I knock on the door before I enter and say, “Happy Birthday.”
“Thank you?” She raises an eyebrow. I would not believe myself either. I don’t think I’ve ever gifted her flowers, and earlier today, I brought her a cupcake. “What’s with the flowers?”
“Would you believe me if I say that the guys and I pitched in to get you this?”
She laughs, shaking her head. Then, she crosses her arms staring at me suspiciously. “What’s the story?”
I set the vase on top of her desk. “Security called me. I had to go downstairs to sign for it.”
She grins and claps. “Aww, who sent you flowers? Are we finally putting ourselves out there?”
I want to tell her that we just discussed my issues yesterday. There’s no way to fix my shit within twenty-four hours. I hand her the card. She reads it. She narrows her gaze and whispers, “Thank you?”
Step two, I set the envelope on her desk. She glares at me this time. I almost smile because I can see those walls starting to crumble. However, she’s not that easy to persuade. She pushes the envelope far from her and stares at it as if it’s a poisonous animal. Then, she says, “He’s here.”
When her gaze lifts and she finally looks at me, I nod.
“That’s why they called you downstairs. You had a visitor.”
I bob my head a couple of times. “Just listen to him.”
She sighs, reaching for the letter.
I make my way outside her office and pat him on the back. “The next time, I’ll have my bodyguard shoot you and dispose of your body.”
“There’ll never be a next time,” he promises as he steps into her office.
I close the door behind him.
If I ever want to have a happy moment like the one I hope they’re about to share, I need to fix my shit. So, I call a friend.
“Killion, what are you trying to buy now?” Fitz Everhart answers the phone.
“Nothing,” I mumble. “I could use a friend.”
“A friend?” he questions with a playful voice. “Or a friend with benefits?”
“Are you flirting with me, Everhart?”
He chuckles, “Is it working?”
“No,” I groan. “I’ve decided to fix my life.”
“Finally, you’re getting your head out of your ass. In my experience, there are better things to put in there, heads not so much. Cocks fit better, and if you have a good top, it feels like fucking heaven.”
“Why did I call you?”
“Because you’re ready to come out of the closet, and you need someone to hold your hand,” he responds.
“I never said any of that,” I argue.
“You don’t need to,” he debates. “I know everything. This is why I’m so good at what I do. I know how to read people. You’re ready. The question is, why?”
“I don’t know what I’m ready to do,” I answer, staring at the pictures of Zeke. He’s one of the reasons I want to unravel all the lies and put myself out there. I’m also doing it for myself. “I want to fix everything that’s wrong with me.”
“Nothing is wrong with you.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. I’ve been lying to myself for so long that I need to discover my truths and push away the lies.”
“True…” His long pause is unnerving. “Listen, I’ve dated a guy or two like you. One of them did a number on me. The other didn’t have time because I sent him on a one-way trip to fuckland. I’m sure there’s a good reason for you to be in the closet, and I’m not here to unfold the mystery with you. That’s what therapists are for. I’ll be here to listen to you and be your friend. When you’re ready, I can teach you how to be a good top.”
“I’m serious,” I protest.
“Me too. I’m about to enter a meeting so we can’t discuss sex, but I’ll get in touch with you when you’re ready,” he says with a frisky voice.
“Thank you, I guess.”
“I’m here for you, and my first advice is don’t date anyone until you’re sure about yourself.” With that he hangs up the phone, leaving my thoughts lingering around the room.
Chapter Seven
Zeke
I grew up to believe that I’m inherently unlovable.
For years I’ve been self-medicating my loneliness with alcohol and drugs. I live in a vicious cycle where during the day I use drugs and consume alcohol to numb myself. At night, when I feel like shit and ashamed after failing my friends, I promise myself that this would be the last time I drank or used drugs.
The next day I wake up late, tired, and feeling like there’s nothing worth living for. After a couple of minutes of debating how the few people who care about me will feel about my thoughts, I leave the bed.
Instead of coffee, I drink a cold beer. It helps me wake up better than any amount of caffeine, or so I tell myself. Once I feel up to it, I check my social media. While I’m at it, I receive a text or a call from my boss and best friend. I’m late for work.
I spend a few minutes under the shower feeling ashamed of myself for not being able to get my act together. Cocaine cheers me up. It makes me feel good about myself in a weird way. I snort some blow before I go to work. The effect doesn’t last long enough. I’m miserable the rest of the day unless I find someone to fuck. Fucking makes me feel less lonely.
As I finish writing my daily cycle in my journal, I suck in a breath. It’s overwhelming just to think of all the thoughts that run through my mind during each cycle. I don’t recall all of them, but the burden sits on my chest like a five-hundred-pound gorilla.
During week six of my recovery, I’ve come to realize that my addiction has cost me many things, including self-respect. My life has become progressively unmanageable due to the loss of control over everything—all due to the desire to lessen the emotional pain. The untreated triggers have pushed me to find distractions that are far from confronting my mental illnesses that remain unaffected.
Mr. Arnes, one of my therapists and my case manager, is giving me options to manage my time more efficiently. Those options are to stick with the ninety-day program and stay until I feel like I have dealt with all those underlying issues I tend to ignore. Or leave and wait for the next cycle when I am so ashamed of my behavior that I’ll do what my friends think is best for me.
“Why are you giving me options?” I ask. Not waiting for his answer, I continue, “Why now? You could’ve told me this when I arrived.”
“There’s a progression to this treatment. You’ve accepted several things about your childhood.” Mr. Arnes’s tone is heavy, but not loud. “I asked you a week ago to sit down and start looking into your fears and your resentments. We need a list of your strengths and your weaknesses. You just said, ‘I haven’t had time to do that.’ You only brought your cycle which was due two weeks ago.”
“Resentments?”
“Anger,” he answers.
“I’m not angry.”
“You don’t want to be angry,” he pushes me. “The only person you’ve ever mentioned being resentful toward is your ex.”