Life of the Party (67 page)

And always
through it all, the craving for heroin nagged at me, like a
beast—starving, demanding to be fed. Pictures would pop into my
head, a syringe full of the dark promise of heroin, blood squirting
into the needle. I’d shut my eyes and try to remember what it was
like. What it felt like. I was counting down the days until my
freedom, when I would leave this place and find a hit as soon as I
could. I dreamed about it. It kept me going. Just seventy more
days, I’d tell myself.

Seventy more
days, and it’ll be mine again.

It was just
another ordinary, painstakingly boring day in the hellhole
otherwise known as sober living. I was curled up on my side on my
bed, staring at nothing, and Allison was lying on her stomach
writing in her journal. Journaling was something they recommended
we do while we were here, to try and get our thoughts down on
paper. I had my diary, but it was still in my nightstand,
completely untouched. If I were to write anything down right now,
it’d be three single letters. F.M.L. (Fuck my life.)

I brought my
cigarette to my lips and took a slow, mindless drag.

There was a
knock on our door. Allison looked up, but I didn’t care enough to
even turn my head.

“Mackenzie?” It
was one of the administrators … Janet I think her name was. I
recognized her voice. She was a petite, friendly little woman.

“Yes.” I
answered without moving.

“You have a
visitor.”

“A visitor?”
Allison frowned and looked at me suspiciously. “But we aren’t
allowed visitors.”

Janet shrugged.
“Apparently they’ve made an exception. Mackenzie?”

“Who is
it?”

“I have no
idea. I was just sent to give you the message. Come on, dear.”

Rolling my
eyes, I slumped wearily off the bed.

“See you
later.” I waved absently at Allison.

“Yeah. Later.”
She watched me go, her blue eyes confused.

Janet led the
way down the hallway. She pulled me closer to her as we walked so
we could talk more discreetly.

“Mackenzie,”
she looped her arm through mine, which was kind of funny because I
was at least a half a foot taller than her. She patted my hand.
“It’s true; we don’t usually allow visitors here. But we’ve been
informed about your … situation. Your boyfriend died shortly before
you were admitted, is that correct?”

I nodded.

“I’m sorry. But
we’ve noticed that … that you’re not … doing the best here.
Treatment is pointless if you don’t want to get better. We thought
that maybe it’d be beneficial for you to have a friend, someone to
talk to … since you don’t seem to want to talk to our resident
therapist.” She gave me a knowing look, smiling wryly. “We’re all
on your side here, Mackenzie, remember that. We want you to get
better. But
you
need to want to get better too. Okay?”

I shrugged.
“Sure.”

She took me
down a long hallway with several doors on either side, stopping
before the second one of the left. The door had a square window
inset. Janet pushed me gently towards it.

“Go ahead.
You’ve got an hour.”

I nodded dumbly
as she headed back down the hall, her heels clipping on the beige,
industrial linoleum. I watched her go a moment. Then, I strode
ahead and took a hesitant glance in the window.

It was Riley.
Of course it was. I sighed and shook my head. He looked
uncomfortable—nervous, even—sitting on the edge of his chair,
fidgeting with something in his hands. He was dressed simply in
blue jeans and a long sleeved blue shirt, but I was amazed again at
just how much older he looked. Grown up, almost. His dark hair was
growing out of his buzz cut; it was short and shaggy now. But he
was Riley. My Riley. My old friend, my best friend.

I hesitated a
moment outside the door, torn. Part of me—no, most of me, was still
furious at him, at his betrayal. I was in here because of him. I
was sober because of him. Against my will, he’d ripped me away from
my only semblance of life. I still hadn’t forgiven him for it. It
felt like I’d never really be able to.

I pressed my
hand to the glass window and shut my eyes. The other part of me was
so … lost. So … flailing. So alone. The other part of me needed
him, like I always had, like I always would. I was too weak to care
about the anger. Too broken. My hand moved to the knob then,
seemingly of its own volition, and slowly opened the door.

I don’t know
what Riley saw, but I could feel the strain of anguish written in
my expression. He stared at me for a moment as I entered, and the
smile that had started in greeting slowly fell from his face.

