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  “Even you?” I venture.

  “Even me. I’ll let you rest now. Dr. Rosenberg will come here to your room for the initial meeting. Do you need help out of the wheelchair?”

  Any manhood I have left is suddenly gone when she asks about the chair. I want to crawl inside myself and die. I shake my head, telling her no. She stands, and as she brushes by me, her hip bumps into my chair.

  “Wait, Kim.” I reach out and grab her hand, keeping her in my room a bit longer. “What about my dad?”

  “I’m sure he’ll be in to say goodbye. My dad will show him where you are.” With that she leaves, closing my door behind her. I’m tempted to twist the knob and see if the door opens again, but I know deep down my dad wouldn’t send me to a place that locks me in my room. Would he?

  Three

  Kimberly

  I shut his door and take a deep breath. One of our orderlies walks by and notices my hand on Bodhi’s doorknob, so I quickly drop the hand to my side and rush down the hall to my office, where I can freak out in peace.

  Behind my closed door, I let out a slew of swears. I’m sure any of the clinicians in the office next to me can hear me, but I don’t care. My stress and anxiety are at an all-time high, and I curse myself again for not saying no to my dad when he asked me to be Bodhi’s one-on-one.

  I sit at my desk and pick up my phone, dialing my best friend’s number. It rings twice before she answers. “’Sup, buttercup?”

  “Daph, I hate my job.”

  “No you don’t. You’re freaking Florence Nightingale in shining armor.”

  Daphne and I have been friends since grade school. We grew up next to each other and did everything together. She’s more like a sister than a friend, and we both have the word “Friendster” tattooed on our shoulders.

  “Today I hate it.”

  “Why, did your dad hire a hot new orderly who’s off-limits?”

  “Worse. I have a new patient.”

  “A hottie?” Everything with Daphne has to do with looks. She’ll date the douchiest men as long as they’ve got a smoking body. Her last boyfriend couldn’t string a sentence together, but he was easy on the eyes. I didn’t mind hanging out with him as long as he didn’t speak.

  “Yep,” I say, sighing. “But a total douche, and famous at that.” Though I can drop hints, I can’t tell her who is here. I’m not about to break the patient confidentiality that’s in place. Besides, my father had all the staff members, including me, sign nondisclosure agreements specific to Bodhi. But if she guesses who it is, I know she won’t tell anyone because our friendship means too much to her.

  “Oh, a celeb. I love a good scandal.”

  “Yeah. I’m willing to bet that once word is out he’s here, it’ll be all over the tabloids. Good thing we have state-of-the-art security measures in place.”

  “Wow, he must be some superstar.”

  “He is,” I mumble into the receiver. “And I hate him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I shift in my chair, cringing when it creaks. “I hate everything that he stands for or is. Spoiled, rich, egocentric, and doesn’t give a shit about anyone, including himself. I mean, this guy has the world at his feet and he’s pissing it all away.”

  “Most druggies do that, Kimmy. You know this.”

  “I know. I just want one to actually come in here for exhaustion and not be addicted to painkillers or crack.”

  “So let me ask you this: do you truly hate him, or do you just hate what he’s become?”

  Her question gives me pause. She’s right. My dislike toward him is because of what he’s become, not who he is underneath. Hell, on the outside he’s a fine-looking man who makes me a bit crazy with lust.

  Daphne changes the subject, and I find that I’m relieved she’s not pressing me for more details. She asks me to go to the lake this weekend, and I tentatively agree. It’ll depend on Bodhi and how he’s acclimating to being here at Serenity Springs. Who knows, by this weekend he could check himself out, although if he did that, he’d be in the morgue by sundown. From what I could see, his withdrawals are heavy, and when people are like that they get desperate.

  After we hang up, I type Bodhi’s name into a search engine to see what the media is saying about him. Aside from pictures from Virtuous Paradox’s last tour date, which was over a month ago, nothing is popping up. That means either his father or his manager is paying a hefty price to keep his name clean or he’s been holed up in a drug house. Over the years I’ve learned to think the worst about people, and unfortunately drug house fits Bodhi right now.

