Liam's mum is a raging alcoholic with a mean streak, and his dad's not been heard from in years. As much as everything he's done is his own choice, et cetera, he didn't start off with a strong chance.
"Nigel," I say, exhaling. "He can't-"
"He's not your problem," Nigel says, and it's the most backbone I've ever heard him have. "You've made him your problem and look where it's gotten you."
He has a point. I hate thinking of Liam there, but Nigel's got a point. After a few minutes we hang up.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my trousers, suddenly nervous, but I pick up the receiver and dial her number.
"Hello?" she answers after the second ring.
I grin at just the sound of her voice, staring at the white wall in front of me like an idiot.
"Hey, it's me," I say.
"Hey," she says.
There's a one-second pause, and then she starts laughing. I start laughing. I have no idea why I'm laughing, except that it feels so good to hear her voice again that I'm giddy, and the two of us laugh into the phone like a couple of morons.
Finally, I stop, and take a deep breath.
"I made you a ceramic bowl to your specifications," I say. "Or, rather, I tried."
47
Marisol
The rehab center, which is simply called Tranquility Malibu, reminds me a lot of Noru. I guess it caters to basically the same clientele - rich people who can afford good sushi and drugs. There's probably more or less a revolving door between the two.
Nigel gave me a key to Gavin's car yesterday, and when I pull the purring black machine up to the guard station, he tries not to look surprised to see a short Latina girl in the driver's seat.
"You must be Miss Gomez," he says, smiling down at me through the window.
I'm caught off guard, because I wasn't exactly expecting him to know my name.
"Yes," I manage to say. "I'm, uh, here to see-"
"Mr. Lockwood," he says smoothly. "Of course. Take the second left and park anywhere."
I thank him and drive on. This is all a bit unnerving, and it reminds me too much of our first date, and of feeling like there was a bright spotlight on me, pointing out the imposter. Except now I am, technically, almost a millionaire, though honestly I've been too busy with finals to spend any of the money yet.
And I've spent quite a lot of time doing fancy things with Gavin, so even if I'll never actually feel at home with these people, I can fake it.
There's a front desk with a pretty, smiling blond woman. She also knows my name, gives me a badge that says VISITOR in big letters, offers me a sparkling water, and tells me that the visitor's lounge is through the door and second on the right.
I'm heart-stoppingly nervous. I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't know what I'm going to say, because even though we've been writing and calling, this feels like the first real step down a road with no street lamps.
Besides, despite hours googling and a pile of research, I don't feel like I know what to say to him about this. Sucks that you relapsed, I wish you hadn't? I would really prefer you not do it again?
I want you back but I'm afraid you're broken and I'll get hurt trying to fix you?
Outside the visitor's lounge doorway, I take a deep breath. I clench and unclench my hands, trying to release some of the tension.
And I go inside. There are a few people in there but Gavin has one whole side of the lounge to himself, because he's pacing back and forth with his hands in his pockets like a caged animal.
Then he turns, sees me, and grins. All my nerves suddenly melt away, and I grin back.
In seconds I'm in his arms, and he's squeezing me so tight I can barely breathe, picking me up, and whirling me around as I yelp. He puts me down but doesn't let me go, one hand on the back of my head, and I close my eyes and inhale his scent, my nose buried in his neck.
"I missed you," he whispers. "I'm sorry."
"I missed you too," I whisper back.
He pulls back slightly, his hand cupping my face. He strokes a thumb across my cheek, his deep brown eyes gazing into mine, like there's something he's about to say, right there below the surface.
He doesn't say it. Instead he kisses me, our lips just barely touching, soft and gentle like the kiss is an apology too. I kiss him back the same way, standing on my tiptoes, slow and gentle even though my heart's hammering nearly out of my chest.
Inside I come alive. The second he touches me I'm a writhing sea of lava, a volcano set to explode, heat and pressure barely contained.
