Page 157 of Life of the Party

The night dragged on.

Finally, the first rays of gloomy dawn began to lighten the weary bedroom. The light was a relief to me, and my mind rested enough to allow a few hours of fitful, restless sleep. When I awoke, staring up at the strange ceiling with swollen, puffy eyes, the stark reality hit me. This wasn’t just some nightmare. This was my life now.

Grey was gone. He was never coming back. My life was empty, meaningless, hollow.

And for the third time in only a matter of days, I wished for death.

I fell quickly into a drear, monotonous pattern over the next little while. I had no enthusiasm for anything; I went with the flow, not talking much, not contributing. Just existing. In the morning we’d get up and go for breakfast. Shortly after that came group therapy. I’d give one-word answers if ever asked a question, stubbornly refusing to participate. I wasn’t interested in getting better. I wasn’t interested in anything but getting the hell out of there.

Next came lunch. Allison and I would sit together; sometimes, other girls joined us, but I didn’t bother to learn their names. What was the point? In three months, we’d all go our separate ways, and I’d never hear from them again. I sat silently, eating as much as I could so people would stop thinking I was anorexic.

After that, we had some free time. There were usually scheduled group activities, like cards or games or something, which I went to but wouldn’t get in on—just being there was enough to distract me. Once a week, I had to suffer through an hour or two of one-on-one time with my therapist. This guy was like sixty years old; he reminded me of Blake. I was even more closed up with him than I was at group. He was smug, though—I could tell he kept trying to crack me, like I was a challenge or something.

After supper, we’d usually hang out in front of the big screen. I liked watching TV, it was mindless, a good distraction. But then, when the time started winding down, when people started leaving and it was time to go back to our rooms, the anxiety would start. I knew what awaited me at night—the longing, the sorrow. I would drag my feet the entire way back to our room, trying to prolong the inevitable.

It caught up to me as it always did, and I spent nearly every night sleepless, sobbing silently into my pillow, hoping for an end. If it were possible, I became even more zombie-like, walking around in a trance, heavy purple shadows beneath my eyes.

Through it all, the craving for heroin nagged at me, like a beast—starving, demanding to be fed. Pictures would pop into my head, a syringe full of dark promise, blood squirting into the needle. I’d shut my eyes and try to remember what it was like. What it felt like. Counting down the days until my freedom, when I would leave this place and find a hit as soon as I could. I dreamed about it. It kept me going.

Seventy more days, I’d tell myself. Seventy more days, and it’ll be mine again.

CHAPTER 63

We were suffering through another ordinary, painstaking day of sober living when there was an unexpected knock on our door.

Allison looked up, but I didn’t care enough to even turn my head, curled in a ball on the bed. I brought my cigarette to my lips and took a slow, mindless drag.

“Mackenzie?” It was one of the administrators, Janet. “You have a visitor.”

“A visitor?” Allison frowned, looking at me suspiciously. “We aren’t allowed visitors.”

Janet shrugged. “Apparently they’ve made an exception. Mackenzie?”

“Who is it?” I asked, without moving.

“I have no idea. I was just sent to give you the message. Come on, dear.”

Rolling my eyes, I slumped wearily off the bed.

Janet led the way down the hallway. She pulled me closer to her as we walked. “Mackenzie.” She looped her arm through mine, patting my hand. “It’s true, we don’t usually allow visitors, but we’ve been informed about your…situation. Your boyfriend died shortly before you were admitted, is that correct?”

I nodded.

“We’ve noticed that you’re not…doing the best. Treatment is pointless if you don’t want to get better. We thought maybe it’d be beneficial for you to have a friend, someone to talk to…other than the therapist.” She gave me a knowing look, smiling wryly. “We’re all on your side here, Mackenzie, remember that. We want you to get better. Butyouneed to want to get better, too. Okay?”

She took me down the hallway towards the offices, stopping at a door on the left and pushing me gently towards it. “Go ahead. You’ve got an hour.”

I took a hesitant glance in the window.

It was Riley. Of course it was. He looked uncomfortable—nervous, even—sitting on the edge of his chair, fidgeting with something in his hands. He was dressed simply in blue jeans and a long-sleeved blue shirt, but I was amazed again at how much older he looked. Grown up, almost. His dark hair was short and shaggy now. But he was Riley. My Riley. My old friend, my best friend.

I hesitated a moment outside the door, torn. Part of me—no, most of me, was still furious at him, at his betrayal. I was in rehab because of him. I was sober because of him. Against my will, he’d ripped me away from my only semblance of life. I still hadn’t forgiven him for it. It felt like I’d never really be able to.

I pressed my hand to the glass window and shut my eyes. The other part of me was so…lost. So…flailing. So alone. The other part of me needed him, like I always had, like I always would. My hand moved to the knob then, seemingly of its own volition, and slowly opened the door.

I don’t know what Riley saw, but I could feel the strain of anguish written in my expression. He stared at me for a moment as I entered, and the smile that started in greeting slowly fell from his face.

“Oh, Zee.” Was all he said.

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