Page 154 of Life of the Party

Riley turned his tortured gaze to me before looking back at the road. “Mac, look at you. I’m not just going to sit here and let you die. You’re too important to me. I’m going to do what’s best for you, even if you don’t like it.”

“You care about me.” I scoffed disdainfully.

“You know I do.”

I wailed into my hands, curling up into a ball on the seat. If he cared about me at all, he’d understand why I couldn’t go to rehab. Just the memory of the sickness was enough to make me shudder. I had no motivation to stop using, not now. I wanted to die. Why wouldn’t he just let me die?

The car slowed, and Riley turned into a brightly lit parking lot. I hadn’t realized we’d made it to the city; I’d been too upset to pay attention. I looked around wildly, taking in my surroundings—my suitcase sitting in the backseat, the intimidating brick building we were approaching.

Riley parked the car at the entrance.

“Please, Riley.” I tried again, furtively pleading. I grasped his arm and forced him to look at me. “Please take me home?”

“It’s rehab or jail, Mackenzie. You choose.”

A man and a lady dressed heavily in winter coats noticed our arrival, striding towards the car, expecting me. I thought about running, about making a break for it. My hand grasped the door handle.

“You can’t run, Mackenzie.” Riley grabbed my arm. “You’ve been running for too long. You have to face it.”

I sobbed in defeat, sinking back against the seat. He put an arm around me and tried to hug me, but I pushed him off with a sudden burst of rage. I’d never been so angry in my whole entire life. He knew I hated things being pushed on me; he knew I hated being told what to do. And now I had no choice. I had to go to rehab.

“I hate you, Riley. I hate you!” I spat through my tears. “How could you do this to me? How? I hate you! I never want to see you again!” I shouted. I pushed his hand away and burst out of the car, taking the man and the lady by surprise. She put an arm around me and started pulling me inside, out of the cold. I had to go with her, but first, I turned to yell one last disparaging remark at my former friend.

The words never made it past my lips. As I turned, I saw Riley crumple in his seat, saw him bury his head in his hands, saw his shoulders silently shaking.

Wordlessly, I turned my back on him; no choice left but the one before me.

PART 4

CHAPTER 62

Detox. Hell. They were synonymous.

I’ve never felt so sick in all my life. So wretched. So desperate for death. Like I was being punished for every moment of happiness the drugs had ever given me, they left my system with exponential agony. I shook and vomited and convulsed and sweat. I cried and cried, sobbing for relief, for help, but no one answered. No one came. I was trapped, all alone in a tiny little room with a single cot bed. Crazy, delirious, overcome. Too sick to think straight.

Fervently I wished for Grey. I wished we were doing this together, that he’d be there with me at the end and all of this would seem like some terrible nightmare. At times I swore he was holding my hand. At times I heard him humming the tune to my song. It was loud in my ears. But when I opened my eyes, no one was there.

I wanted to scream, but it didn’t do any good. No one came. Doctors and nurses would check up on me from time to time, but they offered no solace, no comfort. They’d check my vitals and then, apparently satisfied, leave me alone again. I had no choice but to endure it, to live through the burning, ripping hurt and gut-wrenching, freezing sickness that strained every muscle in my body until I was weak and sore from the effort. There seemed to be no end in sight, no end to the vile torture.

I grit my teeth and bit my lip until it bled. Still the sickness ravaged on. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t be anything but sick. Disgustingly ill. I couldn’t do anything but moan for death. And itch. I don’t know how to describe it, but my very blood felt itchy. I scratched until my skin broke. I lived breath by torturous breath.

“Don’t focus on how lousy you feel. Focus on how much closer you are to getting healthy.” They’d said, before locking me up. It ran over and over in my mind.

“Don’t focus on how lousy you feel….”

Then, there came a morning when I awoke without sweat. Without nausea. I found I could swallow again, that I was warm again. My body ached like I had run a marathon, my muscles stiff and sore. I knew the worst was over, and I was glad.

I was so relieved, at first.

Then I realized I was sober. Like, stone-cold sober. Without the sickness to focus on, I was capable of coherent thought. Competent. I hadn’t been that way in ages.

And then the real pain crashed around me, like cymbals during a crescendo.

It took my breath away. There was nothing I could do, nowhere I could hide, no escape. I clutched my arms around my stomach and gasped, my fingers running through my limp hair as I sobbed into my empty hands.

Grey was gone. Grey was gone, and I was all alone.

“Please, Grey. Please don’t be dead…” I pleaded with the quiet. I shut my eyes and pictured him, hanging on the memory. I imagined him—his gorgeous, handsome face coming through the door into my room, smirking with his cocky grin and shaking his head at me, his blue eyes shining.

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