Hot Mess. Emily Belden

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      “Okay, so, what do I do? Do you need water? Crackers? Tylenol?” I didn’t realize then that treating withdrawal and nursing a hangover are two very different things.

      “No, none of those things. It’s just gonna suck for a few days. Can you rub my back?” he asked me amid his distress. I placed my hand on him and felt a bulge the size of my fist under his skin.

      “What is that?” I asked, grimacing slightly. I didn’t want to freak him out, but I was assuming the worst. A blood clot maybe?

      “When I do too many drugs, I get these knots in my back. I don’t really know, just, can you keep rubbing?”

      Scared as I was sitting that close to an overdose, it brought me comfort to know this wasn’t the first time he’d experienced these bulbous mutations.

      “I think I’m going to go,” he said a few seconds later.

      “Right now? You just got here. I feel like you should lie down.”

      “No, I mean to rehab.” Boom, there it was. The first time Benji admitted that his drug use had evolved into something far more out of control than just a casual sniff off a credit card in a bathroom stall. But why to me, I wondered? Who was I in his life that he could so suddenly come to me in the middle of the night with his desperation as visible as the toxic lump protruding from his back? He must have known I wouldn’t judge him, call him a loser and tell him to get the hell out. Even I hadn’t known I was capable of such compassion until the need for it was physically and inescapably in front of me.

      “What about your restaurant? Don’t you have to go to work?”

      “It’s over,” he said.

      I didn’t know if he quit or got fired, but I figured I’d let the food blogs figure that one out.

      “Okay. So when would you leave?”

      “Tomorrow.”

      “What? Why so soon?” A part of me selfishly couldn’t fathom our road coming to an abrupt dead end.

      “This is going to get really bad, Allie. Soon. You aren’t going to be able to take care of this. I’ve already made the appointment. They’re expecting me to check in at 6:00 a.m.”

      I took a big breath and looked at the time.

      “Well, then, let’s get you back to your place to pack.”

      “You can’t come over,” he said. “I can’t have you see what’s going to happen next. You’re too good for that. Trust me, okay? Please.”

      At that point, I called him an Uber and walked him back down to my lobby. His eyes were the dopiest I had ever seen. From the withdrawal? Maybe. From the fact that both of us weren’t ready to accept this would be the last time we’d see each other for at least a month? Definitely.

      I had planned to pull the plug many times before on things with Benji, but now it was all coming to a forced stop. I should have been grateful—this was my out. But instead, I was sad. I didn’t realize that at some point, I had fallen for this guy. And it wasn’t just about the mind-blowing sex or handmade pastas. I cared about him.

      I also didn’t realize that once I shut the door of the car and watched it take off toward an all-quiet Lake Shore Drive, Benji was going to partake in one last hurrah before rehab.

      A bottle of pills, a fifth of Jack and whatever else he could get his hands on fueled this particular bender. And this is when he tweeted out my photo. This is when he outed me as his girlfriend. This is when I decided that accepting my new identity was easier than dismantling a bomb.

      The next day, I slogged through work, worried and sad and happy and confused. I tried to Google what rehab was really like, but feared IT would hack my history and I’d get canned for being a liability with a double life.

      From what I had seen on Celebrity Rehab, going away for help was going to be the right thing for Benji. I grappled with the idea that once sober, Benji might not see me the same anymore. That whatever drug-induced infatuation he’d had with me would subside. It’d be like sleeping off a hangover and realizing that the 3:00 a.m. order of extra-large cheese fries from the Weiners Circle was a bad idea. And I was okay with that. I had to be okay with that. I told myself a complicated story about how difficult people don’t deserve love any less than the simpler ones. If we only allowed ourselves to care deeply about those who can reciprocate our affection the way we’ve grown accustomed to, did we have any business calling that “love” at all? Whatever hurt or emptiness I felt in Benji’s absence was in the service of something much greater, and I made peace with it.

      And then I came home from work and found Benji—the very same!—sitting on the foot of my bed.

      “No. No, no, no, no. You can’t be here,” I remember saying adamantly as I threw my keys down on the counter. “What are you even doing here? How did you get in? You have to go!” I felt like I was hiding a fugitive. This kid needed serious help, even he admitted that. Who let the monkey out of his cage?

      “Babe, calm down,” he had said, placing both of his hands up like I was about to shoot. “I know what you’re thinking, but trust me: I got this. I’m going to start going to NA meetings every day, twice a day. I already have a sponsor. His name is Mark. I even picked up the books. See? See?” He held up the Narcotics Anonymous literature like church propaganda. “My first meeting is tomorrow at 8:00 a.m. I’ll be gone before you even leave for work. I’m serious this time.”

      This time? How many other failed attempts were there? And how serious could he be if he hadn’t even given rehab a single day to kick in? Which made me wonder...

      “Did you even go?” I asked.

      He didn’t say yes or no. Instead just offered a flippant, “Rehab isn’t for me.”

      I had heard that line before. On Intervention. Right before they rolled the updates that said the subject hadn’t been heard from in months and was last seen smoking crack under a bridge.

      “But you said it was. Right here on this couch, like fifteen hours ago. What the hell happened?”

      “I don’t know, a lot of shit. My phone got stolen last night, I ran out of cigarettes and I don’t have the money for it unless I go to that freebie clinic in the ghetto. I’m not doing that. Get stuck with some fuckin’ weirdo roomie. No way. I’d much rather do it on my own terms. I’m going to do this my way with Mark and the meetings.”

      “What about the withdrawal? I thought you said it’s going to be bad?”

      “It will be. But I’ll stay tough and fight through it and call Mark if I need anything. He helped me get a new phone today. It’s a fresh start, only your number and his are programmed in it.”

      I’m pretty sure this was when I started crying. I was already in a state of complete emotional exhaustion and this, food pun unintended, just took the cake. Worse, I couldn’t tell if I was happy he was back or scared he’d never leave. All I knew for sure was that I didn’t want to be in this situation anymore. It was all too much.

      “Oh, babe. Come on. You’re breaking my heart. What’s wrong? What can I do?” Benji had stopped me from pacing uncontrollably by holding me in the way only he could—the СКАЧАТЬ