  When Virtuous Paradox first came on the scene, I was like any other obsessed fan. Daphne and I waited in the pouring rain for hours to see them perform five songs. At the time I told myself it was worth it, but as the year went on I saw subtle changes in the group. They became so big so fast that you could literally see their egos grow to match their stage presence. I must’ve been the only one to feel this way, though, because when they released their newest album their popularity soared.

  I hate Virtuous Paradox. Strong statement, I know, but I do. I hate what they stand for and how they act, even though it has no bearing on me whatsoever. I think I wanted to be a fangirl but got lost in the shuffle.

  And now their resident hottie is holed up in rehab with a coke addiction. His detox is going to be brutal, and I’m not sure thirty days is going to be enough for him. The scabs on his arms and the way his legs were bouncing tell me he’s having trouble coping with not being high.

  Thirty days is going to be too much for me. There was a time when I thought Bodhi McKnight was gorgeous, with those killer blue eyes and that devilish smile. I used to do things to myself while looking at his picture, but not anymore. And now when I look at him I see a guy who took his stardom and snorted it up his nose because he could. He didn’t care that he was hurting other people, or what his fans might think. Like it or not, he is a role model of sorts for young kids. But he cared only about how he felt when he was getting high and when his next fix was going to come.

  Looking at Bodhi now, it’s easy to see that he’s not the man we admire from afar or see onstage. He’s lost, and unfortunately it’s part of my job to help him find himself again, whether I want to or not.

  With a knock on my office door Dr. Rosenberg steps in, taking the seat in front of my desk. She’s a small woman with jet-black hair and always wears red nail polish. I asked her once why, and she said because it’s easier for the patients to focus on the same color. She, along with my father, are the only two doctors on staff.

  “You’ve met Mr. McKnight?”

  “I have. I’ve left him in his room. He should be waiting for you.” I unobtrusively shut my monitor off so she can’t see that I’ve been looking him up on the computer. I don’t think it would be an ethics violation, but I don’t need a lecture from my father.

  “How was he when you left him?”

  “Fine, I guess. I mean, he’s going through the beginning stages of detox, so he’s agitated and picking at his skin.”

  She flips open his chart and makes a few notes. “Says here he experienced flulike symptoms last night. Did he mention anything?”

  I shake my head. I try not to pry and ask only questions that pertain to what’s currently going on.

  “Your father wants him treated with kid gloves,” she says, closing his file. I nod, remembering what my dad said earlier about being delicate.

  “My dad and his father know each other. I’m not sure how, but they do. I guess that’s probably why.”

  Dr. Rosenberg’s expression is unreadable as she takes in what I just said. She gets up and leaves without any further conversation regarding Bodhi. Once my door is closed, I turn my monitor back on and study pictures of the old Bodhi with his perfectly styled dark hair and electric blue eyes. He has the charisma to sweep women off their feet, and fortunately for all of his female fans, he hasn’t met anyone who’s made him take a second look yet.

&nb
sp; Not that the thought of getting a second glance from Bodhi McKnight is on my to-do list. Neither is being tangled up with him in sheets, like the current picture I’m looking at from a photo shoot. But that doesn’t mean I don’t fantasize about having him on top of me.

  I doubt he’ll find his match in rehab, but that is something I’ll have to watch for when he’s out with the general population. The last thing he needs is a romantic entanglement while he’s trying to recover from his addiction, and the last thing I need to do is give him one.

  Four

  Bodhi

  It’s only a few minutes after Kimberly walks out that my clothes arrive. The guy who drops them off seems nice, but the second he’s out of my room I’m tearing into my things to see if all of my belongings are still there. My father is always cautioning me that people want to steal our clothes and sell them online. I was allowed to bring only clothes, and right now I’m throwing each piece I have with me over my shoulder and mentally counting.

