Page 74 of Taste of Addiction

Tears fill my eyes as I think of all the implications of the things the world is going to learn about me. Breaking up an engagement—even if it is fake—and falling into the pitfall of addiction. This is probably the worst thing that could happen to me in terms of trying to graduate, be an investigative journalist, and get an internship. Who will want to take me seriously now when I am going to be the talk of the entire city? Probably no one.

That’s the thing about rumors of half-truths—people tend to believe the worst and sometimes there is nothing a person can do to change that course of thought.

“Sweetheart, I will figure out who is at the bottom of this.”

“Doesn’t matter, Graham. That’s the thing about rumors and reputations. Once accused, the seed is already planted. That seed will continue to grow in people’s minds, and that is now how the world will see me. It’s not even like it is false.I am an addict. Now the world knows.”

He pulls me closer, and I break down into fits of sobs. How can this be happening? I am finally coming to terms with my own issues. But apparently other people knew what they were before I could identify them. Just as I am trying to resurrect a failed rough draft for my article to hand in to Dr. Williams, I will now look like a discreditable source. No one is going to believe anything I say.

“Am I going to be plastered all over the tabloids?” I whisper.

Graham looks down at me, gives me a squeeze, and then a hard kiss to the head. His non-answer is his answer. I groan and sink into his side.

“I contribute a lot of donations to this city. If I have any favors to call in, I’m going to do so. But as you already know, there is no real control over the media. We can sue for defamation of character or slander, but in the end, the stigma can only be removed from those who want to see others in a different way.”

I cringe over the possible headlines that are being cooked up right now when the photographers bring their prized photos back to the office. It is ironic that I am going to get screwed over by the same profession that I am striving to enter into. There’s a difference though—at least, that is what I am telling the rational side of my brain. Bringing awareness or enlightenment to important issues is vastly different than targeting me and trying to ruin my foreseeable life.

Collins gets us safely inside the penthouse without being followed or confronted. Graham guides me straight upstairs into the master bathroom, where he starts to fill the huge tub with hot water and bubbles. Clothes get discarded into a pile on the floor, and we both enter into the water. I want to relax, I do. However, the tension in my entire body keeps me from truly being able to put my mind and body at rest.

“Come here,” Graham says softly, beckoning me to him.

I slide over to him, and he turns me so I am sitting between his knees on the built-in seat. His expert hands massage into my flesh, and I lean my head forward as he rubs his fingertips down the sides of my neck.

“That feels so good,” I moan.

“I’m sorry about today. I feel responsible.”

I turn to look up at him with narrowed eyes. “Why do you say that?”

“It’s not like you encouraged me to do the whole fake relationship with Sophia. And the media already has her labeled as America’s Sweetheart.”

“What a joke,” I mumble under my breath.

“Things will clear up again. Just give it some time.”

“What about all the drug comments and the escort questions? How am I supposed to move past those?”

“How have you managed to move on from all of the other pain you have encountered in your past? How did you get to where you are now?”

The corner of my lip retracts as I think about Graham’s questions. “Things are different now.”

“How so?”

“I have to graduate and secure an internship and eventually apply for a real job. You know that during interviews, they dig up your past and make sure you are a worthy candidate. Scan through social media pages, Google names, and ask for recommendations. Won’t take long to type in my name after today and see what I’m all about,” I respond sarcastically. “People judge. It’s what they do.”

Graham washes my hair as I ramble on. I am glad he is listening and not just trying to fix everything. Quite frankly, I am not sure how to dig myself out of this hole.

When the water is becoming too cool to enjoy it, we get out, dry off, and walk into the closet in search of comfy pajamas. Graham tosses me a T-shirt, and I look down at the lettering to reveal it is one of my creations, “Property of Graham Hoffman.” He pulls his “Property of Angela McFee” shirt over his own head, pairing it with some jogging pants.

I smile at our reflection in the mirror. We look silly, and it is what I need to take my mind off wanting to self-destruct, like I have numerous times in the past.

“Want to have dinner in bed?” he suggests, wrapping his arms around my midsection.

“I’m not that hungry.” In fact, I can feel the start of a migraine forming. When Graham looks like he is going to get angry, I quickly counter, “But I’ll try my best to have something.”

“I’ll go get it. You go get settled in bed and relax.”

On my side of the bed, I find my journal and a stack of books dealing with addiction. I grab the journal, climb under the covers, and retrieve a pen out of the drawer. I title the first page by today’s date and start writing. It has been years since I wrote anything for myself—and not just for an assignment. I almost forgot how to do it.

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