Page 7 of Unwanted

Eventually he raises his eyes to meet mine. “She mentioned you could show me all the programs the gym has and I could decide on what would work for me.”

“Usually, I would arrange a time that we could sit and talk, but I’m free now, if you are?”

“Yes, please.” He nods vehemently, and his eagerness is something I yearn to see. “I’d love to leave here with a plan.”

“Perfect.” I tilt my head in the direction of my office and he dutifully follows. “Sorry I didn’t get to ask before, but what’s your name?”

I fish my keys out of my pocket and unlock the office door.

“It’s Rhys.”

Pushing the door open, I guide us inside and gesture for Rhys to take a seat on the small sofa that rests along the length of the wall opposite the door.

Heading to my desk, I sit on my office chair and grab a few necessary papers, slip them into a clipboard, and then wheel myself around till I’m stopped in front of Rhys. I hold them out to him with a pen. “These are so you can get your gym membership as soon as possible and the rest are questionnaires that will help you decide what goals you want to achieve while you’re here.”

He takes what I’m offering, perching the clipboard on his bouncing thigh and flicking through the pages.

It’s not extensive or invasive, just a few health questions, personal details for payment, and a few tick box questions on why he wants to join the program.

I’m not an addiction sponsor, nor do I have a desire to be. I can barely get my own shit together on a good day, let alone counsel other addicts off the ledge.

But I can be the guy who stands beside you at the gym and supports you in silence. I can be the one who holds on to the boxing bag when you need to get rid of that pent-up anger. I can be the one beside you on the treadmill, when all you want to do is run but have nowhere to go. And I’ll be the one spotting you when the heavy bar of pounds you lift is lighter than the weight of the world on your shoulders.

“How are these classes any different from what other gyms offer?” Rhys asks me.

“They’re not,” I deadpan. “The difference is in the people who attend and teach the classes. We’re all in recovery.”

“Everyone?” he asks skeptically.

“Everyone,” I repeat. “If you need somewhere to be to stop yourself from relapsing, this is the place for you.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

Unsure if he’s asking me why I do it, or why the whole program exists, I wait for his response.

“Why is everything so hard?” His voice is a lot more defeated now than when he approached me outside, and I can’t help but wonder if the adrenaline from earlier has started to fade. He runs a hand through his hair. “I wish getting high wasn’t so much easier than getting clean.”

Chuckling, because I’ve thought that same thing more than I would like to admit, I reach for the clipboard. “Finished?”

Rhys nods, handing it back to me and falling back on the couch, tilting his head up, looking at the ceiling. I can tell he wants to talk, but I’m not one for words, so instead I roll myself and the chair back to my desk and get started on some paperwork. For a few moments, we sit together in silence.

“Jenika speaks really highly of you,” he says, interrupting the quiet. “Says you’ve really made a life for yourself.”

It’s not the first time someone has said this to me, especially after hearing it from Jenika. I tell myself it’s just her way of selling the programs I run, because the man she sees when she looks at me and the man who stares back at me in the mirror are not one and the same.

I haven’t made a life for myself, no matter what anybody else thinks or says.

I’ve just managed to figure out how to exist.

One day at a time.

One foot in front of the other.

One breath at a time.

Because I’m not here for the compliments, I change gears and stand up, prompting a confused Rhys to follow. “Let me show you around the place and then we can put together a plan that suits your schedule before you leave.”

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