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Authors: Krista Ritchie, Becca Ritchie
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time.”
“Can you say that again? I couldn’t hear you,” I quip.
He rolls his eyes, and then we both actually share a smile.
I check my watch subconsciously.
“She’s fine,” Ryke assures me.
“Look, you can pretend to know everything about me, but you
can’t understand Lily the way I do.” I’ve watched her cry and shake in a
bathroom because she craved sex—because she couldn’t have it. And she wouldn’t
turn to me for help back then. Now that we’re together, I should have the power
to take her pain away. But I don’t. Because she’s trying to control these impulses.
And so I’m back where I started, watching her shake, watching her eyes grow big
and wide, pleading for something more. And
I have to deny her that pleasure. Over and over.
“You forget that I was here while you were in rehab,” Ryke
says. “I’ve seen her at a low.”
No, I never forget that. “Great.”
“You’d rather be there with her, I know that. But didn’t
Rose tell you—”
“I get it,” I snap. Our relationship needs room to
breathe—Rose so very pointedly put it
the other day. I’m trying to give Lily more space. I’m making a conscious
effort to change our codependent relationship.
That doesn’t mean it doesn’t fucking suck.
But I have nowhere else to be but right here. No other
invitations from friends (I have none) or family (my father practically
disowned me). No job. No school. I am a worthless piece of shit.I grimace and turn that into a
half-smile, shaking my head. I chug half of my water to drown these stupid
thoughts.
“Have you started taking Antabuse yet?” Ryke asks.
The doctors at rehab prescribed me a drug for my recovery,
and I forgot I told Ryke about it. If I drink on the meds, I’ll have stomach
pains and severe nausea. It’s supposed to deter alcoholics from falling off the
wagon. And even though I decided not to attend AA meetings, I still need to
follow the right steps to get healthy.
I didn’t tell Lily why I’m not going to AA. The reason will
make her think I’m even more fucked up. I’m a hard person to be around, and
when I was in rehab, I pushed two recovering addicts to drink and break their
short sobriety.
I always say the wrong things.
And the facility administration forbade me from going to
group meetings because I was “adversely affecting my peers.” They also highly
advised I not attend AA meetings in
fear that I would be the same asshole there.
Ryke agreed with them.
So here I am.
“I haven’t taken it yet,” I tell Ryke. “I think I’m going to
start tomorrow.” I’ve heard horror stories about people becoming violently ill
just from a sip of beer. I wanted to have a couple days without that
suffocating fear before I started.
“You should take it now. Do you have it on you?” Ryke asks.
He’s such a fucking pusher.
“No,” I snap. He doesn’t listen to me, already unzipping my
bag and rummaging through it. “What is this, TSA? Leave my shit alone, Ryke.”
He finds the inside zipper easily and holds up an orange bottle. His eyebrows rise
accusingly.
My teeth ache as I bite down. “Wow, you found my pill
bottle. Congratulations. Now put it back.”
I wait for him to yell at me for lying. I prepare for the
verbal onslaught with narrowed eyes, ready to combat or storm away.
But he never mentions it. Instead, he uncaps the bottle and
doles out a pill on his palm. “Take it,” he says roughly. “If you’re waiting
for yourself to fuck up, then you might as well fuck up while you’re on it. I’m
sure puking all night after a shot of whiskey will do you some good.”
He’s right.
I hate that he’s right.
I take the pill from him and toss it back with some water.
It feels official. Like this is it. No alcohol. Forever.
Forever.
God.
I have a sudden impulse to run to the bathroom and stick my
finger down my throat. Somehow my Nikes weigh me down on the trimmed grass, and
I clench my water bottle as I take another large
“Can you say that again? I couldn’t hear you,” I quip.
He rolls his eyes, and then we both actually share a smile.
I check my watch subconsciously.
“She’s fine,” Ryke assures me.
“Look, you can pretend to know everything about me, but you
can’t understand Lily the way I do.” I’ve watched her cry and shake in a
bathroom because she craved sex—because she couldn’t have it. And she wouldn’t
turn to me for help back then. Now that we’re together, I should have the power
to take her pain away. But I don’t. Because she’s trying to control these impulses.
And so I’m back where I started, watching her shake, watching her eyes grow big
and wide, pleading for something more. And
I have to deny her that pleasure. Over and over.
“You forget that I was here while you were in rehab,” Ryke
says. “I’ve seen her at a low.”
No, I never forget that. “Great.”
“You’d rather be there with her, I know that. But didn’t
Rose tell you—”
“I get it,” I snap. Our relationship needs room to
breathe—Rose so very pointedly put it
the other day. I’m trying to give Lily more space. I’m making a conscious
effort to change our codependent relationship.
That doesn’t mean it doesn’t fucking suck.
But I have nowhere else to be but right here. No other
invitations from friends (I have none) or family (my father practically
disowned me). No job. No school. I am a worthless piece of shit.I grimace and turn that into a
half-smile, shaking my head. I chug half of my water to drown these stupid
thoughts.
“Have you started taking Antabuse yet?” Ryke asks.
The doctors at rehab prescribed me a drug for my recovery,
and I forgot I told Ryke about it. If I drink on the meds, I’ll have stomach
pains and severe nausea. It’s supposed to deter alcoholics from falling off the
wagon. And even though I decided not to attend AA meetings, I still need to
follow the right steps to get healthy.
I didn’t tell Lily why I’m not going to AA. The reason will
make her think I’m even more fucked up. I’m a hard person to be around, and
when I was in rehab, I pushed two recovering addicts to drink and break their
short sobriety.
I always say the wrong things.
And the facility administration forbade me from going to
group meetings because I was “adversely affecting my peers.” They also highly
advised I not attend AA meetings in
fear that I would be the same asshole there.
Ryke agreed with them.
So here I am.
“I haven’t taken it yet,” I tell Ryke. “I think I’m going to
start tomorrow.” I’ve heard horror stories about people becoming violently ill
just from a sip of beer. I wanted to have a couple days without that
suffocating fear before I started.
“You should take it now. Do you have it on you?” Ryke asks.
He’s such a fucking pusher.
“No,” I snap. He doesn’t listen to me, already unzipping my
bag and rummaging through it. “What is this, TSA? Leave my shit alone, Ryke.”
He finds the inside zipper easily and holds up an orange bottle. His eyebrows rise
accusingly.
My teeth ache as I bite down. “Wow, you found my pill
bottle. Congratulations. Now put it back.”
I wait for him to yell at me for lying. I prepare for the
verbal onslaught with narrowed eyes, ready to combat or storm away.
But he never mentions it. Instead, he uncaps the bottle and
doles out a pill on his palm. “Take it,” he says roughly. “If you’re waiting
for yourself to fuck up, then you might as well fuck up while you’re on it. I’m
sure puking all night after a shot of whiskey will do you some good.”
He’s right.
I hate that he’s right.
I take the pill from him and toss it back with some water.
It feels official. Like this is it. No alcohol. Forever.
Forever.
God.
I have a sudden impulse to run to the bathroom and stick my
finger down my throat. Somehow my Nikes weigh me down on the trimmed grass, and
I clench my water bottle as I take another large
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