Page 75 of Taste of Addiction

I don’t worry about spelling or formalities. I just write. And it feels liberating.

When my hand starts to cramp, I grab the top book from the stack that is titledYou Are Your Own Worst Enemyby Nina McGraw. I peel back the cover and read the dedication. “To those who called me names, misjudged me, and made me feel less of who I am. Thank you for helping me see what really matters. It is not you.”

I turn the page and start with chapter one.

* * *

I wake to the sound of paper crinkling. I jerk my body up and move my hands to try to find the source.

“You dozed off,” Graham says, helping me to sit up.

I look down at the book and remember getting lost in the words. Then I must have shut my eyes.

“What time is it?” I ask, turning to see Graham propped up on a stack of pillows eating his dinner.

“Seven thirty. I made you a salad.”

I grab my bowl from the nightstand and actually feel relaxed enough to eat without the fear of indigestion. “Thank you,” I say, taking the first bite of chicken Caesar salad. “This is really good.” I chew another bite. “Did you shave this parmesan cheese yourself?”

Graham chuckles and nods.

“Your mom would be proud of you, I’m sure. The presentation is spot-on.”

“You know that woman sends me a harassing text at least every other day to make sure I am not jacking things up with you. I had to cave and tell them that all of the media attention over Sophia and me is fake. It was either come clean or face my mom showing up at HH unannounced and making a scene. You have made quite the impression on my parents’ hearts.”

I smile at him. “You have the nicest parents. I honestly don’t even know why they have welcomed me so quickly into their lives.”

“Sweetheart, you have that effect on people.”

I shrug. “Not all people.”

“The ones who matter, you do.”

I let his words mull around in my head. I suppose they can be true.

I hate being one of those why-me people. I hate playing the victim card. But when life beats you down, it is hard not to want to hide and lick your battle wounds in peace. Between the drama with Dr. Williams, the downhill spiral into addiction, and the paparazzi beating me down, it is easy to slip into depression. Or maybe I have been depressed this whole time and never noticed it.

I slide from the bed and make my way into the bathroom. Every movement of my body makes my head throb. It is like someone is jackhammering a stake into my skull. I stumble into the vanity as I kick the door closed with my foot. My fingers white-knuckle grip the counter, but I lose my balance and fall to the floor. I groan as my hip hits the tile first. Shit.

Tears fill my eyes as I reach for anything to help me stand up. It is like grasping at water. I roll into a ball and clutch my knees up to my chest.

A knock sounds at the door. “Angie? I heard something fall. Are you okay?”

“Go away. Let me die here.”

The door cracks open and Graham peers inside. “Baby? What happened?” he asks, kneeling at my side. His fingers hesitantly touch my back, but he doesn’t help me stand up. He just lets me have my moment of self-pity.

“I’m a mess.”

“Did you fall?”

“I think so. I just…” I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. Like a siren warning me of danger. “Need help.”

“What kind of help?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” I cry.

“I want you to admit it, Angie. Tell me how I can help you.”

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