Mine Still

Faking It

I'm determined to sleep. It's become an addiction. On some level, I realize the only time I can see him is while I'm unconscious. I don't understand it, and I don't care. With each passing day that he's gone, I'm more miserable than I've ever been. My only relief is the sweet escape of my dreams.

Tonight, I'm getting drunk. I'm on vacation, I'm alone in my hotel room, and I'm desperate. A bottle of Svedka keeps me company in the bath, and I make sure to take both a his and hers shot.

I stain the towels with hair dye before crawling into crisp white sheets. I stain those, too. I work my way through half the bottle, watching an old movie on pay per view. The hours crawl by, and I almost give up and turn the lights on, when I finally see him.

He's sitting in a metal chair with his head resting in his hands. I don't believe it. I take a few steps forward, approaching the open doorway to the room that Alex is in. He looks up, and our eyes meet.

He looks tired. Big brown eyes stare back at me, apology laced with pain. The crows' feet around his eyes crinkle with a small smile, and my stomach dips to my knees. His thick lips curl up into a smirk when he notices where my attention is. I blush.

Taking a few hesitant steps toward the room, others come into view. Clinicians, nurses in scrubs, social workers, and his father, Joe.

"I'm sorry we lied, Ava," Joe addresses me, turning around. Alex looks like his father. Subtly strong, unassuming. Their faces are nearly identical, and their hands are tough, dirt stained from hard labor. "It had to be this way."

"You're alive," I breathe. I rush for Alex, and he stands to meet me, the squeal of the chair against the hard linoleum echoing throughout the treatment room. Pushed back from the force of my embrace, the chair squeaks again behind his knees. We fall into the chair a mess of limbs, laughing.

"Alex," I chant, "Alex, Alex, Alex." His face feels so good beneath my hands, and I reach hungrily for his lips. Our kisses are short and desperate, and grateful tears from my eyes fall onto our cheeks.

"Ava," he responds, with the same intensity. "I'm so sorry. They made me stay away from you." He presses our foreheads together, gathering my hair up in his hand, resting it on the base of the back of my neck. Chills overtake my body, and I shiver in the cold room. The material of my dress bunches beneath his other hand, and the contact to my thigh feels as real as it ever has.

A voice clear across the room stirs us from our embrace. Embarrassed, I back off him and straighten my clothes. Alex's father laughs from his position across the room. I take the seat beside Alex and reach for his hand. He lets me take it.

"Right," a doctor says. Closing the door, he takes his position in a chair opposite us. "We're here to establish Alex Cope's next steps as it pertains to re-entering society. After successfully completing our 90-day rehabilitation program, it's time to consider the future. I say we start with a half-way house."

Alex's father clears his throat and straightens his tie, shifting uncomfortably as he settles into a chair. He acknowledges he doesn't like the idea of a half-way house and thinks Alex should be at home, with family. As people go around the circle, discussing Alex in front of Alex, his grip on my hand subtly tightens. I wait for a natural pause in suggestions before I launch myself into the conversation.

"What do you want, Alex?" I'm the only one to ask the question. As the faces around the circle look at him expectantly, Alex breaks into a grin. Oh, how I've missed that smile. He pulls my hand onto his thigh and looks at me.

"You," he breathes, "just you, Ava." My heart flutters in my chest, like it's trying to fly out to meet him. I smile, squeezing his hand.

With a start, I wake up, alone in my hotel room. Vision blurry and confusion clouding my head, I hastily reach for my phone, knocking my nearly empty drink off the nightstand.

"Fuck!" I curse, clumsy in the dark, still drunk. I mercifully find my phone, buried in the pillow, and write down everything I can remember. As it all comes crashing back to me, tears cloud my vision. It felt so real.

He's dead.

He's still dead. Not here with me, no matter how badly I want him to be.

I get on Google, and I book a therapy appointment for when I get back. I'm going to need it.