Rush (Gods #2)(4)

I take a quick shower. Leaving my hair wet, I dress in clean panties, an old college sweater, and shorts.

I head for the kitchen and grab a glass from the cupboard. Go to the tap and fill it with water.

Leaning back against the counter, I take a sip.

My apartment is so quiet. Too quiet.

Peace isn't good for me. Too much time to think.

I take another sip of my water, my eyes closing on a blink as I do.

I swallow slowly, letting the water run down my throat.

My mind drifts …

Vodka.

Sliding down my throat.

The burn of the alcohol.

You remember how good it felt, Ari.

The feel of it coursing through your body, taking the pain away. Freeing you-

Stop!

I flash open my eyes, turn, and pour out the water into the sink, setting the glass in it.                       
       
           



       

I grip the edge of the counter and swallow in a lungful of air.

Breathe, Ari. Slow and deep.

I take a breath in through my nose and let it out through my dry mouth.

Dry from the need to drink.

No.

My grip on the counter increases. My arms start to tremble from the  force, but I don't let go. Because I'm afraid of what will happen if I  do.

I don't have alcohol in the apartment, but I'm within a ten-minute radius of pubs and bars. Five minutes if I run.

And I'm afraid that, if I let go of this counter, I'll start running.

I squeeze my eyes shut and slowly count to ten.

I don't need to drink.

I am in control of my life.

Six months, Ari. Six months sober.

Don't blow it now.

You've gotten through the worst.

Detox was the most horrific experience of my life. I don't ever want to go through it again.

And, if I have even one drink, I'll be right back where I started.

I can't go there.

I won't go there.

I was what is called a high-functioning alcoholic. I used alcohol as a  coping mechanism. I would find any reason to drink. I would drink alone  at home. Too much, too often. I could drink a couple of bottles of wine  at home or go out and party like it was 1999 and wake with no hangover  and head into work. Some people might think that was a good thing-being  able to drink with no hangover. But it really wasn't. It meant that I'd  built a tolerance over the years. I'd been drinking too much, for too  long.

I couldn't go a day without a drink, and even then, I still didn't know I  had a problem. If someone had asked me seven months ago if I could stop  drinking, I would've answered yes without hesitation.

It wasn't until it was too late when I realized I had a problem.

No, it's not too late.

I made a terrible mistake because of the disease I have.

And that's what alcoholism is; it's a disease.

But I'm getting better. Every day, I'm getting stronger and stronger.

It will not defeat me.

I want a life. I want to be able to paint again. I want to have a career  as a professional artist. Maybe even get married one day and have  children of my own.

But, to have all of those things, I need to stay sober.

My count is up to fifty when I feel able to actually let go of the counter.

I get my cell from my bag and sit down on my kitchen floor. I open up my  music app and press play on my relaxation music. I adopt the lotus  position and close my eyes.

I don't know how long I've been sitting like this when my cell starts to ring with an incoming call.

I open one eye, glancing at the caller display, and see it's my dad.

I really don't feel like talking to him at the moment, especially not  after my little episode. And it's hard, feeling like a disappointment  all the time. Not that he says so. I can just hear it in his voice.

But I know, if I don't answer, he'll just keep calling.

So, I pick up my cell and swipe to accept the call. "Hey, Dad."

"Hey. How are you doing?"

Oh, I'm currently sitting on my kitchen floor in the lotus position after a bad moment, but aside from that, peachy.

"I'm good," I say. I stretch my legs out and lean back against the  cupboard door. "I was just going to start thinking about what to have  for dinner."

"We could have had dinner together," he says. "I thought you might have  come to see me after you finished work. I was gonna give you a ride  home, so we could grab dinner together in the city."

"Sorry, I didn't realize." If you'd told me, I would've known though. "I  wasn't sure where in the building you were"-lie-"and I had to rush to  catch my bus." Another lie. "Maybe tomorrow?" I suggest.

"I can't tomorrow. I've got a late meeting with Bill."

Bill is the owner of the team.

"The day after," I suggest.