It's a long kiss. By the end of it my fingers are wound through his hair, my body is pressed against his, Gavin's tongue is in my mouth and we're exploring each other like it's our first kiss again. I finally pull away, eyes closed, stroking my hand through his hair while he draws circles on my back with one hand.
There's a crumpling sound to my right. We both startle and look over.
We're being watched. There are still three other people in the visitor's lounge, and all three are simply watching us with detached, mild interest as if we're baseball on television or something.
I swallow, and my face flushes hot. I'd totally forgotten they were there. Gavin's hand keeps making small circles on my back.
"Would you like to go for a walk?" he asks.
Tranquility Malibu has a huge, beautiful garden. It's surrounded by a ten-foot wall, but it's a classy wall, covered in climbing bougainvillea. The whole place is a faux Italian villa, complete with shaded patios and grape arbors, a manmade stream of clear water running through the careful landscaping.
I feel like I'm on vacation at a spa, not visiting someone in rehab.
"See? It hardly feels like you're in prison at all," Gavin says as we stroll under the arbor, the warm sun behind us.
"I was just thinking maybe I should develop a heroin addiction so I could-"
I stop short, holding my breath, because he is in rehab and the last thing I need to do is make light of the situation.
But he looks at me and starts laughing.
"Have a week at a posh spa in Malibu?" he says.
"I'm sorry," I say. "The FAQ page said that when I visited, I shouldn't make fun of rehab or talk about the negatives, just focus on keeping the patient in the moment to help your recovery."
"Well, there are better ways to take a holiday at a posh spa," he says. "Such as taking a holiday at a posh spa. You can skip the heroin all together, in fact."
He still hasn't told me what, exactly, happened after I left on Tuesday. He's alluded to it, but he hasn't told me the details, and I'm dreading having to hear them.
I don't want to. I want to pretend that he is on holiday, I'm visiting, and when he's out everything will go back to what it was before, but I know I can't. Not if this is going to work.
I change the subject and ask about Greg, his roommate, who Gavin thinks isn't taking recovery very seriously. We talk about nothing for a while, walking up and down the paths in the garden, the little fake brook burbling alongside us.
After a while, we've seen everything. We've discussed all the plants, and though it feels normal and nice, there's still that weird tension of things unsaid.
At the far end of the garden, there's a patch of grass under a stand of eucalyptus trees on a slight hill. Next to it is a table stacked high with white sheets. Gavin grabs one, flips it open, and spreads it out on the grass.
I watch this with my mouth open. I can't believe this place has picnic blankets stacked next to the picnic spot. That's next-level.
Gavin, on the other hand, looks faintly embarrassed.
"What?" he says, smiling, his arms crossed over his chest. "We can't just sit on the grass like the peasantry."
"You know I am the peasantry, right?"
He sits on the blanket and holds out one hand.
"Come on. It's very therapeutic."
I fold my legs under myself, careful of my skirt, and sit next to Gavin. There are a few other people wandering the gardens, though there's no one else up here on the grassy hill.
It's quiet. It's peaceful. It's lovely. It's all a bit weird. Gavin looks over at me and I don't make eye contact, but I can feel his gaze for a long time before he finally speaks.
"You've not asked me anything."
Here we go, I guess. I keep watching the people down in the garden.
"I know."
"It's not like you."
I take a deep breath and pull my knees in, careful with my skirt, tucking it between my thighs so I don't flash anyone.
"Do you remember our first date, when we got fish and chips and then walked down on the beach?"
"Of course. You were embarrassed to admit that you didn't want to have sex in front of a mirror."
I laugh, despite myself.
"I'd forgotten that."
"I hadn't. I've got a hell of a memory for everything even slightly racy you've ever said."
"So you remember me telling you I don't have a sex tape?" I ask.
"Yes, and it was a bloody relief," he says. "Not that I thought you did. Just..."
He trails off, shrugging.
"I never asked if you had one because I didn't want to know," I say, quickly, still staring down at the garden. "If you did, or you do, I knew I'd just look it up on the internet and then I'd end up watching you have sex with someone else, and I really didn't want to do that, so I never asked."