“Oh,
Mackenzie.” Was all he said.

And then I was
in his arms. Safe, warm, comfortable arms. Weakly I hugged him
back, burying my face into his shoulder, doing my absolute damndest
to try and keep from crying. But he held me so tightly and with his
old familiar voice he whispered, “its okay, its okay,” in my ear,
and before I knew it I was sobbing, the combination of utter
exhaustion and total heartbreak pouring from me in noiseless,
racking shudders. I was so tired. So sad. None of it was fair, and
it was all happening to me.

Wordlessly,
Riley took me over to one of the couches that dominated the little
room, pulling me down onto his lap like I was a child, holding me
and letting me cry on his shoulder. His hands stroked my hair so
soothingly. I didn’t let it last long, my breakdown, I hated being
this way. I hated letting him see me this way. Somehow I managed to
pull myself together, biting my lip in an effort to stop the tears,
my breath hitching in my throat. When I was somewhat calm again, I
pulled myself away from Riley’s shoulder and looked up into his
dark chocolate eyes.

“If only I’d
known this was all it took for you to come back,” I scoffed
sarcastically, my voice wobbling, “I’d have gone to rehab
sooner.”

“Are you still
mad at me for this? For the whole rehab thing?” He wondered, his
expression hopeful, though I could see the sadness in his eyes.

“Yes.” I
sniffled. He nodded slowly.

“Well, I’m mad
at you too.”

I smiled dully.
“Ha. What else is new?”

“I mean it.
You’re the one that did this to yourself. You’re the one who needed
rehab, I mean, how could you let it come to this? How could you let
it get so bad?”

I just shook my
head. I didn’t know what to say to that.

Riley made a
noise of frustration. “Are you even trying to get better?”

“No.”

“Why? Why
not?”

I looked away.
He wasn’t going to like the answer to this question.

“Mackenzie,
please. Why won’t you even try?”

“Because,
Riley. I don’t want to get better! I don’t want to live!” I
wailed.

Riley took my
by surprise then. He grabbed me by the arms, fiercely, forcing me
to look at him. His hands were like a vice. “Don’t say that!” He
demanded, giving me a shake, his face rigid with anger. “Don’t ever
say that! How could you?”

“I can’t do
this, Riley. It’s too hard!”

“Bullshit.” He
spat. “It’s not too hard. You’re too selfish. There are people in
your life who love you, Mac. What about Marcy, or your parents?
Charlie and your other friends? What about me? Do you know what it
would do to me if you died? Do you even care?”

I shook my
head, dropping my face in my hands, my dark hair tumbling around
me. “You don’t know what it’s like.”

Riley sighed.
His grip lightened, his hands loosening until they were warm again,
comforting on my arms. He rubbed them soothingly a moment and when
he spoke again, his voice was softer. “Talk to me then.” He
implored. “Tell me about it.”

“It’s ….” I
took a deep breath. “I just … I miss him, you know? So badly. It
hurts … like, all the time, and it’s not getting better. I miss us.
I miss what we had.”

Riley listened
and nodded silently, but there was a sudden hardness in his face
that I instantly recognized. Like my words had made him … angry,
somehow. I frowned up at him, puzzled.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“What is it,
Riley? Tell me.”

He paused a
moment, thoughtful. “I just … I guess I don’t get how you could …
miss … what you had.” He confessed.

His statement
brought me up short. “What?”

“Mackenzie,
your entire relationship was based on partying. On drugs. It wasn’t
healthy at all … it got you into this situation. It turned you into
a heroin addict.
He
turned you into a heroin addict.” Riley
shook his head at me. “How can you miss that?”

It took me a
moment to realize what he was saying. I couldn’t speak, I was so
flustered, so offended by his careless words.

“… How could I
miss that?” I managed finally, my voice riddled with disbelief.
“How … could you? You have no idea what we had, what we shared. It
was amazing. I mean, yes, maybe we did some drugs—and yes, maybe we
liked to party, but we loved each other. We really loved each
other.” I glared fiercely, daring him to disagree. “You don’t know
anything about it.”

Riley was
undeterred, raising his eyebrows in doubt. “I know you wouldn’t be
in here if not for him.” He stated bluntly.

