Page 74

The two weeks since New Year's had passed in a blur of difficult conversations and painful decisions. After that morning at Con's apartment—waking up naked and hungover, with no memory of how I'd gotten there—something had finally broken inside me. Or maybe it had been fixed. Either way, I couldn't keep going as I had been.

We'd talked for hours that day, Con and I. Really talked, for the first time since I'd walked away from him months ago. I'd told him everything—about the drugs, the drinking, the meaningless hookups, the blackouts. About how I'd been spiralling since before I met him, how I'd gotten clean once before but had never addressed the underlying issues that had driven me to use in the first place.

"I think I need help," I'd admitted, my voice small and frightened. "Real help this time."

He hadn't judged me, hadn't lectured me. He'd just nodded, his eyes full of a compassion I didn't deserve, and said, "Then let's get you help."

We'd spent the rest of the day researching options. Con had suggested I go to England, to be near my family while I went through rehab. He'd even offered to come with me, to put his life on hold to support me through this.

"I can't let you do that," I'd told him, touched beyond words but determined not to drag him down with me. "You've got the season in Canada."

"You're more important than a season snowboarding," he'd said simply.

But I'd insisted. This was my mess to clean up, my journey to make. And deep down, I knew I needed to do this on my own—to prove to myself that I could, that I was strong enough.

In the end, we'd compromised. He would go to Canada as planned, and I would go to England for rehab. We would stay in touch—calls, texts, Skype—and see where we stood when we were both back.

"No pressure," he'd said. "Just... don't disappear on me again, okay?"

I'd promised I wouldn't. And for once, I intended to keep that promise.

The next day, I'd called my mother. It had been the hardest phone call of my life—admitting to her that I'd relapsed, that I was in trouble again, that I needed help. She'd cried, of course. But then she'd rallied, my strong, practical mother, and started making arrangements. There was a good facility near them, she'd said. They could get me in within two weeks.

"Just come here, Geri," she'd said, her voice thick with tears. "We'll sort this out together."

After that, everything had happened quickly. I'd given notice at both jobs, packed up my stuff, started the process of detoxingon my own as much as I could before the flight. Con had helped, staying with me through the worst of the initial withdrawal, holding my hair back as I'd vomited, bringing me water and bland food when I could keep it down, distracting me with bad movies and worse jokes when the cravings got too intense.

And then there had been James. Sweet, loyal James, who'd stuck by me despite how terribly I'd treated him. I'd gone to see him at the restaurant, a week before my flight.

"I'm leaving," I'd told him without preamble, sliding into a booth during his break. "Going to England. To rehab."

He'd looked at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he'd reached across the table and taken my hand. "I'm proud of you," he'd said simply.

I'd burst into tears then, ugly, heaving sobs that had drawn concerned looks from nearby diners. James had just moved to sit beside me, his arm around my shoulders, letting me cry it out.

"I don't deserve a friend like you," I'd choked out when I could finally speak again. "After everything I've done, the way I've treated you..."

"When you love someone, you love them and their flaws," he'd said, echoing words he'd said to me before. "I knew you before you were this person. I know the person you can be, and I loved that person. And I love this broken version too. Just go get your shit together, and I'll see you in six months."

He'd insisted on driving me to the airport, helping me check my bags, waiting with me until it was time to go through security. We'd hugged for a long time, neither of us wanting to let go.

"Thank you," I'd whispered against his shoulder. "For not giving up on me."

"Never," he'd replied, his voice fierce. "Now go catch your plane. And text me when you land, okay? Both times."

I'd nodded, wiping away tears, and then forced myself to walk away, through security and toward my gate, not looking back because I knew if I did, I might lose my nerve.

And now here I was, boarding pass in hand, about to embark on a journey that terrified me more than anything I'd ever done. Because this time, I wasn't running away from my problems—I was running straight toward them, with nowhere to hide.

The line moved slowly as passengers filed onto the plane. I clutched my carry-on tighter, fighting the familiar urge to bolt, to find the nearest bar and drown the anxiety in alcohol. But I'd made it fourteen days sober now—the longest stretch in months—and I was determined not to break that streak.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Con:

You've got this. Call me when you land in Tokyo. Proud of you.

A lump formed in my throat. He'd been sending me these little messages of encouragement all week, as if he could sense when my resolve was wavering. And somehow, they always came at exactly the right moment.

I typed back a quick: