One Time, Badly Page 10

  She re-entered her office and hesitated before grabbing her dress off of its hook and heading for the Ladies' Room. It wasn't until that moment, when the rest of the day was behind her, leaving nothing between her and the party, that she forgot herself. Cecelia felt the weight of all the darkness she'd overcome in that walk through her office building's halls.

  Cecelia Scott had known Max Maylor like she knew the moves to every routine performed in the movie Bring it On. It was nearly down to a science, it was without fault. She'd known his thoughts, his mannerisms, the way his body moved when he wasn't paying attention, and the way it moved when he was. She couldn't quite figure out if she'd been willfully blind to the one thing that mattered, or if, the more likely scenario, she just had no way of identifying the symptoms.

  It was funny, or ironic might be a better word for what exactly it was, but she would never have guessed this. Of all of the worst-case scenarios that had run through her mind, not even in her wildest dreams would this have happened.

  Those words delivered that night, days and months and years ago now, were enough to have her shaking her head in disbelief. And then, as it always did, the disbelief gave way to fear. And, not for the first time since Lou had told her about the party, she considered that Max might not be all right when she saw him again.

  And just the thought of that possibility had the haphazard strands of thread and strips of tape holding her heart together loosening even further.

  2015

  March

  "No, Max. This doesn't make any sense," she found herself backing away from him, standing up to gain any leverage at all in this moment.

  "I don't know how else to say it. I've thought it about it for three days and then I just missed you and it wasn't going to come out the right way anyway so I just had to tell you, straight out," the tears were there now, making their way down his face, but she couldn't take the necessary steps in his direction. She couldn't go near him.

  "I understand if this is too much. If you need time or space I can give you that. Whatever you want," his eyes were set on her, pleading. "Whatever you want."

  "I just need a second. Just give me a minute to think."

  "I can go. Do you want me to go?"

  "How long, Max?" she felt the words come out rather than heard them.

  "A while. Years. But recently it's worse than it's ever been," He seemed to be better prepared for this part of the conversation. Or maybe it was just the fact the she hadn't asked him to leave.

  "Do your parents know?"

  "Yes."

  "What is it? What are you taking?"

  "Painkillers. Oxycontin," and his head dropped to his hands. "God, I'm so sorry, Cee. I'm so sorry."

  "I don't understand. How did I not know? I'm with you all the time. I know you. How did I not see this," And that's when she felt it for the first time; the fear.

  It was unfamiliar, overwhelming in its emergence, but it would become a part of her. She would carry it with her from the moment she woke up to the moment she climbed into bed at night.

  It would bring nightmares to her and keep her awake. It would turn away food and sap her energy. It would take a bit of her faith and replace it with a bone deep sadness, with the realization that all it would take is the slightest turn for her world to fall completely on its side.

  "There was no way, Cee. Please don't do this to yourself. I've been hiding it for so long, it's like second nature to me. But, it's gotten so far out of my hands and I don't know what to do. I have a problem and I think I need help now."

  "Just tell me what to do and I'll do it. Max, just tell me what to do," but she was sobbing now and he was walking towards her. He wrapped her in his arms and rested his tear-soaked face on top of her head and they just stood there until they were too exhausted to stand.

  And then she led him to her bed because he was right there in front of her and there was an edge to her gratitude for that in this moment. She never wanted to take her hands away from him again. She wanted to look at him forever and make sure he wasn't going anywhere, not without her.

  This was before she could truly understand the severity of the situation. This was before she'd associate the word relapse with Max. This was before.

  Max was a freshman in college, 18 years old, the first time he ever took a pill. It was a mistake, he'd told her. It was the worst mistake he'd ever made in his whole entire life. But it was also common.

  As stunned as she had been to learn of Max's drug use, it wasn't something that she hadn't heard before. Teen boys with a little bit of money to spare. Bored kids feeling reckless. It happened.

  She'd heard about it for years. Hell, it was on the news. They'd held assemblies on addiction in high school and, she was fairly certain, there was a skit done about it at freshman orientation.

  But it's one of those things, like plane crashes and earthquakes, that seems to affect other people. It seems impossible that this terrible fate could ever befall you. And then it does. And, nine times out of ten, by the time you realize what you're up against you're in way too deep to simply walk back out.

  Max had told her plenty of secrets. The time he’d gotten suspended from school for punching his ex-girlfriend’s new boyfriend. The fact that, as much as he missed his parents and his sister when he was away at school, he missed his dog a little bit more. His aversion to heights ever since he fell out of a tree when he was thirteen. But this was a piece of darkness; he thought it might even be a deal breaker. He wasn’t just confiding, he was confessing.

  She knew he dabbled in drugs when he was in high school, he’d told her as much when they’d first gotten together. He’d never made it sound like anything serious. No mention of rehab or interventions. Just some comments about some weekends that got a little bit too wild, and a lot of wasted pizza delivery money.

