Page 22 of In the Stars

“Do you have anything else you want to talk about?”

“When can I leave?”

“As soon as you start working with us to get clean. The goal isn’t to have you sober until you can get back to the drugs and the alcohol; the goal is to have you change your entire lifestyle. Where your life does not revolve around drugs or getting high. It will be about building your future and what you want for yourself.”

“And what if I just want to get high?” I shrug, foregoing a lie. We’re in fucking therapy after all. “What if when I leave here, I want to take a bottle of fucking pills to blot out the thoughts that won’t stop?” I tap the side of my head so hard that it starts to throb. “Being sober is for people who can’t control their lives. I was?—”

“You were what?” he asks, looking at me as if he’s staring into my soul. “You were in control when you collapsed on stage? When you beat three people to a pulp? When you drank too much and ended up vomiting on stage? Is that control to you?”

I stand up and pace again. “Throwing my past in my face? Is that what therapists are supposed to fucking do?”

“No, we’re supposed to be honest with you so you can start your journey.”

I grunt, thinking about what he said. But what the fuck does he know? He only knows what he sees on televisionand what I tell him. “When I get out of here, I plan to live my life how I already was.”

“Let me ask you something. Do you think your occupation has contributed to your habit?”

“Of course it has. What rock star doesn’t party from time to time? It’s what we do.”

He clicks that annoying fucking pen again and makes some notes. When he’s finished, he says, “Occasional partying and being drunk and high all day are two different things, Wesley. If you were to go back to touring the country, sometimes the world, do you think you’ll fall into your old habits?”

“Maybe. I want to. I like how I feel when I’m high. When I have a few shots in the morning. My life is fucking fantastic when I’m high.”

Doctor Steinfeld sets his pen down and folds his hands in his lap. “Are you taking this seriously?”

“As seriously as I can when I’m threatened with a fucking conservatorship. Look, tell me what you want me to say, and I’ll say it. Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it. I just want fucking out of here.”

A long sigh leaves his lips, like I’ve gotten under his skin.Good.He can switch me to someone else that doesn’t give a shit, and they can tell me the easiest way out of here. Pretending I like this feeling of clarity is starting to grate on my fucking nerves.

“I want you to want to get better, Wesley. There’s nothing you can say or do that will make me believe that but changed behavior. What are you so afraid of if you get clean?”

I clamp my mouth shut, not willing to give him that information. He hasn’t earned it, and I don’t want to put into words why I need the drugs.

Sitting back on the sofa, I cross my arms over my chest and look down at the floor. “How long do we have left?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

For the next fifteen minutes, we sit in silence, with me unwilling to answer anymore of his questions. I don’t want to talk anymore. I don’t want to share anything else. I don’t want to talk about anything with anyone until I get a drink or a bump. Not until I feel like a normal person again.

The timer goes off on his desk, and he releases a sad sigh. “That’s it for today. You’ll have another session with me next week. We’ll be working together two days a week. If you’d like, you can come in and sit for an hour in silence, but it’ll be more productive if we can talk.” I don’t say anything, and he nods in what could be understanding or irritation. “Your schedule says you have yoga then dinner. Free time will be two hours before bedtime.”

I shove out of the chair. “I’ve been here for nearly a fucking month. I know what I have to do for the rest of the day.”

I’m almost at the door when Doctor Steinfeld calls to me. I turn around with a raised eyebrow, wanting to leave so I can walk off the anxiety crawling over my skin, making me shiver and goose bumps crop up all over my flesh. “There will be a day where you hit rock bottom. What happened to you on that stage wasn’t it. That was the catalyst to get you the help you very much need. When you’re at your lowest, when there’s nothing for you to do but climb back up, I’ll be there, and I’ll help you along the way. I swear it.”

“That won’t fucking happen, Doc,” I huff, then storm out of his office to blow off yoga.

NINE

JAXON

Even though I’vebeen working at my father’s firm for well over a year, it’s still weird coming into his office and seeing my name on the placard on the desk. But being here is more my speed. This is where I belong. I felt pretentious when I was working in Seattle. The big city life wasn’t for me.

I set my briefcase down and start in on my emails and answer those back that are immediate and mark others to reply later. I return phone calls from the message pile my receptionist, Mrs. Judy, left me. I smile. She’s known me since I was a kid, having worked for my dad since I was twelve.

When I get to the last message, my heart trips up. It’s from the funeral home where Suzette had her cremation service. Dad set up a service for her—more than she deserved—but no one attended. After everyone found out what happened with Wesley—the real story, not the shit she peddled around for a few weeks—she was shunned and almost run out of town. No one mourned her death.

I did what Wes asked and had her cremated and toldthe director to do whatever he wanted with her remains. It’s not like I couldreallysend them to hell.

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