Bombora (18 page)

“Palermo Springs Rehabilitation Centre, how can I direct your call?”

Fuck. Mind still racing, I stutter a greeting in response and tentatively say, “This is Hugh Fessenden calling,” in the hopes that, if he’s a patient there, the receptionist will recognize him. I remember Palermo—not only is it small, but staff members are so expertly trained that they’re on a first-name basis with everyone, especially celebrity guests. It’s kind of creepy.

“Hi, Mr. Fessenden,” chirps the receptionist. Definite recognition in her voice, and warmth like she’s plenty used to him calling. Huh. “Did you need me to direct your call?”

“Uh….” Though I’m conflicted, the receptionist’s gentle
hmm?
of encouragement settles the issue. I’ve come this far already. If I’m going to steal my brother’s phone and stalk his friends, I might as well go all in. Just in case, I lighten my voice to sound more like my brother’s, which is noticeably less gruff than mine. “I’m looking for Phelan Price,” I say shakily.

“You usually are,” she replies with a laugh. “Should I connect you through, or did you just need to leave a message for him?”

No to both—it’d do me no good to be ignored
and
have my name placed on a blacklist or something. “I misplaced his info,” I answer. “Can I get his room number off you again? I’m thinking of visiting this afternoon.”

“He’s in cabin number four.” Wracking my brain, I recall at the last second that Palermo has a bunch of small cottage-type places for patients with less severe issues, or who are starting to regain their independence. Well, “small” is a bit inaccurate: Hugh stayed in one for a week near the end of his program, and at the time I remember thinking it was bigger than some of the apartments we’d lived in growing up.

“Right, of course. Silly me.” I clear my throat a little and decide to wrap this up before I can blow my cover. “Well, thanks for your help, I’ll be coming by in a little while.” I hang up.

Sucker-punch nausea is a normal response to discovering that your ex-lover is in rehab, right? I don’t even know where to begin trying to wrap my head around that, because—Phel. This guy I love, who is quite possibly the biggest square on the planet, apart from my memories of him in bed that can still make me blush, is camped out in some fucking facility?

My brain can barely compute, but what Hugh said about Phel’s “issues” is starting to make a hell of a lot more sense. Between my dad and my brother, it’s safe to say I come from a family of addicts; I’ve hit the sauce too hard enough times in my own life to know how destructive it can be, though thankfully never around Emilia or Liam. The thought of Phel being caught up in drugs or alcohol,
because of me
, sends me pitching forward to sit with my head between my knees so I don’t vomit all over Hugh’s bazillion-dollar carpet. It should be enough that Phel is getting help, clearly near the end of his program if he’s living unsupervised, but now more than ever, I feel how important it is to go talk to him, to just… apologize for everything, right up to yelling at him on the beach last week. For all the good it’ll do.

In the process of trying to convince myself I don’t have every intention of going to Palermo to see Phel, I spend a fair bit of time wandering around the house, no less aimless than before. As I shower, I wonder if Phel showers a million times a day to contend with the heat I know he must hate, and afterwards I spend so much time pondering the selection of clothing from my open suitcase, I’m both embarrassed and tempted to announce this sartorial dilemma to Hugh and say, “See? Gay.” Although Emilia threw out all of my flannel and jeans with rips in the ass during the first year we were married, even she was a little puzzled by some of the outfits that started showing up in my wardrobe under Phel’s influence. I distinctly remember the way her eyebrows went up the first time I wore a scarf when it wasn’t cold outside.

Eventually I settle on tightest pair of jeans I own and a gray V-neck I must confess looks damn good. Still with no clear picture of what I hope to achieve by going there, I figure it can’t hurt to look presentable. Phel used to use this tactic liberally, dressing in clothes that perfectly matched his eyes or strategically ruffling his hair whenever he had something touchy to bring up, and me being an average twentysomething dude, I fell for it every time, oblivious and distracted by his mouth or the open V of his shirt while he went on about the opera tickets he’d purchased for that evening, or the toilet that needed to be fixed. Hell, it’s an art women have perfected for ages, right up there with asking for a new living room set during sex. If Phel is going to slam the door in my face, I at least want him to stare at my package and hesitate first.

“Hugh, I’m going out!” I yell at the closed door of his office, and in response I get something that sounds like a grunt of acknowledgement. He doesn’t ask where I’m going or when I’ll be back, which suits me just fine, since that way I won’t have to lie about it. Already I contemplate signing his name in the Palermo guestbook, which I should feel shitty about, but regard as sheer necessity. Desperate times and all that, and I’m pretty goddamn desperate right now.

Years have passed, but I still know the way to Palermo without a map. Although it’s within walking distance of Hugh’s house, I take Lucy in case I’m forced to beat a hasty retreat. The compound looks just as I remember it, serene and cookie-cutter neat and not unlike a gated community you’d see in Newport or other überwealthy parts of California—parts of Cardiff, in fact, which is why Palermo fits in so well. The damaged wealthy feel at home here. Hugh used to complain more about feeling pampered and coddled than he did working the steps, but Phel…. This is probably not much different than the conditions under which he grew up, him being the product of old money and a truly intimidating empire. Even cut off from his family’s resources, he no doubt found a way to hold on to some of it, some way to keep himself in the creature comforts he once enjoyed freely. Phel always was one for planning ahead.

The visitation policy for unsupervised patients is pretty relaxed, considering they are clients, not inmates, and can come and go as they please. The guard at the front gate waves me through before I finish giving a name. By comparison, arranging face time with inpatients in the main facility is a whole other song and dance, regulated by strict hours and pat-downs for the more severe cases, just in case a visitor gets the bright idea to smuggle something in. This reassures me somewhat. I would submit to eighty fucking cavity checks for Phel—not the fun kind either—but I doubt he’d feel the same, fiercely private to the end. I wonder how much Hugh knows about Phel’s issues, though I imagine he has filled in most of the blanks already. He was the one who spent time here, after all; I was nothing more than a lousy commuter.

The compound really is beautiful, green and pristine, inviting, obviously a place of meditation and relaxation. I have to park Lucy near the main building and walk the rest of the way, since most of the compound is accessible only on foot. Other people, be they patients or staff, walk the grounds with far less of a sense of purpose than me, seemingly happy to be out and about, enjoying the cool breeze and sweet sea air. I trace the hedged-off paths that lead the way, bypassing a quiet pond and several meditation areas, and try not to reminisce about all my other visits here that were filled with fear for my brother. More than anything, I pray it won’t be the same with Phel.

Christ, I hope he’s okay. He’s done such a damn good job of hiding all this, he could be in deep shit and I wouldn’t know it—wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing to help. He must hate it here. I can almost picture him forcing himself to relax in this environment, pretending like he belongs, but I know he must miss his old digs, that ridiculously opulent condo in the steeple of a church or his second home in Chicago, which could have gotten Oprah’s nod of approval. Hell, she probably bought it off him when he moved. I’d buy them back myself if I could, for him, but all I’ve got to offer is a weak apology and a plea for him to look me in the eye again. It’d be nice if he looked at me
that
way again, too, and kissed me with the same need as on the beach, but that’s nothing but a stupid fantasy on my part. No hopes or expectations to that end. I don’t deserve it, but then, I’ve always asked too much of Phel.

There are six independent-living cottages on the compound, arranged around a leafy outdoor pond and a little cul-de-sac. It looks not unlike a fancy overnight camp, with a decent illusion of freedom and normalcy. Each has its own small porch and sitting area out back, partially fenced off for privacy. Not unlike the first time Phelan took me home, my hand is shaking slightly when I stop in front of the cottage with the 4 on the door. There’s no doorbell I can press and get it over with, no touch of a button to seal my fate; I’ve got to reach out and knock, feeling each rap of my knuckles against the wood like a fucking new nail in my coffin.

I try to stand as far back from the peephole as possible—cheap of me, I know, but my objective here is to get Phel to open the door, not take one look and call for security before I even catch a glimpse of his face. In some small way, seeing him will make it better. Whenever things used to get really bad with Emilia and I had no clue how to carry on, seeing Phel’s face reminded me I was fighting for something important, even if the only person I was fighting was myself.

At first there’s no answer, no hint of life within, but then I remember this is Phel we’re talking about, not my brother, and not everything he does sounds like an army rushing into battle. Still, the sudden rattle of the doorknob surprises me. I wonder if they still leave everything unlocked around here? I suck in a thick breath when the door swings open and Phel is
there
, sleep rumpled and dressed in sweats that make him look unbearably young and carefree. My stomach flips when I realize they’re an old pair of mine.

“Nate,” he says in alarm, voice rough with disuse, and takes a step back like he’s discovered a tiger on his doorstep. His eyes track over me in a rush and then to our surroundings, probably a knee-jerk reflex to the past couple of weeks of secrecy and suspicion. Much to my relief, his desire to keep me hidden overrides his impulse to chase me away, and he drags me inside by the wrist so he can shut the door behind us. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Obviously I came to see you,” I answer tersely. “What the hell are
you
doing here? At Palermo?” Before we can launch into a frantic back and forth, because I know he’ll want to know how I found this place, I say, “I got your number off Hugh’s phone, okay? I had no idea you were in fucking
rehab
, for crissakes, I was just… I was just going to call you, but then I find out you’re here fighting a goddamn addiction?” I remember at the last minute I’m supposed to be here to apologize, not give him the fifth degree, and add, “Sorry. I had to come see if it was true for myself.”

Phel scrunches up his face like he doesn’t know which part is more ridiculous. “Oh, great,” he retorts. “So now you’re going and stealing private information off your brother’s phone. Glad to see nothing’s changed.” He shakes his head angrily. “Can’t you see you aren’t wanted here, Nate? I’ve kept this information personal for a reason—it’s none of your business.”

Unable to help it, I snort. “Right, none of my business. We break up, you take off, and when you’re suddenly locked away in a rehab facility, I’m expected to believe I had nothing to do with it.” It’s one hell of a thing to try to lay claim to, but I’m not here to weasel out of my responsibility or haggle for a smaller share of the blame. I deserve all of it, and that’s exactly how much I’m here to take. “Phel, the thought of you hurting yourself with something, I just—” I muffle a strangled sound of pain and have to look away from his face, allowing myself to observe my surroundings for the first time. His temporary home is exactly as bland and unoriginal as I expected of Palermo, decorated in soothing blues and whites, with inspirational paintings of sailboats on the walls. Fresh flowers and a river-stone fireplace attempt to cheer things up. “I’m not worth it.”

Phelan’s expression hardens at me, and he moves back to lean against the wall near the entrance to the kitchen. On the table next to a steaming cup of coffee—he takes it with three sugars and so much milk it’s nearly white—I can see a crisp newspaper that must have been left by the maid. Stories of a world all but inaccessible to most of the patients here. I can feel Phel watching me for a second, observing my curiosity. Then he says, “You’re right, you’re not.”

I can’t be upset at what’s true. “Then why all this?” I ask, gesturing around me.

By his sigh, I can tell Phel is deciding how much he wants to commit to this conversation, how much he wants to tell me. That I’ve yet to be hauled away by Palermo’s intimidating security team is heartening. “I’m not here for drug or alcohol abuse,” he eventually says. “Believe it or not, my life has kind of fallen apart recently. I needed to recoup, and I needed a place to live. Considering I had enough of my own money saved, this seemed a logical way to achieve both.” I watch as one of his shoulders lifts, a gesture that makes my throat close up with its unspoken pain. “I needed help.”

“And it’s my fault.”

His eyes lift to meet mine, and there’s no hostility or reproach in them, just tiredness and heartbroken acknowledgement that what I’ve said is the absolute truth, and a flickering resolve to not contradict me. That’s painful, but good. Phel doesn’t need anything more on his plate right now, from the looks of it, including trying to protect my ego.

I advance slowly toward him, anticipating being pushed away at any second, but he lets me get closer than arm’s reach before he flinches and presses himself back against the wall. Frozen, I maintain my distance.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you last week,” I murmur. “It was a shitty thing to do and I knew it at the time, I just… lost it. You didn’t deserve that.” At his jerky nod, I risk coming an inch closer. “Tell me what I can do to help, if there’s some way to….”