Page 63 of Taste of Addiction

“Yes.”

I throw my hands up in the air and knock over some supplies I placed up on top of the vanity. “I can’t do much with this headache, Graham.” My eyes well with tears. “I need help for my headache.”

“Exercise will help. Go get dressed, and I have a light breakfast for us downstairs that we can enjoy before we get out into the fresh air.”

I stare in utter shock as he pivots and leaves me to this mess that I created. Why is he so chirpy and cheerful? Is he really that deluded to think that a walk is going to help me right now? I don’t want to go for a walk. I just want to lie in bed and sulk. I force myself into a pair of leggings and a cotton long-sleeved sweatshirt. I pull my hair back into a messy bun and then set out to find Graham.

Propped up on an island stool eating a piece of whole wheat toast, he looks calm and collected—exactly what I am not feeling at the moment. I feel on edge, like my skin is crawling with need. My heart rate quickens over the realization that I won’t be able to find relief for this headache through pills. It’s as if the only exit door is locked with one hundred deadbolts, and by the time I get each one unlocked, I will be too exhausted to even feel the relief of victory. Is this even worth it? Just one magic pill can make this all go away.

But then I will have to start from scratch again.

I can’t keep running from this. I have lived in denial too long. Now I have to come to terms with my addiction. I never wanted it to get like this. I was naive in a way to think it would never happen to me. I just worry that my taste of addiction is deeply rooted into my psyche now, and getting myself truly clean will cause me to not recognize who I am anymore. Or even like her.

Mr. Sunshine reaches out a hand to me, coaxing me closer. He is all smiles and joyful. “Come have a bite to eat.”

I nod and move closer. My plate is already fixed with fresh fruit, a Danish, and two slices of bacon. I look toward the stove to see if he fixed this himself and see the pan cooling off on the side.

“Thank you.”

“Of course. Sit.”

I take the stool next to him and hesitantly pick up the fork. I’m really not hungry. My mouth is dry and my appetite is completely gone. The smell of bacon used to make me get up in the morning. Now, it doesn’t even have a scent to me other than the smell of grease. But I try to eat, if just to humor Graham. I stab a strawberry and bring it to my lips. It is sweet and juicy despite the peak season for them being months away. I nibble at each item but do not nearly finish.

“I’m sorry,” I say, turning to Graham. “I just can’t—”

“Hey,” he says, taking my hand with the fork and placing the instrument on the counter. “Baby steps. Okay?”

I nod. “I can only try.”

“That’s all I’m asking. This is going to be a long journey to recovery.”

“I hope I can even recover.”

“You will. Just stop looking so far ahead. Just focus on an hour at a time.”

I take a sip from the glass of orange juice and then slide off the stool. We throw on light jackets and sneakers, then enter into the empty elevator car. Collins is in the lobby and greets us with a single nod. I almost don’t recognize him in nondescript street clothes. He walks over toward us, and Graham points to a chair for me to rest on while they talk business in private.

I sit down and look back over my shoulder to see the stern look on both of their faces. I imagine that it has not been easy on the security team with me being back with Graham. When I am around, drama finds me. Mark and his goons are probably back to thinking I am a huge target again. Maybe if I told him I am going to probably fail my semester and not even have any work to show for it, it would get him to not care about me anymore. But I doubt it. Because I do still want to find the answers, even if just for my own peace and for the sake of the victims.

Graham finishes up his conversation and saunters over to me. He extends his hand and I accept. We walk hand in hand out the lobby’s door. The cool air hits me like a slap to the face. I should have been expecting it, but I never am prepared—even though I have lived in Oregon my whole life. It is a good way to wake up to the day, especially when I already feel like shit.

I let go of Graham’s hand as we find our pace on the sidewalk. The city is bustling, with dozens of people on the street entering buildings for a work shift. I let him lead, and I follow beside him as we walk along the block behind the penthouse.

“There’s a pathway not far from here that goes around a small park. You game for walking there?”

“Sure,” I say breathlessly, feeling the burn from my lungs already. Graham was serious about actually walking. This is not a leisurely stroll; we are actually working out. He picks up the pace even more, and I find the motivation to keep up.

We stay like this for thirty minutes, walking and barely talking. The park is lovely and peaceful. There is a small path that borders the grassy plain that has benches and flower gardens—albeit everything is in the dormant phase right now. We walk around the perimeter four times and then make our way back to the city streets.

Sweat beads on my forehead and my skin feels clammy. My thighs burn from the exertion and I feel oddly refreshed, while also feeling like I could collapse at any moment. Graham’s version of a walk was more like a jog. And although we did not track the distance, it definitely feels like we conquered a few miles.

“How do you feel?” he asks, slowing his pace down.

“Out of shape,” I huff.

He chuckles and fixes a piece of my hair behind my ear. “Never too late to make a change.”

His words pack a punch. I am not new to change. Most of the time, I resist it.

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