  She had never even thought to dig deeper into the subject. As far as she knew, he’d been sticking strictly to alcohol since they met freshman year of college and, if he had been high a time or two, it was never the scary kind of high she’d seen some kids get. Where they’re completely zombied out, they’re tongues like dead weight in their mouths while they tried to string nonsensical words together.

  That seemed to be where the missing pieces began to slip away. Because she had a few very clear pictures in her mind of what it was to be high and Max hadn't fit any of them.

  His eyes weren't bloodshot; his words were, if anything, sharp. Not the wild, philosophical musings that weed could give way to, not the intense ramblings that she'd associate with cocaine. He was angry, he was zoned out and he was tired. He was selfish and reclusive. He was changing and this had been the cause and she just had no idea.

  But, she told herself, it really didn't matter. There was no going back and changing things. There was no work to be done in the past. This was happening and he was asking for help. That was the first step and, when they woke up that next morning, Max sleeping soundly next to her, she was ready to stand by him.

  He looked like a child, as most people tend to while asleep. His hair was pushed pack off his face and his breathing was low. She put her hand to his chest and felt his heart beating. He'd been so sick and no one had even known. That was the goal; just keep his heart beating.

  In that moment, Cecelia had stepped onto a carousel. And you don't just step off a carousel in motion. You have to brace yourself. You have to gather up your courage, and then you have to jump off mid-spin and pray you meet solid ground.

  Chapter 11

  2015

  March

  Cecelia was just about ready for work when she heard Max moving around in the bedroom. She'd decided to let him sleep in. It sounded like the past three days had been decidedly worse for him and she knew the exhaustion that could come from worrying. She'd been there many a time and there was nothing better for it than a restful night's sleep, which he seemed to have gotten.

  She slid her earring back onto the diamond stud she had pressed to her lobe and w
alked over to the bedroom, peaking her head in as Max put his feet on the ground and sat up on the edge of the bed.

  "Morning," she tried to send him an encouraging smile. One that let him know she loved him no less for what he'd told her the night before. She was finding, as the shock of it all wore off, she loved him more for his honesty, felt even more endeared to him for the fear she'd seen in his eyes.

  "You look beautiful," he was still feeling off, she could tell.

  "Thank you. I'm heading out. Do you have work today?"

  "Yeah, I go in at noon."

  "Ok, come over tonight?"

  "Definitely," she could tell he was thankful for the invitation and the united front that it implied.

  "Good. I love you, Max. So much. I'll see you tonight," with that she crossed the room to land a kiss on his lips. He gripped her hand as she turned to leave and just held on for a beat. Cecelia gave him a smile as she turned to leave the room, feeling hopeful.

  He was sick. That was it. He'd come over tonight and they'd talk it through. They'd research rehabs and make a plan. Hell, maybe he already had one. He said his parents were aware of what was going on and she knew Mrs. Maylor. She wasn't the type that would sit idly by and let her son succumb to this. She felt her heart surge a bit at the thought; she wasn't alone in this.

  She wasn't the only person in the world who loved Max desperately and needed him, here and healthy. There was someone else in their corner who had even more at stake.

  It wasn't until she was seated on the bus, headphones in and head resting against the seat behind her that the tears came. Max was sick.

  Cecelia's day did not improve from there. Her boss was stressed about his writers missing their upcoming deadlines and there were already four very timely assignments on her desk by the time she got into the office. She spent the day sourcing images and outlining preliminary formats, using guesswork to picture how long the articles would be based on the writers' estimates.

  She set up meetings with each writer, which required the booking of eight conference rooms, which was no easy task in an office that only boasted four rooms that had the screen her boss would need. She sat in on each meeting, taking notes and putting new deadlines and follow-up meetings in her boss, Phoebe's, calendar. If she hadn't been asked to attend the meetings, she would've gotten out on time, but she ended up staying an extra hour catching up on emails and making sure that Phoebe had everything she'd need over the next few days.

  She'd texted Max on her way home and learned that he'd be another few hours. So she whipped herself up a salad with a few slices of grilled chicken on top and settled in for her Thursday night shows.

  Though she was fine herself, there was something about this whole situation that was making her feel the need to burrow into her blankets and drink a cup of tea and never move again. It was probably just the need for comfort.

  She wouldn't be telling anyone about what Max had told her the day before.

  There was a part of her that felt like it wasn't her secret to tell. But there was also a part that didn't want anyone to know for her own personal reasons. She didn't want to here her friends' opinions; she didn't want to have her parents telling her to leave him. This was one of those things that just didn't translate well. She didn't think that anyone, not even Louisiana who was about as understanding as they come, would be able to accept this.

  She knew this because, had Louisiana come to her with this same issue, she would tell her she needed to take care of herself. There was a label for Max now that she really didn't want to think about, but she knew everyone else would call this was it was. Max was a drug addict. And she really couldn't think of one person in her life that wouldn't hear that and do everything in their power to pull her away from him.

