiously. “She had a nervous breakdown after I left.”
“I can only imagine,” she murmurs. “Your dad died unexpectedly. I’m sure it messed her up pretty bad.” Incredulous, she adds, “And yet you still left?”
“It’s not like that,” I sputter. “She made some poor life choices that spiraled her out of control. A nervous breakdown compounded by everything that happened. Then we got in a big fight because she wouldn’t help me out with college even after she got all this money from my dad’s life insurance policy.”
“Sib, I hate to break it to you, but at what point are you going to deal with