“That’s not
true!”

“Really? Well,
when I left town, you weren’t anything like—”

“Yeah, exactly.
When you left.” I interrupted. “You left me Riley; you totally
abandoned me. And Grey was there. He was there for me when you
weren’t. He … he … took care of me … he ….” I shook my head, unable
to continue.

He loved
me.

My anger was
rapidly dissolving, the all too familiar tears of heartache burning
just below the surface … the sadness, the aching. I wrapped my arms
around the fearsome blazing in my chest and swallowed heavily.

“You know what
Riley?” I managed, trying to breathe through the surging pain. “I
think you should leave now.”

“Mac, come
on—”

“No. I mean it.
Please.” I blinked back my tears, avoiding his gaze. “Just go.”

“Why? You think
you’re the only one that’s suffering? You think this isn’t hard for
me too?” Riley sat stubbornly. “To see you like this, to put you in
here? Grey did this to you, Mackenzie, but still he can do no
wrong. Don’t you see it? Do you know how frustrating that is for
me?”

I shook my head
vehemently, my entire being rejecting his words, refusing to hear
them. “Just go.” I pleaded desperately. “Please. Just go.”

Riley fell
silent. The air was tense between us; I could feel his eyes on me
but couldn’t bring myself to meet his gaze. I didn’t want to know
it; I didn’t want to see the concern there, the sincerity sure to
be in his expression—the truth. I wiped the tears hastily from my
eyes and stared down at the floor, wishing he would leave. After a
long moment of my silent defiance, Riley sighed heavily and got up
off the couch, rubbing his face with his hands in defeat. He
grabbed his jacket from the chair and headed for the door. I
listened, distraught, as it opened up behind me.

“Look … I’m
sorry, Mackenzie. I really am. Just … forget what I said, okay? I’m
an idiot.” Riley admitted lowly. “I’m staying at my mom’s, and I’m
just a phone call away. If you want me to, I’ll come back anytime
you want, anytime you need to talk.” He paused, as if waiting for a
response, but I gave him nothing, not even a nod. Resigned, he
spoke again, but now his voice was soft. Sad. “I know you’re
hurting … I know you’re going through hell. But it doesn’t have to
be this way forever. You have so much to live for, Mac. But you
have to stop feeling sorry for yourself first.”

I let out a
heavy breath. I didn’t want to hear it, but somewhere deep inside
me, I knew Riley was right. The reason I wasn’t getting any better
was because I didn’t want to. Life sucked, but it was up to me to
change that. If I could. If I wanted to.

The door shut
quietly, and then Riley was gone.

That evening we
headed back to our room after an uneventful night of TV watching.
I’d spent almost the entire time since Riley’s departure pensive
with anger, with confusion, with sadness and denial—too distracted
by the severity of his words to feign an interest in anything we’d
been doing. Now, I flopped down on my bed and pulled my diary from
the night table instead of getting ready for sleep like Allison
was.

Riley wanted me
to try, I was going to try. I was going to write down all my
thoughts and all my feelings and all the different ways I knew he
was wrong. How Grey and I had been good together, how what we had
was special—right—something I would never, ever regret. How it had
been real, how it had been true in every way.

I flipped
quickly through the few first pages of my diary I had written on,
my pathetic attempts at composing lyrics that Grey had encouraged
me to do. But I could never write like he did. He was so brilliant,
so gifted and talented. My thoughts were stunted, immature. His
poetry was so deep, so meaningful ….

I flipped
another page and found—to my surprise—Grey’s messy scrawl. I
frowned, and for a moment, tears stung my eyes as I looked down at
his familiar writing. And then I was curious. As far as I knew, he
had never written anything in my diary. But there, at the bottom of
the page, were four lines of simple prose:

“If I have the
strength to leave,

It’d be the
greatest gift that I could give.

The greatest
gift that I can give,

I want you to
truly live.”

And then, at
the end, “I love you. Forgive me.”

My frown
deepened. Confused, I read and re-read his lines, my fingers
passing delicately over his words. “If I have the strength to leave
… the greatest gift that I could give … I want you to truly live
….” And then, abruptly, I understood.