  And it wouldn't matter that he wasn't like that. It wouldn't matter that he'd come to her and asked for help. It wouldn't matter that they'd known him for years and been around him while this was going on and hadn't noticed a thing.

  It would only matter that he was posing a danger to her, bringing something potentially deadly into her every day life. And so she wouldn't put any of them in that position. She'd shield them from this and, in turn, shield herself (and Max) from them.

  By the time Max got to her apartment that night she was half asleep and he looked to be in the same state, but she wanted to have this conversation with him. She needed to know that action was being taken. If he was thinking that they could just go back to normal and she would take a back seat with this, he was sorely mistaken.

  She made them both a cup of tea. She knew Max would only take a sip or two. He wasn't really a fan of it and never had been, but it always comforted her to have a steaming mug in her hand when she was feeling scared.

  "I know we're both exhausted, but we have to talk. I need to know what's going to happen now."

  They were sitting at her dining room table, which was small and round and only had room for two chairs. It reminded her of the type of seat you'd have at a small café and, though it was just shoved into the corner of her kitchen, it made her feel fancy, maybe a bit Parisian, to sit at it with a cup of coffee each morning.

  "I'm going to stop. I've been talking to my parents and I'm taking the next week or so off of work to get off of everything. My mom is going to stay with me and I'm going to get better. I promise you. I know I scared you yesterday, but I have this under control. You don't have to worry. I'm just going to be MIA for a few days and probably feeling shitty for a while, but I'm committed to it this time."

  Max was gripping his mug with both hands, a serious look in his eye.

  "That's it? You don't think you need like professional help?" Cecelia was trying to keep her voice even, optimistic.

  "We talked about it, but it's something I'd rather do on my own. Rehab can be a bubble. A lot of people go in, get clean, but then get back home and the bubble pops and they go right back to it. I need to do this my way," Max seemed sure and it was pushing the fear from her stomach. His confidence always had a way of convincing her that things would be fine.

  "If that's what you want, then I'm here for you. I'm going to help any way that I can."

  "I'm going to do this for you, Cee, and we're going to be good again. I'm going to be good to you again."

  "I just want you to be okay. I got really scared today thinking about what could happen if you can't stop."

  "I know, I'm scared, too."

  "We got this."

  "We do. Everything is gonna be fine," and he leaned across the table and kissed her head and she hung onto every word, like an idiot.

  Lesson one: you really can't trust an addict to tell the truth, they're masterful liars, if nothing else.

  Chapter 12

  2015

  April

  There's very little that can be done for someone who won't help himself. She was exhausted by the day before she even got out of bed. But that's to be expected when you spend half the night with your hand hovering gently over your boyfriend's nose just to be sure he's breathing correctly.

  Last month, when Max went off the grid for four days and came back to her looking like he'd come down with some kind of soul-sucking disease, she felt that she was in the thick of it. This was recovery, the hardest part, and it would be bad before it got any better. He'd spent the next two weeks feeling and looking like absolute shit. He could barely keep food down and his skin was so pale it looked translucent.

  But, then, miraculously, he was feeling better. He looked like his old self again and his mood had improved by leaps and bounds. She'd been so grateful for those few days, before it hit her. His old self was not who Max should be looking like. But she couldn't bring herself to accuse him.

  Things were so good and he seemed so happy for the first time in so long. What if she was just being crazy? She'd never been in this situation before. It was very possible that this was just the next step in the process. So she said nothing. She watched him closely though. She kept an eye on his weight,
waiting for him to start filling out. She'd read that was important, that was a sign of good health. But that was something that could take weeks and, in the meantime, she became convinced that he was using again.

  Cecelia wanted to tell Max that he needed to start sleeping at his own house, that she needed a little bit of space. But she didn't want him to know that she was as worried as she was, and she wasn't sure that she could sleep if there wasn't anyone there to watch Max through the night.

  He was looking worse every day. He wasn't stopping, she became sure of it. And who could she talk to that wouldn't take it out of context, who wouldn't allow it to taint the image that Max was trying to keep up to everyone but her.

  And so she went back to him and she took a different approach this time. She wouldn't get through this if the conversation went as the last one did, with both of them cut wide open and crying.

  "Please be honest with me, I think you're still struggling and, if that's the case, we need to do something. Now."

  "Maybe I've slipped up a few times, but I promise things are better than they were. I'm still getting better."

  "I'm not playing, Max," shoulders squared, chin up, this was the only way to do it, "You look terrible, you look sick. This has to stop. This can't be the way our life is."

  "I'm trying, Cee. I'm really trying, but it isn't the easiest thing in the world to do, believe it or not," there was a gentle bite to his words. He didn't necessarily want to deal with this either.

  "I know that. I've been doing a ton of research. I'm trying to understand what you're feeling, and I've been reading a lot of articles about how to handle this. I want to help you. If you're still against rehab, then I think we can do this together. But this won't be like the last time." She was doing her best not to patronize him, not to treat him as a sick baby, but that's how she saw him now.