  When I’m done, I look around my room. Its looks like a five-year-old lives here, with clothes all over the floor, hanging off my bed, and haphazardly dangling from the chair. There’s something missing, I know it. That man, the one who searched my bags—he stole it; I just don’t know what it is.

  So I start over. I pick up each piece of clothing, fold it, and put it back in my bag, zipping the case closed, only to unzip it again and repeat the same process of throwing my clothes all over the room.

  My door opens as a shirt goes flying. It’s too late and my red polo has landed on someone’s face. A small hand appears and pulls the garment away.

  “You must be Bodhi,” she says, folding my shirt and handing it back to me.

  “Yes,” I say, slightly out of breath and agitated.

  “Do you always treat your clothes like this?”

  “Something is missing. That man stole my clothes.” I look around the room, trying to figure out what exactly is gone.

  The woman steps in. She’s dressed in a white coat that stops about mid-calf, and I’d say she’s not more than five feet tall.

  “I’m Dr. Rosenberg.”

  “I’m not sick,” I tell her, even though I don’t believe it myself.

  “No, you’re missing some clothes, right?”

  “Yes! Do you know where they went? He stole them, didn’t he? I should report him. Get him fired. My dad, he knows the owner.”

  The doctor picks up the shirts that I threw onto the chair and sits down, holding them in her lap. “I have worked here for a long time and can tell you that no one has ever been accused of stealing. The man, Terry, will take very good care of your clothes, but he will not steal them.”

  “But he did,” I challenge.

  “One of the side effects of prolonged cocaine use is paranoia. Right now you’re experiencing an episode. Fortunately for you, you’re in a place where you can’t harm yourself or others.”

  “I am not paranoid.”

  “Do you always accuse people of stealing your clothes? Or what about throwing your clothes around?”

  I stare at her for a long moment, waiting to see if her gaze will waver. She stares back, challenging me.

  “Why are you here, Bodhi?”

  Sitting down on the bed, I lean forward. “I had to come. My life . . . it’s complicated, and people like to tell me what to do, my dad being one of them. I also like to party, and people around me think my partying is a bit out of control.” I shrug, as if being here isn’t as big a deal as people are making it.

  “How long have you been using?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’s not like I kept a diary every time I snorted.”

  Dr. Rosenberg stands, placing the clothes she was holding back on the chair. “We are going to meet later and we’ll talk more. I’ll give you something to help combat what you’re feeling. You’re going to continue to experience flulike symptoms for the next few days, but we can manage those with some pain medication. I usually recommend people stay here for sixty days when we’re working with an addiction. I know you’re here for thirty days, so we’ll work hard to make sure you leave here healthy.”

  “Okay.” I don’t know what else to say. I mean, I’m here, in some type of rehab facility, because I fucked up. I had everything I needed handed to me on a silver platter, and instead of running with it, I took it all for granted. Dr. Rosenberg nods and exits, leaving me with my mess. And what a mess it is—and not just the one on the floor.

  Chills run through my body, causing me to shake. I remember when I was a little kid my mom, who was born in Romania, once told me that an unexpected shiver was a lost loved one reaching out to you. I wish I could believe her now and think that my grandfather is holding my hand, but the truth is, he’d kick my ass if he knew about this. I reach for my sweatshirt and slip it on over my head. The thicker fabric doesn’t do much to curb the chill, but it’s something. At least I now know this is part of the withdrawal symptoms that I’m going to experience. I’m not cocky enough to think this is going to be a cakewalk. I know some days will be better than others and it’s all a matter of how I deal with it. The asshole in me wants to say fuck it and walk out the door, but the son in me who’s always trying to please my parents wants to stay and see this through.

  “Whoa, did we have a hurricane and I miss it?” I look up sharply and find Kimberly standing in my doorway, looking at the mess I created. Embarrassment washes over me, and I can only imagine how red my cheeks are right now. I bend down and gather up as many of my clothes as I can, not wanting her to see my underwear. I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about her that makes me feel safe and welcome. She’s beautiful, but not my type, and yet I’m worrying about her seeing my room this way.

