BEAU
present
"Rise and shine," Callie, the younger nurse with red hair and freckles all over her cheeks, just like Emma has, knocks rapidly on my door, making sure to detect movement under the covers before continuing. "You've got a roommate, by the way. This is Parker."
Barely stretching my neck to look over my covers, my head still pounding with what seems to be a never ending hangover, I catch sight of a dark haired boy, reluctantly following Callie into the room.
Boy is the best word to describe him. With a baby face like that, he must not be more than eighteen years old.
I grunt a response before turning over in bed, staring at the wall until Callie comes back to make sure I'm up, just like I do every morning.
I guess it's really only been a couple of days, but it feels like much longer. Rocco and Dex thought this center would be the best place for me, but I fucking hate it. Unlike last time, my body didn't have to detox years of alcohol from my system, only a couple of shitty nights worth. Even still, my head is pounding and my throat is still scorching. Add in the scheduled meals, therapy sessions, and now a fucking roommate, and it's like I'm living in my own personal hell.
"Not today, Beau." Callie says sternly, making my eyes roll to the ceiling as I turn to face her again. "Be polite." She raises her brows at me before finally turning from the room.
I release the sarcastic exhale I've been holding in once she's out of ear shot and stare straight up at the ceiling.
I need to get out of here. Immediately, my snarky subconscious argues mercilessly: And go where? You have no one left, you're not wanted.
Flames lick the back of my throat as my heart hammers in my chest, each beat reminding me how badly I fucked things up this time.
How could I have let this happen?
"'Sup?" Parker slumps into the mattress across from mine, the only other in the room, momentarily distracting me from my shame and self pity.
'Sup? My eyes narrow at him, his shoulders hunched forward, hair covering what I might have been able to see of his face.
"How fucking old are you?" I can't help myself, even though I really don't mean to be a dick.
"Nineteen." The boy answers honestly, looking to his feet as he does.
"Huh," I sit up, pulling a white t-shirt over my head. "Nineteen and already in rehab. Nice."
Who am I to judge? I wonder even as the words leave my mouth. Is he really any different than me at nineteen? Apparently he is, because he's here. He, or someone who cares about him, clearly has the funds to support treatment. Lucky him. Maybe if I'd gotten it then, I wouldn't be here now.
Or maybe I would be. What the fuck do I know, anymore?
To my surprise, the kid laughs, bringing me back to the present.
"And how many programs is it that you've gone through? I know who you are, man. Excuse me if I don't really give a shit what you think,"
When I look up at his words, harsh but true, his eyes are intent on my face, awaiting my reaction. Maybe I should be pissed, but I'm not. I'm tired.
Just so tired.
"Good point." I shrug, not giving him another thought as I get up from bed and begin tidying the covers. We have to make our beds before breakfast - those are the rules. I throw the sheet out flat on top of the mattress, haphazardly covering it with the bland comforter next. I don't bother tucking in the corners or folding down the top - they should be glad I'm doing this at all.
Once I'm done with the bed, I slip on my boots without bothering to tie them, and make my way towards the door.
"Where are you going?" Parker asks, starting after me immediately. Like a puppy. I frown, the thought of Zeus, my loyal German shepherd, cooped up in Dr. Dex's house until I'm out nagging at me again.
Turning to him, I notice the dark circles under his eyes, similar to the ones carved into my own face. His hands shake slightly and when he notices me staring, he stuffs them into his pockets quickly.
Bringing my eyes back up to his face, I answer simply. "Breakfast."
He follows me down the corridor, past the other bedrooms, and into the large dining room. I ignore him, scanning the long picnic-style tables for an empty space. Melanie, the real over-achiever of the group, raises her hand to call us over.
Parker steps forward but I place a hand on his arm instinctively, even though I can't understand why. "Don't," I shake my head at him discreetly. His brows furrow and I continue. "Unless you want to hear all about our Lord and savior Jesus Christ. Up to you," I shrug and walk past Melanie as if I can't see her.
I know this won't deter her - it will be the same routine at lunch. That's what I hate the most - every day, the same routines. Avoiding the same people that I don't want to talk to, wishing I could be speaking to someone else. Someone else that I'm physically not allowed to contact while I'm in this program.
For the second time this morning, my mind tries to devise a way to get out of here.
Again, Parker follows as I continue down the line of tables. Fuck, he's like a shadow. Maybe I should've just let Melanie make a believer out of him after all.
I finally plop down at the emptiest table, eyeing the toast, eggs, and bacon on large serving platters at the center. The food is good here, but it doesn't change the fact that I have to eat when I'm told, with a bunch of strangers. Scooping what I want onto my plate, I also grab some watermelon from the fruit bowl. Parker watches me curiously but I ignore him. At least he isn't shoving a camera in my face.
Across from us is Ronald, an older man who's relapsed more times than he can count. But his wife loves him like no other, paying for treatment after treatment, holding out hope that he will some day get better.