"Sure." Pause. "So, how did you get on today?"

"Okay. It was … good."

"I'm sorry I didn't get to spend much time with you today. I was busy with-"

"It's fine, Dad." I'm used to it. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but like usual, I don't say them.

My therapist in rehab told me that I should air my grievances with my  dad, tell him how I've felt like second best all these years. The  resentment that I feel toward him for never being around to help with  Mom when she was still alive.

I knew he couldn't handle Mom's mood swings. He would spend as much time  out of the house as possible. So, it was mostly just me and her.

When she had a high mood, she was great, fun. But, when she was low … it was bad. Sometimes, she couldn't get out of bed for days.                       
       
           



       

Mom was diagnosed with bipolar disorder when I was seven.

Her problems started after I was born, and I wonder if I was the  catalyst for everything that went wrong for her. I know she'd had a bad  childhood, which was where most of her problems stemmed from. But it  seems that it got worse for her after I was born. I sometimes think that  she blamed me for her depression … her illness, and that was why she let  me be the one to find her in the closet on that day.

I was angry with her for a long time. Angry with my dad for not being there. I guess I still am.

But he was there when I screwed up. It was him who cleaned up my mess. Hired the lawyer. Put me in rehab. Gave me this job.

I owe him for that.

And I don't want to fight with my dad over the past. He's the only family I have left.

He might not be perfect, but who is? Well, aside from Ares "Mr. Perfect" Kincaid.

"Did Mary show you around?" Dad asks, cutting into my thoughts.

Dad introduced me to all the players and assistant coaches, which didn't  go as bad as I had expected. Well, except for Ares, who acted like we  hadn't met, which I guess was good because I would've had to explain to  my dad how we'd met, and I definitely didn't want to do that. So, I  guess, in a way, he was only doing what I had asked-keeping our  encounter from my dad.

It was just the way he was looking at me when Dad was introducing me to  him … clear disgust in his eyes. A hardness to his voice that my dad  didn't seem to notice.

But I did, and it made me feel like shit.

Dad disappeared once I met everyone, and I was palmed off to Mary, his  PA. She is well into her sixties but doesn't look a day over fifty.  She's one of those really classy, glamorous women, who I aspire to look  like when I'm her age. She was really nice to me, too. Never once  brought up my problems. She spent most of the time telling me all about  her new granddaughter, Rosie.

"Yeah, she did," I answer him. "She gave me a tour of the building and pitches and gave me a rundown of my duties."

"Did she give you your work cell and iPad?"

"Yes. They're in my bag."

"Good. Well, the players all have your work cell number now-I had Mary  send it to them-but only take calls during work hours. Don't let them  take advantage, okay?"

"I won't."

There's a beat of silence. The awkwardness that's always existed between  us, which has only worsened since the crash. I wonder if it'll ever go,  if we'll ever just have an easy, flowing relationship.

"Right, well, I'll let you get to it," he says.

"Okay, Dad. I'll see you tomorrow."

We hang up, and I push up to my feet.

I search through my cupboards, trying to decide on what to eat, and I end up with a bowl of Cap'n Crunch, like usual.

I take my cell, bag, and cereal bowl into the living room with me. I put  my bag down on the floor. I sit down on the sofa, legs tucked  underneath me, cereal down resting on them, and put my cell down beside  me. I glance at it.

The cell that only rings with my daily call from my dad and my sponsor, Luke.

The friends I used to have, I had to leave behind. They like to party,  and I don't do that anymore. My old colleagues from the gallery, who  were friends, too, haven't made contact since the crash, and I have a  feeling they don't want to hang out with me.

So, I'm friendless.

I'm lonely. It's pathetic but true. I've gone from a life of constantly  having somewhere to be-a gallery event with hors d'oeuvres and champagne  or dinner with friends and endless glasses of wine or parties with my  cheating scumbag ex-boyfriend-to now staying in every night with Netflix  for company. Well, except for the one night a week when I go to my AA  meeting where I spend an hour listening to people who are just like me.