  “I, uh . . . can’t find something,” I mumble incoherently, afraid to make eye contact with her.

  “Yeah, I’m always losing things. My dad says I’d lose my head if it weren’t attached.” Kimberly does some awkward movement coupled with an even stranger face, and it makes me laugh. It’s a genuine laugh, one that isn’t forced or being required because of a social situation. And she doesn’t seem embarrassed that she’s acting like a dork.

  “It would be bad, losing your head.”

  Her face lights up, seemingly happy that I got her joke. “Yes, losing my head would be bad, but I still have it, so I think we’re okay.” She knocks on the side of her head, laughing again. I chuckle, but it doesn’t last long, since my mind is on the ache I’m feeling, along with the chills.

  “Anyway, I’m here to walk you to dinner.”

  “Um . . . okay,” I say, looking around my room and finally chancing a glance at her. She’s watching me, probably wondering if I’m going to break down at any moment. The chances are yes, but I’m trying to hold it together. I scramble to pick up the rest of my clothes and at least put them on the bed. They may be a bit disorderly, but so is my life. From this point forward I’ll be classified as an addict, and unless I learn how to deal with temptation, I’ll be struggling to survive in everyday life.

  One day—that’s all it took for me to get addicted to cocaine. How fucked up is that? I was tired. So fucking tired of rehearsals, choreography classes, and sleeping on a fucking bus. I just wanted something to take the edge off, and Aspen was there and gave it to me.

  Kim motions for me to follow her, and I find it easy to do so. As soon as I step out of my room, she points at the wheelchair. I shake my head, choosing to amble behind her. I don’t want to be caught dead in that thing if I can help it. Earlier I was letting a weakness control me, hoping my father would take pity on me and bring me back home. I’m stuck here until I walk out the front door.

  “This is the common room,” she says when we enter a massive space. There’s a pool table, ping-pong table, a large-screen television, and an array of couches and chairs. “At Serenity Springs we believe that your path to recovery shouldn’t be hindered by too much structure. Sure, you’ll have a list of things that you have to do
daily, but in between those times you can explore the grounds, come into the common room to play a game, go to the library to read or write home. You will not have access to your cellphone or computer, and any phone calls have to be placed with a staff member present. Your father provided a list of people you’re allowed to call, as well as names for family day.”

  Kimberly continues walking, saying hi to other patients here. They all seem happy to see her, and a few stop and gawk when they recognize me. I ignore them, but Kimberly reminds them that it’s dinnertime, and each of them moves, almost robotically, to follow us down the hall.

  The dining room is as big as the common room, and it’s cafeteria style. She grabs a tray and motions for me to pick one up as well.

  “The dining area is open from six in the morning until eight at night. You’re welcome to come in and eat in between meals, but breakfast, lunch, and dinner are mandatory. We encourage you to talk to the other patients, especially since you’ll be getting to know them in your group therapy sessions.”

  “My dad said this isn’t like a typical rehab place.”

  “It’s not,” she says, reaching for a salad plate. “Talking about your problems is a good thing. You’re not forced to participate, but you do have to go. You never know—there may be something you have to say one day, and we’ll be here to listen.”

  Listen to what? How I’ve had everything handed to me on a silver platter, and because I could, I fucked it all up? That I’m in fucking rehab because I’m a selfish prick and thought I could quit at any time? How it’s damn pitiful that my father had to come bail my ass out of trouble? I know that’s what parents are supposed to be for, but not my dad. Mine wants to hand out movie scripts and tell people what to do, not clean up after his drug-addicted son.

  The writing’s on the wall. Finish the program and get clean, or I lose everything. Seems simple enough. Except it’s not. I’d give anything to score some blow right now, anything to feel the rush of adrenaline move through my system. It’s a feeling I’m never going to forget, no matter how hard the people here try to make me feel otherwise.