We both know the truth, which is that I don't know. I didn't think it would happen this time. All I do know is that, right now, I'd sooner walk through a burning building than relapse again. But I also know that for once, I need to lie to her.
"No," I say.
Marisol nods, still thinking. Finally, she looks at me.
"Gavin," she says, her voice shaking. "If you're going to destroy yourself, tell me now, because I can't watch."
I take her hand in mine and roll onto my side.
"I promise," I say, and kiss her.
She feels soft and small, her mouth trembling just a little as she kisses me back. It's the most vulnerable I've ever seen her, even worse than when she thought she was dissolving, and it turns something inside me to steel.
It can be easy for me to forget that this is her, too, fragile and wounded. I'm furious at myself for being the one to do this, because I should be doing the opposite. I should be protecting Marisol.
"I love you," I say, and take a deep breath. I don't know what I'm going to say next, because beyond that I don't even know what I can say.
Marisol swallows hard.
"I'm not asking you to take me back," I say slowly. She looks up at me, her eyes wide, bloodshot, and shining. "I don't deserve that. You could walk out of here right now and never speak to me again and that would be what I deserve. And I know it."
"Gavin, I … "
She trails off, because I don't think she knows what to say either.
"All I'm asking is the chance to prove myself," I go on, an enormous lump in my throat. "Let me wake up every morning and fix myself slowly, and text you and call you and take you out on dates sometimes. It's all I want. I don't give a fuck if we put a tag on it, Marisol, just let me earn a place in your life again. Please."
Marisol slides a finger under the leather band around my wrist. There's just one where there used to be a pile.
"You've got a start," she says.
"I kept the rest, being an optimist," I admit.
"I don't know," she finally whispers. "I mean, I know I came here, and I've been writing you letters and requesting ceramic bowls and everything, but … "
She trails off again, looking away. My breath catches in my throat and I hold it for a moment, then let it out slowly.
"You don't have to know now," I say, ignoring the weight in my chest. More than anything, I want her to say yes, I'll give you a chance, but it's not up to me.
"I'm sorry," she says. "It's just, that – I don't know, Gavin, this all seems really fucked."
I kiss her gently on the temple, and she inhales raggedly.
"You don't have to explain. You don't have to do anything. You came, you're here, and since rehab's all about living in the moment, it's all I could have wanted," I murmur into her hair.
"What's next?" she asks.
"I could have sworn I just said I was focusing on the moment," I tease gently.
Marisol just frowns at me slightly. The joke doesn't land.
"I've got an extensive recovery plan," I say. "It's got benchmarks and dates and check-ins and bullet points and everything."
I tell her about it. I go into details, I talk about the research and science of recovery, I point out that the books she got from the library are where I got a lot of these ideas in the first place. I tell her Liam's back in England and I haven't spoken to him.
Gradually, we fade to simply talking, about finals and her parents and the crazy noises her upstairs neighbors make. I admit that at the last group therapy session, someone broke the talking stick, so I'm excited for tonight's because it might be pandemonium.
We lie there, on the grass, until visiting hours are nearly over. She still hasn't said yes or no to giving me a chance, but she's stopped crying and started laughing. Her dress has fallen against her and I can see every curve of her body in perfect detail, the skirt hiked up her legs slightly.
It's ten days I've been wanking in the shower, and despite myself, I'm disastrously hard.
"I should go," she's saying. "I assume that at the stroke of six, they release the tigers or something."
"One way to find out," I say.
Marisol takes a deep breath. She's on her back, looking at the sky, our hands intertwined.
"I'll come back tomorrow," she says.
"Don't," I say. "You should be studying for finals, not driving to Malibu to see some pathetic wretch."
"Are you trying to tell me what to do?" she asks, looking at me, a smile in her eyes. She rolls over onto her side.
I grin.
"I would never," I say. "Only suggest."
"Do you not want to … "
She catches sight of the huge bulge in my pants, and cocks one eyebrow.