Ronald is optimistic and sometimes too cheerful for my liking, but he doesn't try to talk to me much. I suspect he'll try soon. But for now, it's quiet and I'm left to wonder how he stays so uplifted, knowing he's letting his wife down time after time.
"How long have you been here?" Parker asks, scanning the room quickly with his wide, childlike, brown eyes. He looks so clean, despite the exhaustion all over his features. Like a momma's boy on picture day at school.
I stare straight forward, my fork just inches from my mouth. "Long enough."
***
"Would you like me to start?" Dr. Dex removes his glasses and places them on his notepad, narrowing his eyes at me inquisitively. We've been sitting in silence for five minutes or so and I'd really been hoping he'd just let me run the clock down this session.
"Why not?" I sigh, crossing my arms over my chest as I slouch deeper into the large couch. The rehab counseling rooms aren't as nice as at Dex's office. The walls are bare, with the exception of a spattering of generic art and inspiring quotes. The rooms look expensive, but devoid of any real style or personality. Just another reminder of what my actions have cost me.
"How are you?" Dr. Williams leans forward, staring at me intently.
Unable to control myself, I feel my brows raise at him quizzically, a semi-amused smirk on my lips.
"Just peachy," I raise my arms to the side, as if showing him the rehab center in all of it's glory. "How are you?"
Dex exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair. Pursing his lips tightly, he only stares at me for a moment, eyes locked on mine in a pointless battle of wills. I will win - I'm the one with nothing to lose, anyways.
He gives in finally, scribbling something down into his notebook. "How was your morning? Specifics, please."
"The same as the last four mornings." I shrug, squinting at the clock hanging just above the doorway. Time passes so slowly when you don't want it to.
"So is that it, then? We're back to where we started when you first came to my office?" Dex looks more serious than I've ever seen him, even more so than when I'd shown up at his house drunk in the middle of the night that first year.
"Makes sense, doesn't it?" I counter, "Since that's where I am sobriety wise, right?"
Shit. I shouldn't have said that - Dex's eyes light up as he grasps at any details I'll provide. I've learned to keep things short and sweet with him when we talk. It's easier than trying to explain how I haven't been able to look in the mirror since the first drink I had back at that stupid hotel bar in Boston.
"Is that what this is about? Feeling like everything was wasted?" Dex twirls his pen in his fingers and I watch it closely, my own fingers drumming against my knee rapidly.
I keep my lips tightly shut, never moving my eyes from his ballpoint pen. He's watching me, I can feel it, but I refuse to give in.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock. The hands of the clock move mockingly slowly.
After a couple of minutes, Dex stands abruptly, tucking his pen into the pocket of his button down and grabbing his notes from the coffee table between us. My eyes flash to the clock and then to his face as I rise to my feet.
"It's early," I mumble.
"Yes." Dex mutters curtly. "I want to help you, Beau. But I can see that isn't happening today and I do not want to waste time. I can't make you talk if you're not ready. I'll be back when you are."
My brows furrow over my eyes as I battle myself internally: I don't want to talk, but I don't necessarily want Dex giving up on me, either. He's the only one I have, even if he is paid to be.
"Dex," I mumble as he reaches the door. Embarrassment rushes over me. "I don't know how to do this."
"Do what?" Dex turns back to me immediately, already making his way back to his chair.
Sinking into the sofa again, I drop my head into my hands, running my fingers through my hair.
I open my mouth to speak and at first, no words come out. But once they start, they tumble out of me, faster and more honestly than I had expected. "I had years under my belt, Dex. Years. And I now I'm back at the beginning again, and I don't know what I'm doing. I fucked everything up - everything with Emma and Rey, my tour, probably my entire career," The paparazzi photos taunt my memory, images of me, vomit on my shirt, head tipped back against a brick wall, headlines about my cancelled tour, shots of me being admitted to the facility, articles from fans who feel cheated by me, and rightfully so. It's the exact opposite of a highlight reel. "What am I even doing?"
"Beau." Dr. Williams waits until I lift my head to speak, speaking firmly but with a kind smile on his face. "I know this is hard and I know that the only thing you can think of right now is your own mistakes. Keep that in mind for step four," His grin widens before dropping again. "Most addicts relapse, you know? But you need to understand that you can't change what's happened. It's in the past. All you can do now is look ahead to the future. Can you do that?"
The heat in my throat burns painfully and I shake my head honestly. "I don't know,"
"What about this afternoon? Can you make it through this afternoon?"
Picking at the remaining nail polish on my thumb, I nod slowly. "Yeah. I can do that."
"Then that is what we do, Beau. We take things one day at a time, one hour at a time, even. And we keep moving forward."
Thanks for reading loves! More Beau pov coming soon - hopefully this holds ya over until I get more of my outline done :) let me know what you think in the comments! ❤️