" … see me?" she finishes. "You know I was crying earlier, right?"
"I can't help it," I say. "He's got a mind of his own, I swear."
I glance down.
"Rude," I tell my cock. "And fucking inappropriate."
Marisol laughs, even though her face is still red and splotchy.
"Obviously I want to see you," I say.
"Obviously," she says, and gives me a kiss on the lips.
She leaves without giving me an answer. It stings that I still don't know, and I carry a knot of tension in my chest all night, but she's coming back tomorrow. She requested another ceramic bowl. Those things aren't yes, I'll let you try again, but they're signs pointing in the right direction.
And for now, it's enough.
49
Marisol
The next Saturday, I'm sitting in the same lounge where I first saw Gavin a week ago, waiting for him to finish up some exit paperwork.
My mind is racing. The past week was insane, and now that it's over I still can't get myself to relax. But I finished my finals, wrote all my papers, completed the research project I was helping a professor with, and did all my graduation paperwork.
And I got the job at Ramirez & Chabon, the immigration firm where I interviewed the day before everything went to hell. A huge relief, but bittersweet, because when I got the call, more than anything, I wanted to tell Gavin but had to wait until he called me with his allotted time.
I said yes. Despite the voice in my head telling me that it was stupid to give him another chance, I did. He's not my boyfriend, at least not yet. He won't be meeting my parents any time soon, and I won't be attending any functions with him. We're not official.
And he knows that this is it, the only do-over he gets. I can't let him break my heart like this again, so this is the last chance.
But I'm here, picking him up from rehab and taking him home. Because maybe it's a mistake, and maybe my heart is stupid, but I do love him.
Plus I missed him. I've gone through an astonishing number of batteries in the past two weeks.
"I'm free," Gavin says, walking into the lounge, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
I haven't seen him since Sunday, so I practically leap into his arms and give him a long, long kiss. The duffel bag drops to the floor and he wraps both arms around me, one hand traveling down my back and then even lower, cupping my ass and pulling me against him.
This time, there's no one else in the lounge, but it's completely open, anything but private.
"Ready to go home?" I ask, hoping I sound sultry, that my undertone of home is where the bed is comes through.
Gavin kisses me again. He's already rock hard, and despite the setting it stokes a fire inside me, too, and then I'm on my tiptoes, crushing myself against him, my tongue in his mouth.
Someone walks by and I pull back, surprised. Gavin doesn't even laugh, just looks at me with an expression so intense it's almost unreadable.
"I think I left something in the room," he says, his voice rough and low.
That's not what I was expecting.
"Okay?"
"Come help me look for it?"
Gavin winks, then takes my hand and pulls me along. We walk past a nurses' station, down a hall, and then into a room with two perfectly-made twin beds.
"What was it?" I ask, looking around.
He pulls me through the room and into the bathroom on the far end, closes the door and locks it.
Then he pushes me against the counter, his hands on my hips.
"Only door that locks," he says into my mouth. "I don't know if I'll make it all the way home."
A charge of electricity goes down my spine as Gavin presses his mouth against mine hungrily and I press back, feeling as if I've gone up in a whoosh of flame. I buck my hips against his hard length and he groans softly, curling his tongue around mine, my hands in his hair.
Then he pulls back, and I catch his bottom lip between my teeth.
I swear he growls at me, the sound low and raspy and pure, delicious, primal sex, and suddenly this can't happen fast enough.
Gavin shoves my skirt up over my hips and I grab him by the belt, unbuckling it as he tugs my underwear off, shoving one hand between my legs and sliding his fingers through my wetness. I hook a leg around him and unbutton his jeans, our mouths together.
I unzip him and he pushes his fingers inside me, the flat of his hand against my clit, and I gasp, taking his length in my hand and stroking him from root to tip.
He leans in and bites my earlobe, his fingers curling inside me as I bite back a moan.